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SHAKESPEARE STUDIED IN EIGHT PLAYS 
 
SHAKESPEAREAN LITERATURE. 
 
 Shakespeare in Prance. By J. J. Jusserand. Illus- 
 trated. Demy 8vo, cloth, 2is. 
 
 The English Novel in the Time of Shakespeare. 
 
 ^y !• J- Jusserand. Translated by Elizabeth Lee. 
 Second Edition. Revised and Enlarged by the Author. 
 Illustrated. Large Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d. 
 
 Shakespeare's Church, otherwise the Collegiate 
 Church of the Holy Trinity of Stratford-on- 
 Avon. An Architectural and Ecclesiastical History of 
 the Fabric and its Ornaments. By J. Harvey Bloom, 
 M.A., Editor of the "Victoria History of the County of 
 Warwick." Illustrated from Photographs by L. C. 
 Keighley- Peach. Large Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN. 
 
SHAKESPEARE 
 
 STUDIED IN 
 EIGHT PLAYS 
 
 The Hon. ALBERT S. G. CANNING 
 
 AUTHOR OF "BRITISH POWER AND THOUGHT," "HISTORY IN 
 FACT AND FICTION," "THE DIVIDED IRISH," ETC., ETC. 
 
 "Highest among those who have exhibited human nature 
 
 by means of dialogue, stands Shakespeare. His variety is Uke 
 
 the variety of Nature, endless diversity, scarcely any monstrosity." 
 
 — Macaulay's Essay on. Madame D'Arblay. 
 
 LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1903 
 
h.^^^.<^ i<3 
 
 [All rights reserved^ 
 
PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 This work is not intended for Shakespearean scholars 
 who, at this period, enjoy every advantage of ample 
 research and elucidation. Its object is simply to render 
 the eight Plays treated of more interesting and intelligible 
 to general readers. 
 
 A. S. G. CANNING. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA . 
 
 TIMON OF ATHENS 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR 
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 
 
 RICHARD III. 
 
 HENRY VIII. 
 
 KING LEAR 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 19 
 
 46 
 
 95 
 164 
 265 
 
 341 
 427 
 
SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 IN EIGHT PLAYS 
 
 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 
 
 The fourteenth Earl of Derby, in his learned translation of 
 Homer's Iliad, feared that the taste for classical literature 
 was declining in Britain. In his preface to the fifth edition 
 of his translation,^ however, while gratified at the success of 
 his labours, he retracted this opinion with evident satis- 
 faction. It is indeed remarkable how many learned 
 influential Englishmen during the nineteenth century 
 have proclaimed their admiration for Greek and Roman 
 literature. While Lord Derby and Mr Gladstone dwelt 
 chiefly on Greek writers, Macaulay often alludes to both 
 Greek and Roman literature in his essays and English 
 History. In his beautiful poem. The Lays of Ancient 
 Rome, he enters thoroughly into the spirit of classic times. 
 Some previous British writers had greatly contributed to 
 inspire a taste for classic literature, but usually in a more 
 cold, unsympathetic manner. Bacon, in his "Wisdom 
 of the Ancients," Ben Jonson and Addison, in their 
 tragedies of Sejanus and Cato, alike showed their 
 interest in classic times and personages, as did the 
 French dramatists, Corneille and Racine. But Shakespeare 
 was perhaps the first, at least among British dramatists, to 
 describe Greeks and Romans according to nature. He 
 presents them as living realities before a reading public. 
 Jonson, in his remarkable tragedy of Sejanus, describes 
 that unfortunate Roman statesman once the chief minister 
 
 1 Published in 1865, 
 A 
 
2 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 of Tiberius Csesar and the patron of Pontius Pilate, for a 
 short time all-powerful in Rome, yet fated to be executed 
 at the instigation of his despotic, suspicious sovereign. 
 The noble words of the French poets, Corneille and Racine, 
 in their classic dramas, never inspire their personages with 
 the life, vigour, and interest with which Shakespeare and 
 Jonson endowed their personages. Yet in every respect 
 Shakespeare, in knowledge of character, originality, power 
 of language, and depth of thought, infinitely excels his 
 contemporary. Though Shakespeare is generally believed 
 to have had little classical education, his exceptional genius 
 and knowledge of human nature enable him to describe 
 people of all ages and countries with a profound know- 
 ledge, insight, force, and interest never equalled by other 
 writers, who yet had far more acquaintance with, or 
 experience of, national distinctions, local particulars, and 
 historical events. His play of Troilus and Cressida, laid in 
 Troy, describes to some extent the memorable siege of 
 Troy by the Greeks. It is by no means among the best 
 of Shakespeare's classical dramas ; neither it nor Tinton of 
 Athens portray the ancient Greeks with the same interest 
 and power with which their Roman successors are described 
 in the magnificent plays of Julius Ccesar, Antony and 
 Cleopatra^ and Coriolanus. Yet Troilus and Cressida 
 contains some noble passages which are to this day 
 remembered and admired. Thus of all Shakespeare's lines 
 none for its length is more known and repeated than : 
 
 " One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." 
 
 These words are spoken by the sage Greek warrior Ulysses, 
 and the great truth they express is transmitted in 
 Shakespeare s matchless words to most civilised peoples 
 of the present time. They are attributed to the Greek 
 chief, who with the king, Agamemnon, and the other 
 chiefs, Achilles and Ajax, besiege Troy, then ruled by an 
 aged king, Priam. This old monarch with his valiant 
 sons, Hector, Troilus and Paris, defend their unfortunate 
 city with a determined valour, which rivalled that of the 
 besieging Greeks. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 3 
 
 Little if any partiality is shown by Shakespeare in 
 
 describing either Greeks or Trojans. Indeed from his 
 
 account they rather resemble each other. Equally brave 
 
 and patriotic, they are opposed in a conflict which, by 
 
 Homer's genius, is transmitted from generation to 
 
 generation of civilised men. Among wise, shrewd Greek 
 
 statesmen and brave warriors one peculiar extraordinary 
 
 personage, Thersites, appears, a sarcastic, bitter misanthrope. 
 
 Though himself a Greek, he takes a strange moody delight 
 
 in insulting and scorning the Greek leaders. According to 
 
 him, the wise old Nestor is a " stale old mouse-eaten dry 
 
 cheese," Ulysses a " dog-fox," while Ajax and Achilles are 
 
 "two curs." Shakespeare closely follows Homer in 
 
 describing this worthy. 
 
 " Only Thersites with unmeasured words, 
 Of which he had good store to rate the chiefs 
 Not over seemly but wherewith he thought 
 To rouse the crowd to laughter brawled aloud 
 Against Achilles and Ulysses most. 
 His bolt was turned, on them his venom poured." 
 
 — Iliad, Book II. (Lord Derby's Translation). 
 
 He considers Troilus a young Trojan ass, and Cressida 
 certainly no better than she should be. This singular play 
 ends with the death of the heroic Hector slain by Achilles, 
 while the deaths of Troilus and Thersites, also slain by 
 Achilles, are not mentioned. The play abounds with 
 stirring incident, heroic characters, and occasional 
 specimens of Shakespeare's reflective wisdom, especially 
 in the speeches of Nestor and of Ulysses, the old and the 
 comparatively young Greek leaders. The latter's words, 
 maintaining the necessity of " degree, priority, and place," 
 are worthy of the ablest statesman in ancient or modern 
 times, which they likely have often uttered or acknow- 
 ledged, but in Shakespeare's poetic language they appeal 
 to all men of sense irrespective of country or historical 
 position. 
 
 ' ' Take but degree away, untune that string, 
 And hark what discord follows. 
 Strength should be lord of imbecility. 
 And the rude son should strike his father dead : 
 Force should be right ; or rather right and wrong, 
 
4 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Should lose their names, and so should justice too. 
 
 Then everything includes itself in power, 
 
 Power into will, will into appetite ; 
 
 And appetite, an universal wolf, 
 
 So doubly seconded with will and power, 
 
 Must make perforce an universal prey, 
 
 And last eat up himself." 
 
 None of the heathen deities Homer describes taking 
 part in the siege are introduced by Shakespeare. The 
 sympathy of the sea-king Neptune, and of Juno with the 
 Greeks, and the latter's hatred of the unfortunate Trojans, 
 so beautifully described by Homer and Virgil, are not 
 mentioned by the English poet. With Shakespeare the 
 tremendous contest lies exclusively between man and man, 
 like the long subsequent wars he describes between 
 English and French, and between the rival English 
 factions of York and Lancaster. The idea of divine 
 partiality towards mortals in Pagan conception was so 
 essentially different from Christian belief that Shake- 
 speare apparently avoided introducing it, though a Pagan 
 poet would perhaps have done so. In most other respects 
 this remarkable play may represent with much truth 
 the traditions of the ancient classic writers. The reader 
 finds himself all at once among really human characters, 
 though placed in positions which no modern could com- 
 pletely realise, yet which might well have been transmitted 
 by legend or tradition. There is little, if any, description 
 of local scenery, dress, armour, or military weapons. The 
 personages but for their names and a few local allusions 
 might have been English, yet are described with that pro- 
 found knowledge of human nature, in which Shakespeare 
 has never been equalled, or perhaps much resembled. 
 Macaulay impressively observes : 
 
 " Troilus and Cressida is perhaps of all the plays of 
 Shakespeare that which is commonly considered as the 
 most incorrect. Yet it seems to us infinitely more correct, 
 in the sound sense of the term, than what is called the most 
 correct plays of the most correct dramatists. We are sure 
 that the Greeks of Shakespeare bear a far greater resem- 
 blance than the Greeks of Racine to the real Greeks, who 
 besieged Troy, and for this reason, that the Greeks of 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 5 
 
 Shakespeare are human beings, and the Greeks of Racine 
 mere names, mere words printed in capitals at the head 
 of paragraphs of declamation." ^ 
 
 The siege of Troy beyond any other siege re- 
 corded in history has claimed the enduring attention and 
 interest of ancient, mediaeval, and modern times. Its 
 magnificent description in Homer's Iliad, and the interest- 
 ing allusions to it in Virgil's JEneid, where fugitive Trojans 
 are considered ancestors of the Romans, have always given 
 this famous siege a special interest and importance for both 
 poets and historians. Shakespeare says little about some 
 of the chief personages. Paris and Helen are seldom 
 introduced, and described as merely sentimental lovers ; 
 the prophetess Cassandra excites but slight interest ; while 
 Cressida, though giving her name to the play, hardly 
 deserves the name of heroine. Troilus, though eloquently 
 described by greater men, is made of less importance than 
 Nestor, Achilles, Thersites, Ulysses, and Hector. These men 
 apparently interest Shakespeare most, yet he leaves the 
 terrible contest between Greeks and Trojans undecided ; 
 though the narrated death of the chief Trojan champion. 
 Hector, indicates the likely result of a complete Greek 
 triumph. Shakespeare, in his lively prologue to this 
 rather heavy play, admits that it only gives a sketch of 
 the famous siege. 
 
 " Our play 
 Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, 
 Beginning in the middle ; starting thence away 
 To what may be digested in a play. 
 Like or find fault ; do as your pleasures are : 
 Now good or bad, 'tis but the chance of war." 
 
 Though this play describes a most exciting, interesting 
 time, it has not quite the vivid interest of some others of 
 Shakespeare's classical plays. There is no very interesting 
 female character, while the men, though uttering many 
 noble speeches and wise reflections, are hardly as life- 
 like as Julius Csesar, Antony, or Brutus. It is to the 
 Greeks that Shakespeare ascribes most of the wise, 
 
 ' Essay on " Moore's Life of Byron." 
 
6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 thoughtful, and noble utterances contained in this play. 
 Mr Lecky is evidently surprised — 
 
 " That within the narrow limits and scanty population 
 of the Greek states should have arisen men who in almost 
 every conceivable form of genius have attained almost or 
 altogether the highest limits of human perfection." ^ 
 
 The sage philosophy of this celebrated nation, to this day 
 so admired in civilised countries, may likely have induced 
 Shakespeare to attribute to Ulysses, Achilles, and Nestor the 
 wisest thoughts, while describing the Trojans, .(Eneas and 
 Hector, as brave warriors, but rarely sharing the philanthropic 
 wisdom which so eminently distinguishes the Greeks of 
 antiquity. Thus Achilles philosophically exclaims, though 
 perhaps in words which Shakespeare alone would choose : 
 
 '"Tis certain greatness, once fall'n out with fortune, 
 Must fall out with men too : what the declined is 
 He shall as soon read in the eyes of others 
 As feel in his own fall ; for men, like butterflies. 
 Show not their mealy wings but to the summer, 
 And not a man for being simply man. 
 Hath any honour, but honour for those honours 
 That are without him, as place, riches, and favour. 
 Prizes of accident as oft as merit : 
 Which when they fall, as being slippery standers. 
 The love that lean'd on them as slippery too. 
 Doth one pluck down another, and together 
 Die in the fall." —Act HI. 
 
 His noble comrade Ulysses fully rivals Achilles in 
 wisdom as in valour. Both are supposed to utter their 
 philosophic speeches during the siege of Troy, which 
 they are conducting with the most energetic ardour. They 
 evidently turn aside from their grand object for a brief 
 space to utter words of profound wisdom, certainly 
 more worthy of Socrates, Plato, and other great thinkers 
 than of military officers engaged in all the duties, cares, 
 risks, and dangers of their perilous profession. Yet to 
 them Shakespeare ascribes his own calm reflections and 
 extraordinary knowledge of mankind, which, considering 
 his obscure position in England, can never cease to be 
 
 ' "European Morals," vol. i. p. 418. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 7 
 
 nearly as much wondered at as admired by thoughtful 
 readers. Ulysses rejoins, partly perhaps in soliloquy : 
 
 ' ' For Time is like a fashionable host, 
 That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, 
 And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly. 
 Grasps in the comer ; welcome ever smiles. 
 And farewell goes out sighing. O ! let not virtue seek 
 Remuneration for the thing it was ; 
 For beauty, wit, 
 
 High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service. 
 Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all 
 To envious and calumniating Time." 
 
 These grand words expressing some of the wisest 
 thoughts of men were thus presented to the English public, 
 and subsequently spread to most civilised nations, through 
 the medium of translation and the diffusion of literary 
 enquiry. The only comic personage except Pandarus in 
 this martial play, is the odious, grim, repulsive cynic, 
 Thersites. This luckless victim of his own sarcastic 
 gibes gets beaten and abused by his fellow Greeks, 
 while their language to him and his to them is really 
 more coarse and scurrilous than really witty. Though the 
 alleged cause of the Trojan war is the elopement of Helen, 
 wife to the Greek chief, Menelaus, with the Trojan prince, 
 Paris, yet these three personages take little part in this 
 play. The prophetess Cassandra, sister to Paris, foretells 
 the ruin of Troy unless Helen is given up to the Greeks, 
 but she is unheeded, and the terrible war proceeds, while 
 the eloping pair, who are the cause of it, have sentimental 
 conversations together. Paris calls her " My Nell " after 
 winning over his brothers Hector and Troilus to take 
 his part in withholding her from her Greek husband, 
 but Helen, though in such a strange position between 
 fierce warriors and their contending followers, is not made 
 a very interesting personage, and can hardly be ranked 
 among Shakespeare's attractive heroines. 
 
 There are really no very interesting female characters in 
 this play. Its main interest is among a few Greek and 
 Trojan warriors. Paris, a gay, sentimental, and rather 
 weak man, in eloquent words entreats Helen to dissuade 
 his brother Hector from the war. 
 
8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 " Sweet Helen I must woo you 
 To help unarm our Hector : his stubborn buckles, 
 With these your white enchanting fingers touch'd 
 Shall more obey than to the edge of steel, 
 Or force of Greekish sinews ; you shall do more 
 Than all the island kings — disarm great Hector. 
 
 Helen replies : 
 
 " 'Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris ; 
 Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty 
 Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, 
 Yea, overshines itself," 
 
 The enamoured Paris only answers : 
 
 " Sweet, above thought I love thee." —Act III. 
 
 This unfortunate pair are apparently made of weaker 
 
 stuff than the fierce soldiers and sage, crafty statesmen who 
 
 surround them. The part they both bear in this play 
 
 indeed is weak, if not childish, resembling their traditionary 
 
 description in Homer's Iliad. The disarming of Hector, 
 
 however, is a mere fancy, as both Greeks and Trojans are 
 
 bent on war. Martial emulation or rivalry inspires nearly 
 
 all the chief characters, and the observant thoughtful 
 
 Ulysses, instead of counselling peace, describes the warlike 
 
 qualities of young Troilus with the mingled approval of a 
 
 soldier and the discrimination of a statesman : 
 
 " Not yet mature, yet matchless ; firm of word, 
 Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue ; 
 Not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calm'd : ^ 
 His heart and hand both open and both free ; 
 For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows ; 
 Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty, 
 Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath." 
 
 Troilus really seems more worthy, brilliant, and admirable 
 from this splendid description pronounced by the wise 
 Ulysses, than from anything he says or does in the play. 
 Many noble thoughts or grand ideas that Shakespeare 
 ascribes to Greeks and Trojans are perhaps more the 
 natural growth of his own extraordinary mind than 
 derived from historical proof. It can never cease to be a 
 
 ' Shakespeare expresses a rather similar idea in the celebrated 
 advice of Polonius to his son, Laertes, in Hamlet. 
 
 " Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but being in 
 Bear it that thy opponent may beware of thee." 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 9 
 
 subject of surprise, how Shakespeare, during the stormy 
 reign of Queen Elizabeth, when little consideration was 
 shown by opposing parties despite their common Chris- 
 tianity, yet consistently evinces the noblest sentiments in- 
 spired by the faith. The venerable Greek general Nestor 
 thus addresses his heroic young foe Hector, recognising 
 his many virtues in a spirit far different from the vindictive 
 yet conscientious bitterness shown towards noble opponents 
 during the civil and religious wars in British history : 
 " I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft, 
 
 When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' th' air. 
 Not letting it decline on the declined ; 
 That I have said to some my slanders by. 
 ' Lo ! Jupiter is yonder, dealing life.' 
 
 But this thy countenance, still lock'd in steel, 
 I never saw till now." 
 
 Hector nobly answers his venerable foe : 
 " Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle, 
 That hast so long walked hand in hand with Time." 
 
 Nestor : 
 
 " I would my arms could match thee in contention. 
 As they contend with thee in courtesy." — Act IV. 
 
 Students even of British history will rarely find mercy 
 to " the declin'd " shown, at least not in civil wars, from 
 early times till the last Jacobite revolts of 1715-45 inclusive. 
 In fact, the legalised severities of British rulers and warriors 
 towards defeated fellow-countrymen, seem at times to 
 have rather exceeded that shown towards vanquished foes 
 in foreign lands. British rule abroad, though of course 
 more of late than formerly, has usually tended to mercy 
 after victory, which policy may be pronounced practically 
 rewarded by the proved loyalty of so many subjected 
 nations. But in Shakespeare's time, and for centuries later, 
 the noble sentiments he attributes to these Pagan Greeks 
 and Trojans are hardly to be found in the spirit of either 
 British or foreign legislation in dealing with foes abroad or 
 rebels at home. The fierce spirit of Troilus was oftener 
 shown during many Christian contests between even fellow- 
 countrymen than the clemency of the generous Hector, so 
 
10 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 praised by the noble old Greek Nestor. Thus Troilus 
 
 says scornfully to his brother : 
 
 "When many times the captive Grecian falls, 
 Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, 
 You bid them rise and live." 
 
 Hector : 
 
 "Oh! 'tis fair play." 
 
 Troilus : 
 
 " Fool's play, by heaven, Hector.'' 
 
 Hector, shocked as well as irritated, answers : 
 " How now ! how now ! " 
 
 His relentless brother proceeds in the usual spirit of 
 
 ferocious warfare : 
 
 " For the love of all the gods. 
 Let's leave the hermit pity with our mothers. 
 And when we have our armours buckled on. 
 The venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords, 
 Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth. 
 
 Hector indignant, but unable to restrain or influence 
 him, naturally exclaims : 
 
 " Fie, savage, fie ! " —Act V. 
 
 While the brave Greeks and Trojans are in the midst 
 of war, the scurrilous, perhaps cowardly, Thersites abuses 
 or sneers at all around him, receiving hard knocks and 
 reproaches from his fellow Greeks, without apparently 
 incurring suspicion as a traitor. He finally meets the 
 heroic Hector, who exclaims : 
 
 ' ' What art thou, Greek ? Art thou for Hector's match ? 
 Art thou of blood and honour ? " 
 
 Thersites mockingly answers : 
 " No, no ; I am a rascal ; a scurvy railing knave ; a very filthy rogue." 
 
 Hector, with contempt, retorts : 
 
 " I do believe thee : live. " 
 
 and scornfully leaves him, when Thersites, evidently 
 relieved, says : 
 
 " God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me ; but a plague break thy neck 
 for frighting me ! " —Act V. Scene IV. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA ii 
 
 This strange being shows some of the caustic shrewd- 
 ness without the good-humour of Falstaiif, but he seems 
 in this play, as in the Iliad, to be of little consequence to 
 any one. It seems improbable that the brave fiery warriors 
 whom he often insults would long have endured his 
 presence among them, but to some extent his odd sarcasms 
 rather enliven this play. The slaying of the Greek hero 
 Patroclus by Hector rouses his friend Achilles to revenge 
 on the latter. As in history, the brave yet merciful Trojan 
 is slain by this Greek warrior, but the subsequent capture 
 of Troy is not mentioned. Shakespeare leaves the awful 
 contest still raging, though the Greeks are in the full career 
 of victory. The celebrated Trojan, .^neas, destined to 
 future fame, though occasionally introduced, takes less 
 part in this play than either Hector, Troilus, or the chief 
 Greek leaders. His escape from Troy with a band of 
 Trojan fugitives and their wonderful adventures before 
 settling in Italy are never foretold. This drama, though 
 so full of heroic characters and incidents, may be said to 
 end rather abruptly, while Greeks and Trojans are con- 
 tinuing their desperate struggle. This extraordinary war, 
 at first so celebrated in Homer's immortal poem, has 
 preserved a peculiar charm and attraction throughout the 
 civilised world, especially in England and Germany from 
 ancient times to the present day. While Homer adorns 
 his wonderful poem by introducing Pagan gods and 
 goddesses, opposing each other in the contest between 
 Greek and Trojan mortals, Shakespeare, appealing to the 
 sense of mankind in modern times, inspires his personages 
 with philosophic wisdom worthy of any civilised age or 
 country, but he cares little for local description or national 
 peculiarity. Thus, when the three Trojan brothers, Paris, 
 Troilus, and Hector, argue together about restoring Helen 
 to her Greek husband, Menelaus, and preventing the 
 Trojan war, the enthusiasm of Paris and the wisdom of 
 Hector are contrasted with the full force of Shakespeare's 
 genius. Paris exclaims : 
 
 " There's not the meanest spirit on our party 
 Without a heart to dare or sword to draw 
 When Helen is defended. 
 
12 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then I say, 
 
 Well may we fight for her whom we know well, 
 
 The world's large spaces cannot parallel." 
 
 Hector calmly replies : 
 
 " The reasons you alleged do more conduce 
 To the hot passion of distemper'd blood 
 Than to make up a free determination 
 'Twixt right and wrong ; for pleasure and revenge 
 Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice 
 Of any true decision." — Act II. 
 
 These words and style of reasoning are from Shakes- 
 peare's own mind, and would seem to bear little resem- 
 blance that can be proved to the ideas of the ancient 
 nations. No people but Greeks and Trojans are introduced 
 in this drama. Though its personages appear natural and 
 life-like when compared to the formal classic plays of 
 French writers, yet it may be doubted if they much 
 resemble either the Greeks or Trojans of reality. They 
 are graphic, consistent, powerful descriptions of persons 
 in a peculiar historical position, with classic names and 
 surroundings, yet they might represent the heroic, wise, 
 and ambitious men of any civilised country. It seems 
 doubtful whether Shakespeare sides with either Greeks 
 or Trojans, he seems thoroughly impartial in their moral 
 delineation. 
 
 " Equalities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of 
 cither's moiety," 
 
 are words in King Lear, which may perhaps apply to 
 Shakespeare's description of these two nations. The fierce 
 rivalry between Troilus and the Greek Diomed about 
 Cressida, hardly makes any of the three very interest- 
 ing. She apparently prefers Diomed, as she exclaimed 
 to Troilus when Diomed leaves her for a time : 
 
 " Troilus, farewell ! one eye yet looks on thee. 
 But with my heart the other eye did see. 
 Ah 1 poor our sex ; this fault in us I find. 
 The error of our eye directs our mind." — Act V. 
 
 In the hurry, excitement, and confusion of the great 
 siege, however, this dispute between Diomed and Troilus 
 leads to no result in this play, and at its close these chiefs, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 13 
 
 heading their respective followers, are still contending, and 
 Cressida herself does not appear again after these words. 
 The far-famed Helen of Troy is merely presented as an 
 incarnation of enchanting beauty, without either the 
 talents of Cleopatra, or the virtues of Cordelia, Juliet, or 
 Desdemona. In the Iliad Homer presents her during the 
 siege meekly deploring to the old Trojan king Priam that 
 she has been the cause of the Trojan war, and of so much 
 misery to both Greeks and Trojans. 
 
 " Before thy presence, father, I appear 
 With conscious shame and reverential fear. 
 Ah ! had I died ere to these walls I fled. 
 False to my country, and my nuptial bed. 
 My brothers, friends, and daughter left behind, 
 False to them and to Paris only kind ! 
 For this I mourn, till grief or dire disease 
 Should waste the form whose crime it was to please." 
 
 —Iliad, Book III. (Pope's Translation). 
 
 Lord Derby's version of this beautiful passage is truer 
 to the original, but not in the same eloquent English. 
 
 " With reverence, dearest father, and with shame 
 I look on thee, oh ! would that I had died 
 That day when hither with thy son I came, 
 And left my husband, friends, and darling child, 
 And all the lov'd companions of my youth. 
 That I died not, with grief I pine away. " 
 
 These beautiful, pathetic words might well indicate a 
 heroine. But in this play neither Helen nor Cressida 
 is rendered very interesting, and, in fact, occupy in it 
 a rather secondary position. Shakespeare chiefly delights 
 in describing the wisdom, valour, and knowledge of human 
 nature, which he attributes, perhaps rather more than they 
 deserve, to the chief Greek and Trojan leaders. In their 
 magnificent words and speeches lies the chief value of this 
 play. Yet even their grand ideas we owe to Shakespeare, 
 and can hardly be proved as altogether confirmed by all 
 that is recorded of these heroes, however brave and 
 sagacious they may have been. In examining classic 
 records and collating them with Shakespeare's language, 
 Dr Johnson's words, when comparing Pope's translation 
 
14 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 of the Iliad with its original, may perhaps to some extent 
 be applied : 
 
 " Many readers of the English Iliad when they have 
 been touched with some unexpected beauty of the lighter 
 kind, have tried to enjoy it in the original, where, alas ! 
 it was not to be found, but to have added can be no great 
 crime, if nothing be taken away." ^ 
 
 Most historical personages in Shakespeare's plays have 
 indeed more reason to be grateful, than dissatisfied, with 
 his attractive representations of their words and deeds. 
 It will always be a cause of wonder how Shakespeare, 
 living in political if not social obscurity, passing his time 
 between the London theatres and Stratford-on-Avon, and 
 who, as far as it is known, was never out of England, 
 was yet able to describe classic and historical personages 
 as naturally as if he had known them, or discovered 
 some secret correspondence revealing their true characters. 
 Neither profound learning, travelling, or acquaintance with 
 distinguished people of his own time fell to the lot of 
 William Shakespeare. He rather resembles his exquisite 
 description of Cardinal Wolsey : 
 
 " Not propp'd by ancestry whose grace, 
 Chalks successors their way, neither allied 
 To eminent assistants, but spider-like 
 Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note, 
 The force of his own merit makes his way." 
 
 —Henry VI 11., Act I. 
 
 Shakespeare's knowledge of men was evidently not due 
 to much learning, travelling, nor to distinguished friends. 
 It was, in fact, one of the most remarkable exceptions ever 
 known to all those rules of general education, and social 
 advantage, to which most celebrated men "amid their 
 brethren mortal" have owed their greatness in all ages 
 and countries. In this play Hector may perhaps be 
 considered as the real hero. He does not indeed utter 
 the wise reflections of Nestor and of Ulysses, but in 
 bravery and generosity he is superior to either friends 
 or foes, .^neas is not very closely described, though 
 
 1 Johnson's " Life of Pope." 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA iS 
 
 often mentioned, yet it was his romantic destiny to plant 
 the fugitive Trojans in Italy, while their descendants were 
 to become the Roman conquerors of all those lands, which 
 in their time were supposed to comprise the whole civilised 
 world. The band of Trojan fugitives accompanying the 
 defeated hero in his famous voyage, first to North Africa 
 and then to Italy, so beautifully described by Virgil, 
 were thus alleged — though the assertion may not be 
 exactly capable of proof — to be the ancestry of that martial 
 yet philanthropic race, whose mission was to inform and 
 enlighten as well as to conquer. In their wide and varied 
 empire was included Judea, in which comparatively small 
 province was fated to arise the prevailing religion of 
 modern times. 
 
 Before its almost miraculous diffusion the Paganism 
 of Troy, Greece, and Rome, together with that of northern 
 Europe, practically vanished completely. Thus the faiths 
 of Jupiter and of Odin, whose votaries once comprised 
 some of the bravest and wisest of men, have for many 
 centuries not retained, as far as can be known, a single 
 believer. Though Homer and Virgil describe the Pagan 
 deities as taking an active part, and often opposed to each 
 other in the Trojan war and in subsequent human history, 
 and though their existence and power were evidently 
 believed in by some of the wisest of men, there would 
 appejir no very precise historical statement or positive 
 allegation of their being ever seen by mortals. They 
 appear chiefly, if not entirely, in poetry, as neither Greek 
 or Roman historians and philosophers announce their 
 actual appearance in this world as historically proved, 
 or at least, not in a circumstantial manner. They would 
 seem the invisible though trusted and revered creations 
 of the human intellect alone.^ In Troilus and Cressida 
 
 ^ " Whence the gods severally sprang, whether or no they had all 
 existed from eternity — these are questions of which the Greeks knew 
 nothing until the other day. Homer and Hesiod were the first to 
 give the gods their epithets, to allot them their several offices and 
 occupations and describe their forms, and they lived but four hundred 
 years before my time, as I believe." — "Herodotus," Book II., on 
 " Egypt." (Rawlinson's Translation.) 
 
i6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 neither the Greeks nor the Trojans, though believing 
 in the same faith, make many appeals to their 
 gods. 
 
 Their blessing or favour is never implored with the 
 intense earnestness with which they were probably addressed 
 at this time by their contending votaries. Shakespeare, 
 in fact, rather avoids making much allusion to the heathen 
 mythology throughout this play, though among the 
 combatants it was likely a theme of constant interest 
 and anxiety. Throughout the modern civilised world 
 the religions of Greece, Rome, and Scandinavia have 
 long been viewed as mere fables, unworthy of the least 
 confidence, yet the history, poetry, and philosophy of 
 Pagan Greece and Rome remain still the study and 
 admiration of the'most learned men at the present time. 
 The famous siege of Troy, so poetically celebrated in 
 Homer, is again seen, as it were, only in glimpses throughout 
 Troilus and Cressida. Yet in these glimpses the spirit, 
 wisdom, and valour of the mighty dead are again recalled 
 to actual life, interest and glory, by the genius of England's 
 greatest poet. The combination of sound common-sense, 
 knowledge of character, and power of fancy is among 
 the chief merits of the immortal Iliad. The story of 
 Troilus and Cressida which Shakespeare has chosen to 
 dramatise is only one, and by no means the most interesting 
 of the events during that extraordinary siege. The real 
 Troilus was slain by Achilles, who seems to have killed 
 more Trojan leaders than any of his Greek comrades 
 succeeded in doing. 
 
 Troilus, the hero of this play is by no means among 
 its most interesting characters. He is far inferior to his 
 brother Hector, and to his Greek foes, Achilles, Nestor, 
 and Ulysses. Agamemnon, the Greek king, is also made 
 of less interest than these four chiefs. He moves about 
 a stolid figure, gives orders, and is obeyed, but none of 
 his words equal those of Achilles, Nestor, and Ulysses 
 in real wisdom or eloquence. This play seems a rather 
 unfinished description of a most eventful and stirring 
 time. At its close Troy still holds out, and all is left 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 17 
 
 in battle and confusion, though the Greeks are evidently- 
 winning all along the line. It is certainly a brilliant 
 sketch of grand scenes and of grand characters. Shake- 
 speare displays this graphic play like a picture, ending 
 it amid exciting undecided events. The wise chiefs 
 Ulysses and Nestor, the gay Paris, the stern Achilles, 
 and the heroic yet merciful Hector, present a strange 
 contrast to the comic if not cowardly Pandarus, and 
 to the grotesque, insolent, and odious Thersites. These 
 personages are placed before an English reading public 
 as if many of their words and deeds had been revealed 
 by an acquaintance ; yet only a very brief part of their 
 lives is shown. We see Greeks and Trojans alive, full 
 of spirit, wisdom, and energy, but withdrawn from view, 
 in the midst, or at least before the end of their memorable 
 contest. The last scene shows .(Eneas lamenting Hector's 
 death, foreseeing the ruin of Troy, and anticipating some 
 vague future revenge on the Greeks which in process 
 of time may to some extent have been fulfilled according 
 to Roman belief in their Trojan descent and in the 
 triumph of their empire over Greece. Troilus finally 
 appears upbraiding Pandarus, Cressida's uncle, who has 
 failed to reconcile them, though in reality he was a 
 brave warrior. 
 Troilus : 
 
 "Hence broker-lackey! ignominy and shame 
 Pursue thy life and live aye with thy name.'' [Exti. 
 
 Pandarus, who, though made partly comic in this play, 
 was really a gallant warrior, exclaims when alone : 
 " A goodly medicine for my aching bones ! " 
 
 and then ends this play with some fantastic lines 
 composed evidently to amuse an English audience : 
 
 " O world, world, world ! thus is the poor agent despised ! 
 Some two months hence my will shall here be made : 
 It should be now, but that my fear is this, 
 Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss. 
 Till then I'll sweat, and seek about for eases ; 
 And at that time bequeath you my diseases." [Exit. 
 
 These lines form a rather strange, if not grotesque 
 
 B 
 
i8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 ending to this martial heroic play, which, though containing 
 some magnificent passages, does not, on the whole, seem 
 written in the poet's best style. 
 
 Yet the story of Troilus and Cressida evidently interested 
 Shakespeare especially, as he again alludes to it in these 
 beautiful lines ; 
 
 " The moon shines bright — in such a night as this 
 When the sweet wind did sweetly kiss the trees 
 And they did make no noise — in such a night 
 Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls 
 And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents 
 Where Cressid lay that night." 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Act V. Scene i. 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 
 
 In this instructive, but in some respects revolting tragedy, 
 Shakespeare apparently describes Timon, the Athenian 
 millionaire, rather differently from the account given by 
 some historical authorities.^ According to them, Timon 
 was always a hater or despiser of mankind, while Shake- 
 speare represents him at first as a too bountiful patron or 
 benefactor to all around him. The ingratitude he en- 
 counters makes him change his nature and practically 
 believe that "all men are liars," yet not in the excited 
 " haste " admitted by the impulsive Jewish psalmist, in this 
 terrible condemnation, but as the final morose conviction 
 of an imprudent spendthrift. Shakespeare's Timon, a rich 
 Athenian, first appears feasting, patronising and making 
 presents alike to artists and to personal acquaintances. A 
 needy poet, to some extent describes and foretells Timon's 
 character, and probable future, fairly enough, yet really 
 does nothing of service to his patron. He says to a 
 brother artist, a painter, who also, with many others, seeks 
 Timon's patronage at the latter's house : 
 
 "You see how all conditions, how all minds, tender down 
 
 Their services to Lord Timon : his large fortune, 
 Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, 
 Subdues and properties to his love and tendance 
 All sorts of hearts ; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer 
 To Apemantus, that few things loves better 
 Than to abhor himself: even he drops down 
 The knee before him." 
 
 This Apemantus is a churlish, sneering, cold-hearted 
 hater of mankind, perhaps slightly resembling Thersites in 
 Troilus and Cressida, hated of all and hating. In history 
 he is represented as friendly to Timon, but Shakespeare 
 
 ' See Lempriere's " Classical Dictionary." 
 
20 • SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 describes him as without sympathy for any one. The poet 
 proceeds, explaining his professional intentions to his 
 brother artist, the painter : 
 
 " Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill, 
 Feign'd Fortune to be throned : the base o' the mount 
 Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures, 
 That labour on the bosom of this sphere. 
 
 One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame, 
 Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her." 
 
 Painter : 
 
 " This Throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks 
 With one man beckon'd from the rest below, would be well expressed 
 In our condition." 
 
 Poet: 
 
 " Nay, sir, but hear me on. 
 All those which were his fellows but of late. 
 Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, 
 Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, 
 Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him 
 Drink the free air." 
 
 Painter : 
 
 " Ay, marry, what of these?" 
 
 Poet: 
 
 " When Fortune in her shift and change of mood. 
 Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants 
 Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top. 
 Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down. 
 Not one accompanying his declining foot." 
 
 Painter : 
 
 " A thousand moral paintings I can show. 
 
 That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's 
 More pregnantly than words." 
 
 Timon himself now appears, beset by different appli- 
 cants for relief, patronage, or assistance. With generous 
 credulity, he grants almost everything his various suitors 
 request. Among many others, the painter offers his 
 picture, and Timon says : 
 
 ' ' The painting is almost the natural man ; 
 And you shall find I like it : wait attendance 
 Till you hear further from me." 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 21 
 
 The poet previously presented his offer, and Timon 
 answers in a similar strain: 
 
 " I thank you ; you shall hear from me anon : 
 Go not away." 
 
 Soon after the odious cynic Apemantus appears, and 
 has a strange talk with the kind, too generous Timon, 
 whose prodigality is hastening his ruin by leaps and 
 bounds. Apemantus, full of scorn and bitterness, and 
 without a particle of real charity, ridicules all around him, 
 poets, painters, and merchants, with all the coarse insolence 
 of a thoroughly hardened embittered nature, when the 
 brave AJaWades, a grand contrast to him, appears before 
 Timon. Th is remarkable man, once a pupil of the wise 
 and g ood Socrates, is. in some res pects, the nobles t 
 rhar^^fpr in \\\ q play. He admires, even appreciates, the 
 generous spirit of Timon, yet is for some time absorbed in 
 Athenian politics, and during that time the unsuspicious 
 Timon lavishes away his money in all directions. He 
 gives a rich banquet, to which the reckless prodigal even 
 invites Apemantus, while Alcibiades and other Athenian 
 lords are also present. At this feast Apemantus is the 
 last to appear, when the generous Timon exclaims : 
 
 " O ! Apemantus, you are welcome." 
 
 Apemantus grimly replies : 
 
 " No ; you shall not make me welcome : 
 I come to have thee thrust roe out of doors." 
 
 Timon, thinking to please everybody, then says : 
 
 " Fie ! thou'rt a churl ; 
 
 Go, let him have a table by himself, 
 For he does neither affect company, 
 Nor is he fit for it indeed." 
 
 Apemantus : 
 
 " I come to observe ; I give thee fair warning on't." 
 
 Timon good-naturedly retorts : 
 
 "I take no heed of thee; thou'rt an Athenian; therefore welcome. 
 Prithee, let my meat make thee silent," 
 
22 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Apemantus : 
 
 " I scorn thy meat ; t' would choke me. 
 
 O you gods ! what a number 
 
 Of men eat Timon, and he sees 'em not ! " 
 
 This is true enough, but there is no friendship in 
 Apemantus. He scorns everybody and everything, and 
 says in a sort of mock prayer, 
 
 " Immortal gods, I crave no pelf ; 
 I pray for no man but myself : 
 Grant I may never prove so fond, 
 To trust man on his oath or bond." 
 
 Timon, full of hospitality, addresses his different guests, 
 and exclaims to the most distinguished one : 
 " Captain Alcibiades, your heart's in the field now." 
 
 The other, though always a brave, ambitious soldier, 
 courteously replies : 
 
 " My heart is ever at your service, my lord." 
 
 Timon, knowing his martial nature, rejoins : 
 
 " You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than a dinner of friends.'' 
 
 Alcibiades, a thorough warrior, replies : 
 
 " So they were bleeding-new, my lord, there's no meat like 'em : I could 
 wish my best friend at such a feast." 
 
 Apemantus, with the bitterness of a thorough hater of 
 mankind, exclaims, but no one heeds him : 
 
 "Would all those flatterers were thine enemies then, that then thou 
 might'st kill 'em, and bid me to 'em." 
 
 The kind and noble-hearted Timon, a complete con- 
 trast to all present, believes they are each attached to 
 him, or trusty friends, and in a general speech says : 
 
 "O you gods ! think I, what need we have any friends, if we should 
 ne'er have need of 'em ? They were the most needless creatures living, should 
 we ne'er have use for 'em, and would most resemble sweet instruments hung 
 up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. We are born to do benefits ; 
 and what better or properer can we call our own than the riches of our friends ? 
 O ! what a precious comfort 'tis, to have so many, like brothers, commanding 
 one another's fortunes ! " 
 
 During this outburst of generous feeling and kindly 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 23 
 
 sentiment, Timon is heard in silence by Alcibiades, while 
 
 his other guests enjoy themselves, and Apemantus sneers 
 
 at every one. A fair bevy of ladies, led by the God of 
 
 Love, Cupid, now appears, the latter with merriment 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Hail to thee, worthy Timon ; and to all 
 That of his bounties taste ! The five best senses 
 Acknowledge thee their patron. The ear, 
 Taste, touch, and smell, pleased from thy table rise ; 
 They only now come but to feast thine eyes." 
 
 Timon hospitably replies : 
 
 "They're welcome all." 
 
 A joyous dance ensues, while the cynic Apemantus 
 says, perhaps to himself alone : 
 
 " They dance ! they are mad women. 
 Like madness is the glory of this life, 
 We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves." 
 
 Timon then compliments the dancers, and bids them 
 partake of his banquet. They retire to it with thanks, 
 and Flavins, Timon's honest steward, enters, whom his 
 prodigal master bids fetch him a casket of jewels. 
 Flavius says to himself at this command : 
 
 ' ' More jewels yet ! 
 There is no crossing him in's humour." 
 
 Timon is then presented with four white horses from 
 a friend, and invited to a hunt by another. He accepts both 
 present and invitation, and orders the messengers to 
 be all rewarded. Fl avius, who a lone has Timon's true 
 at heart, and knows his circunistahces,~alarmed 
 extravagance, exclaims to himself: 
 
 " What will this come to ? 
 He commands us to provide, and give great gifts. 
 And all out of an empty coffer : 
 
 His promises fly so beyond his state 
 
 That what he speaks is all in debt ; he owes 
 
 For every word : 
 
 I bleed inwardly for my lord." 
 
 He departs full of pity for his reckless employer, who 
 
24 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 addresses his parting guests in kind words, never sus- 
 pecting their ingratitude. 
 
 " 'Tis not enough to give ; 
 Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends, 
 And ne'er be weary." 
 
 He then addresses the most formidable man among 
 them, who, absorbed in ambition and politics, rather 
 admires Timon, but has little in common with him : 
 
 " Alcibiades, 
 Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich ; 
 It comes in charity to thee ; for all thy living 
 Is 'mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast 
 Lie in a pitch'd field." 
 
 Alcibiades, with more secret meaning than is guessed 
 by the present company, replies, alluding to the state 
 of Athens : 
 
 "Ay, defiled land, my lord." 
 
 In these brief words Alcibiades apparently reveals 
 hostility to the existing State, but he says no more. 
 Though infinitely superior to Timon's other guests in 
 genius, sense, and policy, he keeps his own counsel, 
 watching all around him with suppressed contempt. 
 He and the other lords leave Timon alone for a short 
 time with the grim cynic, Apemantus, who foretells in 
 bitter words Timon's coming ruin, but seems himself 
 incapable of pity for any one. 
 Apemantus : 
 
 "Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on court's'es.'' 
 
 Timon, wishing to be kind to every one, meekly replies : 
 " Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen, I would be good to thee." 
 
 Apemantus : 
 
 " No, I'll nothing ; for if I should be bribed too, there would be none left 
 to rail upon thee What need these feasts, pomps, and vain-glories ? " 
 
 Timon : 
 
 " Nay, an' you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn not to give regard 
 you to. Farewell ; and come with better music." [Exit, 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 25 
 
 Apemantus : 
 
 "So: 
 Thou wilt not hear me now ; thou shalt not then ; 
 I'll lock thy heaven from thee." [Exit. 
 
 The many claimants on Timon's bounty become more 
 and more importunate. Thus the next act opens with a 
 scene in an Athenian senator's house, who thus describes 
 Timon's extravagance, more in scorn than charity : 
 
 " And late, five thousand : to Varro and to Isidore 
 He owes nine thousand ; besides my former sum, 
 Which makes it five-and-twenty. Still in motion 
 Of raging waste ! It cannot hold ; it will not. 
 If I want gold, steal but a be^ar's dog 
 And give it Timon, why the dog coins gold. " 
 
 This anxious creditor then sends a messenger, named 
 Caphis, to demand his money from Timon : 
 
 " Importune him for my moneys ; be not ceased 
 With slight denial, nor then silenced when — 
 ' Commend me to your masier' — and the cap 
 Plays in the right hand, thus ; but tell him. 
 My uses cry to me ; I must serve my turn 
 Out of mine own ; his days and times are past. 
 And my reliance on his fracted dates 
 Have smit my credit : Get you gone : 
 Put on a most importunate aspect. 
 
 A visage of demand : Get you gone.'' 
 
 In the next scene Flavius, hitherto always disregarded 
 by his thoughtless master, thus reveals his thoughts, while 
 holding many bills in his hands : 
 
 " No care, no stop ! so senseless of expense, 
 That he will neither know how to maintain it, 
 Nor cease his flow of riot ; takes no account 
 How things go from him. 
 
 What shall be done : He will not hear, till feel. 
 I must be round with him." 
 
 Caphis, with messengers from the other creditors, now 
 enters ■ Timon's hall, pressing him for payment, while he 
 is with Alcibiades and other Athenian lords. Alcibiades, 
 however, regards this strange scene in silence ; while 
 Timon, finding these creditors persist in their demands. 
 
26 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 asks his guests to withdraw for a short time, while 
 summoning the faithful Flavius, and then foolishly asks 
 him : 
 
 " How goes the world, that I am thus encounter'd 
 With clamorous demands?" 
 
 Flavius begs the creditors to retire for a time : 
 
 " Please you, gentlemen, 
 The time is unagreeable to this business : 
 Your importunacy cease till after dinner. 
 That I may make his lordship understand 
 Wherefore you are not paid. " 
 
 Timon at once exclaims : 
 
 " Do so, my friends." 
 
 And then says to Flavius : 
 
 " See them well entertained." 
 
 He and Flavius then go out, and Apemantus with a 
 fool or jester enters. The creditors' servants make jokes 
 with these worthies, and at length all ask Apemantus a 
 rather teasing question, which he quickly answers : 
 "What are we, Apemantus?" 
 
 Apemantus : 
 
 " Asses. That you ask me what you are, and do not know yourselves. 
 Speak to 'em, fool." 
 
 The servants then ask the fool, apparently a lady's 
 servant, how his mistress is, to which he replies, though 
 without any real wit : 
 
 " She's e'en setting on water to scald such chickens as you are. Would 
 we could see yon at Corinth Here comes my mistress' ps^e." 
 
 This youth, evidently a sharp, impudent lad, exclaims 
 to the fool, his fellow-servant : 
 
 "Why, how now, captain! what do you in this wise company? How 
 dost thou, Apemantus?" 
 
 Evidently the scornful style of this boy annoys the 
 old cynic more than his words, and he replies : 
 
 " Would I had a rod in my mouth, that I might answer thee profitably.'' 
 
 The page makes no reply to this wish, but asks him to 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 27 
 
 read some words on two letters, telling Apemantus that he 
 himself cannot read. Apemantus, with his usual bitterness, 
 rejoins : 
 
 "There will little learning die then that day thou art hanged. This is to 
 Lord Timon ; this Alcibiades. Go; thou wast born a bastard, and thou'lt die 
 a bawd." 
 
 The page, as bold as brass, and evidently used to 
 exchange compliments of this kind, retorts perhaps more 
 in the style of a lad in the purlieus of London than from 
 elegant Athens or Corinth : 
 
 " Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt famish a dog's death. Answer 
 not ; I am gone." 
 
 And off he goes at once. Apemantus, the fool, and the 
 servants then indulge in a strange conversation, in which 
 there is not much wit, but a good deal of ribald coarseness, 
 likely enough among such a party. 
 
 Fool : 
 ' ' Are you three usurers' men ? " 
 
 All the servants : 
 "Ay, fool." 
 
 To which admission the so-called fool replies : 
 
 " I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant : my mistress is one, and 
 I am her fool. When men come to borrow of your masters, they approach 
 sadly, and go away merry ; but they enter my mistress' house merrily, and go 
 away sadly : the reason of this ? " 
 
 The servants refuse to gratify his curiosity, but 
 shrewdly rejoin : 
 
 ' Thou art not altogether a fool." 
 
 Timon and Flavius re-enter, and all others withdraw. 
 Plain speaking now ensues, and the honest Flavius at 
 length, alone with Timon, reveals the truth to his spend- 
 thrift master. Like, probably, some other men, when 
 waking from a dream, Timon at first inclines to blame 
 and suspect the best friend he has. He angrily asks 
 Flavius why he was not told before of his debts, to which 
 Flavius replies that Timon would never hear him. 
 
28 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 " O my good lord ! 
 At many times I brought in my accounts, 
 Laid them before you ; you would throw them off, 
 
 When for some trifling present you have bid me 
 Return so much, I have shook my head and wept ; 
 Yea, 'gainst the authority of manners, pra/d you 
 To hold your hand more close : I did endure 
 Not seldom, nor no slight checks, when I have 
 Prompted you in the ebb of your estate. 
 And your great flow of debts. My loved lord. 
 Though you hear now, too late, yet now's a time. 
 The greatest of your having lacks a half 
 To pay your present debts." 
 
 Timon hastily exclaims, now evidently believing him : 
 
 " Let all my land be sold." 
 
 Flavius : 
 
 " 'Tis all engaged, some forfeited and gone ; 
 And what remains will hardly stop the mouth 
 Of present dues." 
 
 Timon : 
 
 "To Lacedaemon did my land extend." 
 
 Flavius : 
 
 " O my good lord ! the world is but a word ; 
 Were it all yours to give it in a breath, 
 How quickly were it gone ! " 
 
 Timon, conscience-struck, exclaims : 
 
 "You tell me true?" 
 Flavius : 
 
 " If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood, 
 Call me before the exactest auditors, 
 And set me on the proof. 
 
 Heavens ! have I said, the bounty of this lord. 
 How many prodigal bits have slaves and peasants 
 This night englutted ! Who is not Timon's ? 
 Great Timon ! noble, worthy, royal Timon ! 
 Ah ! when the means are gone that buy this praise. 
 The, breath is gone whereof this praise is made ; 
 Feast-won, fast-lost ; one cloud of winter showers. 
 These flies are couch'd." 
 
 Timon, unable to deny, yet unwilling to hear, exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Come, sermon me no further ; 
 Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. 
 Why dost thou weep ? Canst thou the conscience laok, 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 29 
 
 To think I shall lack friends ? 
 
 You shall perceive how you 
 
 Mistake my fortunes ; I am wealthy in my friends." 
 
 This talk between the prodigal employer and his 
 faithful steward, though imputed to ancient Greeks at a 
 remote period, really applies as much to people of the 
 present time as to any other. The thoughts and feelings 
 expressed in Shakespeare's grand poetic style are practi- 
 cally as modern as if published in a clever novel of the 
 present day. Generous, wasteful prodigals, and the un- 
 grateful recipients of their lavish bounty, always abound, 
 especially in civilised countries, during the passing 
 centuries, without apparently the lessons of time pro- 
 ducing permanent effect. Shakespeare's words in this, 
 as in other plays, dignify as much as illustrate the 
 commonest transactions, qualities, and habits, while his 
 views comprise human nature in all times, unrestrained or 
 uninfluenced by local associations. This Athenian spend- 
 thrift, his false friends, and one true servant, might all be 
 Englishmen at any period, as well as Greeks of ancient 
 days. Shakespeare's task is to always examine mankind 
 generally, while he comparatively ignores most national 
 distinctions and peculiarities. Timon, after this talk with 
 Flavius, eagerly sends for assistance to his numerous 
 acquaintances, fully expecting immediate help. But 
 Flavius, who well knows what they are, announces to his 
 m'aster : 
 
 " They answer in a joint and corporate voice, 
 That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot 
 Do what they would ; are sorry ; you are honourable ; 
 But yet they could have wish'd ; they know not ; 
 Something hath been amiss ; a noble nature 
 May catch a wrench ; would all were well ; 'tis pity ; 
 And so, intending other serious matters, 
 After distasteful looks and these hard fractions, 
 With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods, 
 They froze me into silence. " 
 
 This news Timon hears amazed, but flatters himself 
 that Flavius, having hitherto solicited only old men, his 
 
30 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 younger acquaintances will prove more generous, and 
 
 sends other servants to them, exclaiming : 
 
 "These old fellows 
 Have their ingratitude in them hereditary ; 
 Their blood is caked, 'tis cold, it seldom flows.'' 
 
 Then addressing Flavius, who evidently thinks the 
 young men no better than the old, he says : 
 
 "Ne'er speak or think 
 That Timon's fortunes 'mong his friends can sink." 
 
 The next act and scene show Flaminius, one of 
 
 Timon's young servants, who rather resembles Flavius in 
 
 pity for their master, at the house of Lucullus, one of 
 
 Timon's younger acquaintances, who first asks his 
 
 messenger : 
 
 "And how does that honourable, complete, free-hearted gentleman of 
 Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and master ? And what hast thou there 
 under thy cloak ? " 
 
 He evidently expects a present, but Flaminius makes 
 a disappointing reply : 
 
 " Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir, which, in my lord's behalf, I come 
 to entreat your honour to supply ; who, having great and instant occasion to 
 use fifty talents, hath sent to your lordship to furnish him, nothing doubting 
 your present assistance therein." 
 
 Lucullus : 
 
 " La, la, la, la ! ' nothing doubting^ says he? Alas ! good lord ; a noble 
 gentleman 'tis, if he would not keep so good a house. Many a time and often 
 I ha' dined with him, and told him on't ; and come again to supper to him, 
 of purpose to have him spend less ; and yet he would embrace no counsel, 
 take no warning by my coming. Every man has his fault, and honesty ^ is 
 
 his ; I ha' told him on't, but I could ne'er get him from it Draw nearer, 
 
 honest Flaminius. Thy lord's a bountiful gentleman ; but thou art wise, 
 and thou knowest well enough, although thou comest to me, that this is no 
 time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship, without security. Here's 
 three solidares for thee ; good boy, wink at me, and say thou sawest me 
 not." 
 
 Flaminius indignantly rejects the money, when Lucullus 
 hears him scornfully exclaiming : 
 
 " Ha ! now I see thou art a fool, and fit for thy master." 
 
 The next scene introduces two or three strangers 
 talking to Lucius, another of Timon's false friends. They 
 
 ^ Liberality. 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 31 
 
 tell Lucius that Timon has applied to LucuUus for 
 assistance and was denied, at which Lucius pretends to 
 be much shocked. 
 
 Lucius : 
 
 " Now, before the gods, I am ashamed on't. Denied that honourable man ! 
 .... I have received some small kindnesses from him, as money, plate, 
 jewels, and such like trifles, nothing comparing to his ; yet, had he mistook him 
 and sent to me, I should ne'er have denied his occasion so many talents." 
 
 Servilius, another of Timon's servants, perhaps not so 
 faithful as Flaminius, now enters, addressing Lucius : 
 " May it please your honour, my lord hath sent " 
 
 Lucius evidently anticipating a present, eagerly 
 interrupts him, 
 
 "Ha! what has he sent? I am so much endeared to that lord ; he's 
 ever sending : how shall I thank him, thinkest thou ? And what has he sent 
 now?" 
 
 Servilius explains that poor Timon requests help 
 instead of sending gifts. Lucius at first disbelieves this, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 "Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius?" 
 
 Servilius : 
 " Upon my soul, 'tis true, sir." 
 
 Lucius, surprised but ready with excuses, exclaims : 
 
 "What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself against such a good time, 
 
 when I might ha' shown myself honourable ! how unluckily it happened 
 
 Commend me bountifully to his good lordship ; and I hope his honour will 
 conceive the fairest of me, because I have no power to be kind : and tell him 
 this from me, I count it one of my greatest afflictions, say, that I cannot 
 pleasure such an honourable gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me 
 so far as to use mine own words to him ? " 
 
 Servilius : 
 "Yes, sir, I shall." 
 
 Lucius : 
 " I'll look you out a good turn, Servilius.'' [jSxii Servilius. 
 
 and Lucius departs. 
 
 The strangers who hear this extraordinary conversa- 
 tion seem shocked at it, but whether sincerely or not is 
 doubtful, aj they are not again introduced. 
 
32 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 First Stranger : 
 
 " In my knowing, Timon has been this lord's father, 
 And kept bis credit with his purse, 
 Supported his estate ; nay, Timon's money 
 Has paid his men their wages : 
 
 Had his necessity made use of me, 
 I would have put my wealth into donation. 
 And the best half should have retum'd to him, 
 So much I love his heart." 
 
 The next scene is in the house of Sempronius, perhaps 
 the worst of Timon's ungrateful friends, who is applied 
 to also by a servant of Timon's. 
 
 Sempronius : 
 
 " Must he needs trouble me in't? Hum ! 'bove all others? 
 He might have tried Lord Lucius, or LucuUus ; 
 And now Ventidius is wealthy too, 
 Whom he redeem'd from prison ; all these 
 Owe their estates unto him." 
 
 Servant : 
 
 " My lord. 
 They have all been touch'd and found base metal. 
 For they have all denied him." 
 
 Sempronius, determined to give nothing, now works 
 himself up into a passion, perhaps partly to get rid of 
 the servant the sooner. 
 
 Sempronius : 
 
 " How ! have they denied him ? 
 Has Ventidius and Lucnllus denied him ? 
 And does he send to me ? Three ? Hum ! 
 It shows but little love or judgment in him : 
 Must I be his last refuge ? His friends, like physicians, 
 Thrice give him over ; must I take the cure upon me ? 
 He has much di^aced me in't ; I'm angry at him. 
 That might have known my place. 
 
 I was the first man 
 
 That e'er received gift from him : 
 
 And does he think so backwardly of me now, 
 
 That I'll requite it last ? No : 
 
 So it may prove an argument of laughter 
 
 To the rest, and I 'mongst lords be thought a fool. 
 
 I'd rather than the worth of thrice the sum, 
 
 He had sent to me first, but for my mind's sake ; 
 
 I'd such a courage to do bim good. But now return. 
 
 And with their faint reply this answer join ; 
 
 Who bates saiae honour shall not know my coin. " [Exit, 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 33 
 
 Timon's servant, apparently more honest or intelligent 
 than Servilius, exclaims in disgust : 
 
 " Excellent ! Your lordship's a goodly villain. 
 
 This was my lord's best hope ; now all are fled 
 Save only the gods." 
 
 The next scene introduces the servants of Timon's 
 many creditors. Even some of these pity Timon and 
 blame their employers. One says to another : 
 
 " Your lord sends now for money.'' 
 
 The other answers : 
 
 " Most true, he does." 
 
 And the other proceeds : 
 
 " And he wears jewels now of Timon's gift, 
 For which I wait for money." 
 
 Another servant, more conscientious than his employer, 
 exclaims : 
 
 " I know my lord hath spent of Timon's wealth, 
 And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth." 
 
 Flavius appears muffled in a cloak as if for disguise, 
 and these messengers beset him with their claims on 
 Timon. Flavius indignantly complains of Timon's base 
 treatment, exclaiming : 
 
 " Why then preferr'd you not your sums and bills 
 When your false masters eat of my lord's meat ? 
 Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts, 
 And take down the interest into their gluttonous maws. 
 
 Let me pass quietly. " 
 
 He gets away from them but they remain in Timon's 
 hall. The unfortunate prodigal now appears angry, 
 astonished and surrounded by these eager claimants for 
 their bills. He rushes off, and when they are gone, 
 re-enters the hall alone with Flavius; he now bids the 
 latter invite all his friends to another banquet, keeping 
 his real design a secret. Flavius thinks he must be mad, 
 and reminds him of his ruined state, but Timon insists 
 
 C 
 
34 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 that Sempronius, Lucius, Lucullus, and others should be 
 invited, exclaiming to the mystified Flavius : 
 
 " Go, I charge thee, invite them all : let in the tide 
 Of knaves once more ; my cook and I'll provide." 
 
 The next scene changes to one of more spirited 
 interest, refreshing after so much ingratitude, meanness, 
 and reckless imprudence. Alcibiades, despite his faults, 
 is yet in some respects a noble character, appearing at 
 great advantage compared to the odious false friends of 
 Timon. He quarrels with the Athenian Senate, whose 
 general he is, and among whom are Timon's ungrateful 
 guests. Alcibiades vainly pleads for a man whose name 
 is not given, but who though deserving well of the state 
 has in one instance infringed the law, and incurred its 
 most extreme penalty. The Senate sternly refused 
 Alcibiades his request, who vainly reminds them of his 
 own personal services to the state. This pleading only 
 makes the Athenian rulers the more angry, and they 
 threaten Alcibiades with banishment, and resolve to 
 execute the man he pleads for immediately. Then 
 Alcibiades indignant, thus exclaims : 
 
 " Banish me ! 
 Banish your dotage ; banish usury." 
 
 At this defiance the senators condemn him to death 
 if he remains two days more in Athens ; they then depart, 
 and Alcibiades, when alone, utters a brief soliloquy in 
 which a spirit not unlike that of Cromwell seems somewhat 
 indicated. In each case a brave general has control of 
 the army, has " won the soldier's hardy heart," and though 
 obeying men whom both consider ungrateful rulers, they 
 alike resolve to turn against them. 
 
 Alcibiades : 
 
 " Now the gods keep you old enough ; that you may live 
 Only in bone, that none may look on you I 
 
 1 have kept back their foes. 
 
 While they have told their money and let out 
 
 Their coin upon large interest ; 
 
 Is this the balsam that the nsuring senate 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 35 
 
 Pours into captains' wounds ? Banishment ! 
 It comes not ill ; I hate not to be banished ; 
 It is a cause worthy ray spleen and fury 
 That I raay strike at Athens. I'll cheer up 
 My discontented troops, and lay for hearts. 
 
 Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods." [Exii. 
 
 Here Alcibiades reveals his plot against the Athenian 
 Senate ; like Scott's Marmion this celebrated Greek general 
 knew how to secure and retain the love of his soldiers. 
 
 " They love a captain to obey, 
 
 Boisterous as March yet fresh as May 
 With open hand and brow as free 
 Lover of wine and minstrelsy 
 Ever the first to scale a tower 
 As venturous in a lady's bower 
 Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
 From India's fires to Zembla's frost." 
 
 Yet this description, applicable enough perhaps to 
 Alcibiades and to Marmion, certainly does not apply 
 to either Cromwell, Napoleon, or Wellington. Religious 
 fanaticism, boundless political ambition and exactness of 
 rule and discipline were in thfeir three cases the apparent 
 chief causes of effort and victory. Alcibiades had evidently 
 little, if any, trouble in drawing his soldiers entirely to 
 his side, but before he again appears in this play the 
 unfortunate Timon has to face his fate. His last pretended 
 feast to ungrateful guests consists in dishes of warm water, 
 which he uncovers before the astonished company, while 
 loading them with wild reproaches. 
 " Live loathed and long. 
 
 Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites. 
 Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears. 
 You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time's flies." 
 
 These words evidently startle the astonished guests 
 
 who are hastening away as he exclaims : 
 
 " What ! all in motion ? Henceforth be no feast, 
 Whereat a villain's not a welcome guest. 
 Bum, house ! sink, Athens ! henceforth hated be 
 Of Timon man and all humanity ! " [^Exit. 
 
 The guests, though driven out, return again looking 
 for their clothes. One exclaims : 
 "Did you see my cap?" 
 
36 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Another says : 
 " I have lost my gown." 
 
 Another exclaims : 
 
 "lie's but a mad lord, and naught but honour sways him. He gave 
 me a jewel th' other day, and now he has beat it out of my hat." 
 
 Another says : 
 
 "Let's make no stay." 
 
 While another agrees that Timon must be mad, and 
 all depart. Timon, after thus expelling his astonished 
 guests with frantic words, is in the next act and scene 
 introduced pronouncing bitter maledictions on Athens 
 and its inhabitants. In this wild, frantic denunciation, 
 expressed in revolting terms, Shakespeare may adhere 
 closer to history, which represents Timon a thorough 
 misanthrope, hardly capable of the many fine qualities 
 he shows at the beginning of this play. In fact, Shakes- 
 peare's Timon is a kind, generous, passionate prodigal, 
 full of blessings and benefits at first, and of maledic- 
 tions and abuse afterwards. His evil wishes are almost too 
 revolting for any one to utter save in a state of partial 
 insanity. He ends this denunciation of his fellow- 
 countrymen, by exclaiming : 
 
 ' ' Timon will to the woods ; where he shall find 
 The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind. 
 The gods confound — hear me, you good gods all — 
 The Athenians both within and out that wall ! 
 And grant as Timon grows, his hate may grow 
 To the whole race of mankind, high and low ! " 
 
 The next scene brings in the good steward Flavius 
 with other servants, whom he, very nearly as poor as 
 they, can no longer pay in full. These fellows, however, 
 show real pity for their luckless master, who, had he 
 retained common-sense, would have found relief to his 
 distracted mind among them. But Timon, like some 
 other passionate, hasty people, has evidently chosen a 
 certain clique of companions whom he thinks alone fit 
 for his friendship, and when they disappoint him, he 
 at once gives up all mankind for lost. The honest 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 37 
 
 Flavius he has apparently seldom consulted, and to the 
 last seems almost ignorant of the real value of this true 
 friend who, owing to his lower social rank, has been 
 practically little regarded by his foolish, misjudging 
 employer. Flavius with two or three of Timon's servants 
 are assembled together at Timon's house in the next 
 scene, where all evince well-merited pity for their ruined 
 patron. One asks of Flavius : 
 
 ' ' Where's our master ? 
 Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining?" 
 
 Flavius can only answer : 
 
 ' ' Alack ! my fellows, what should I say to y ou ? 
 I am as poor as you." 
 
 Another servant exclaims : 
 
 "Such a house broke ! 
 So noble a master fall'n ! All gone, and not 
 One friend to take his fortune by the arm, 
 And go along with him ! " 
 
 Another in the same spirit says : 
 
 ' ' His familiars to his buried fortunes 
 Slink all away. 
 And his poor self, 
 A dedicated beggar to the air, 
 With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty, 
 Walks like contempt, alone." 
 
 Other servants enter, one of whom says in noble words : 
 
 " Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery, 
 That see I by our faces ; we are fellows still, 
 Serving alike in sorrow." 
 
 Flavius : 
 
 "Good fellows all. 
 The latest of my wealth I'll share amongst you. 
 Let's shake our heads, and say. 
 As 'twere a knell unto our master's fortunes, 
 ' We have seen better days.''" 
 
 He distributes some money among them, and they 
 depart, while Flavius alone resolves to seek out his un- 
 fortunate master, exclaiming : 
 
 " Poor honest lord ! brought low by his own heart. 
 Undone by goodness. 
 
38 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 He's flung in rage from this ingrateful seat 
 
 Of monstrous friends ; 
 
 Nor has he with him to supply his life, 
 
 I'll follow and inquire him out : 
 
 I'll ever serve his mind with my best will ; 
 
 While I have gold I'll be his steward still." 
 
 In the next scene Timon is alone in a wood digging 
 for roots, and finds gold ; his mind is still full of cursing 
 and bitterness owing to the general ingratitude he has met 
 with. He exclaims bitterly at seeing the gold : 
 
 " This yellow slave 
 
 Will knit and break religions ; bless the accursed ; 
 Make the hoar leprosy adored ; place thieves. 
 And give them title, knee, and approbation. 
 
 [March afar off. 
 
 Ha ! a drum ? Thou'rt quick, 
 But yet I'll bury thee." 
 
 Alcibiades now appears heading troops, and accom- 
 panied by two courtesans, Phrynia and Timandra. These 
 two are the only female characters in the play, and some 
 moralists might perhaps wish they had been omitted alto- 
 gether, as they add little to either its interest or import- 
 ance. Timon grimly supplies these ladies of pleasure with 
 gold, while bitterly reproaching them all the time, when 
 Alcibiades, after vainly trying to be friends with Timon, 
 whom he had always admired, tells him he is now warring 
 against Athens. A common feeling now animates the 
 vindictive general and the gloomy man-hater, but Timon 
 in his embittered mind only views the other as an 
 instrument of his own private revenge. He therefore 
 wishes Alcibiades success against the Athenians, but only 
 to share a common destruction. His language to the 
 women and theirs to him is painful, coarse, and abusive 
 perhaps only too natural, considering their characters and 
 vicious lives, but in every sense revolting. At first they 
 repel his reproaches with equal vehemence, but when 
 scornfully offered gold they receive it with eager thanks, 
 not caring then what he calls them, but eagerly asking 
 for more and more. Alcibiades, who despite voluptuous 
 habits understands and to some extent appreciates Timon, 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 
 
 39 
 
 vainly tries to soothe or attract him. But the unhappy 
 
 misanthrope, whose lavish generosity has now yielded to 
 
 frantic malignity against every one, supplies Alcibiades 
 
 with gold, while entreating him to show no mercy to 
 
 Athens nor its inhabitants, and ends by saying: 
 
 " There's gold to pay thy soldiers : 
 
 Make large confusion ; and thy fury spent, 
 Confounded be thyself! speak not, be gone." 
 
 Even Alcibiades, though sufficiently enraged against 
 
 Athens, is yet evidently disgusted at the savage words of 
 
 Timon, urging him to spare neither old nor young, but to 
 
 cause a general massacre, and replies: 
 
 " I'll take the gold thou givest me. 
 Not all thy counsel. 
 
 Farewell, Timon : 
 
 If I thrive well, I'll visit thee again." 
 
 But Timon wildly declares he hopes never to see him 
 
 more, and Alcibiades departs, leaving Timon alone, who, 
 
 while digging for roots and abusing all men, is next 
 
 visited by Apemantus. This odious old cynic tries 
 
 to increase Timon's anger against his false friends and 
 
 turn it in a new direction by suggesting he should leave 
 
 the wood, mix again in Athenian society, and become a 
 
 mean flatterer like his acquaintances. These two strange 
 
 beings, different in nature, at least in Shakespeare's account, 
 
 are yet forced by peculiar circumstances into a kind of 
 
 sympathy against their fellow-men. They have a strange 
 
 conversation, during which Timon naturally asks the 
 
 odious misanthrope with great reason : 
 
 " Why shouldst thou hate men? 
 They never flatter'd thee : what hast thou given ? 
 
 Hence ! be gone ! 
 
 If thou hadst not been born the worst of men, 
 
 Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer." 
 
 After a long course of mutual abuse and reproaches, 
 Timon drives off Apemantus, who, knowing that he has 
 found gold, resolves to send others to the spot. He 
 apparently directs two thieves to the place, who, pretending 
 to be soldiers, ask money from him. Timon, still nourish- 
 
40 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 ing his almost insane hatred to mankind, gives them 
 gold, exhorting them as he did Alcibiades to injure or 
 despoil Athens, exclaiming wildly : 
 
 "The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power 
 Have uncheck'd theft. Love not yourselves ; away ! 
 Rob one another. There's more gold : cut throats ; 
 All that you meet are thieves. To Athens go, 
 Break open shops ; nothing can you steal 
 But thieves do lose it." 
 
 This strange language rather puzzles the thieves, who 
 probably never heard anything like it before. One 
 exclaims to the other : 
 
 "He's almost charmed me from my profession, by persuading me to it." 
 
 Yet they resolve to be off to Athens, and depart to 
 
 appear no more. Flavius now comes, and, beholding his 
 
 luckless master, exclaims in noble words : 
 
 " O you gods ! 
 Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord? 
 Full of decay and failing? O monument 
 And wonder of good deeds evilly bestowed ! 
 
 He has caught me in his eyes : I will present 
 My honest grief unto him ; and as my lord, 
 Still serve him with my life." 
 
 Timon after some time recognises him, and the honesty 
 
 of Flavius he at last believes, but his disordered mind is 
 
 almost overcome by this new impression. He therefore 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Had I a steward 
 So true, so just, and now so comfortable? 
 It almost turns my dangerous nature wild." 
 
 He then addresses those mysterious yet sympathising, 
 
 fanciful deities, who in Pagan times were supposed often 
 
 visible, and who were endowed by general belief with 
 
 every excellence of mind and body. He exclaims in 
 
 a repentant spirit of devotion : 
 
 "Forgive my general and exceptless rashness. 
 You perpetual-sober gods ! I do proclaim 
 One honest man, mistake me not, but one ; 
 No more, I pray, and he's a steward. 
 How fain would I have hated all mankind ! 
 And thou redeem'st thyself: but all, save thee, 
 I fell with curses." 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 41 
 
 Timon apparently feels a kind of morose, morbid 
 consolation in hating all men, believing them equally 
 wicked merely because of his own ungrateful treatment by 
 a few selfish Athenian acquaintances. His generous, yet 
 passionate, violent, if not implacable spirit is curiously 
 tested during this scene with Flavius, perhaps the most 
 touching in the whole play. Timon cannot avoid even 
 suspecting Flavius to rather resemble his false friends, 
 when he exclaims : 
 
 " Methinks thou art more honest now than wise ; 
 For by oppressing and betraying me, 
 Thou might'st sooner have got another service : 
 But tell me true, 
 
 Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous. 
 If not a usuring kindness, and as rich men deal gifts. 
 Expecting in return twenty for one?" 
 
 Then Flavius, faithful from first to last, makes this 
 noble answer, proving indeed how foolish and unobservant 
 Timon had always been in overlooking so true a friend as 
 well as honest servant : 
 
 "No, my most worthy master; in whose breast 
 Doubt and suspect, alas ! are placed too late. 
 
 That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love. 
 
 Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind, 
 
 Care of your food and living ; and, believe it, 
 
 My most honour'd lord, 
 
 For any benefit that points to me. 
 
 Either in hope, or present, I'd exchange 
 
 For this one wish, that you had power and wealth 
 
 To requite me by making rich yourself." 
 
 Timon, convinced of his honesty, yet now too em- 
 bittered or mentally weakened to be rational on the 
 subject, replies in a sort of helpless gratitude : 
 
 " Look thee, 'tis so. Thou singly honest man, 
 Here, take : the gods out of my misery 
 Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy ; 
 But thus condition'd ; thou shalt build from men ; 
 Hate all, curse all, show charity to none. 
 
 And so farewell and thrive." 
 
 Even while rewarding the good Flavius, the 
 miserable Timon yields to those savage passions which 
 
42 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 now quite rule him. Flavius, remembering his former 
 better nature, exclaims : 
 
 " O ! let me stay 
 And comfort you, my master." 
 
 But Timon, who indeed may now be thought scarcely 
 responsible for what he says and wishes, can only answer : 
 " If thou hatest 
 Curses, stay not ; fly, whilst thou art bless'd and free : 
 Ne'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee." 
 
 And Flavius then leaves him. Hitherto this excellent 
 man had evidently been little noticed by Timon, except 
 as a mere instrument to carry out his orders. The un- 
 worthy influences of class distinction, when carried to 
 unreasoning extent, are remarkably shown in the conduct 
 of these two well-meaning, kindly men towards one 
 another. Flavius understands Timon's nature throughout, 
 yet hardly dares to advise, far less try to influence him, 
 while Timon, when sure of Flavius's truth seems almost 
 bewildered, as if he had come suddenly upon an honest 
 man, hitherto unknown to him. They had thus been alike 
 victimised and nearly ruined by a set of worthless frivolous 
 men, whose real characters Flavius doubtless well knew, but 
 was prevented from disclosing to his deceived master, 
 owing to his trusting them because they belonged to the 
 same social rank as himself The next and last act 
 reintroduces the two artists, poet and painter, who seem 
 always together, calling at poor Timon's cave, having 
 heard of his concealed gold. They imagine that Timon 
 is only pretending to be poor, and has really plenty of 
 money. 
 
 Painter : 
 
 " Therefore, 'tis not amiss we tender our loves to him, in this supposed 
 distress of his ; it will show honesty in us, and is very likely to load our 
 purposes with what they travel for." 
 
 Poet: 
 
 " What have you now to present unto him ? " 
 Painter : 
 
 "Nothing at this time but my visitation; only I will promise him an 
 excellent piece." 
 
 Poet: 
 " I must serve him so too ; tell him of an intent that's coming toward him." 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 43 
 
 They meet Timon, pretending to deeply sympathise 
 with his ungrateful treatment. But Timon, who, unseen, 
 has previously overheard their talk, loads them with 
 scornful reproaches, yet gives them some gold, and then 
 dri\es them off. Flavius then appears with two senators 
 from Athens, now endangered by Alcibiades and his 
 army, and seeking Timon's mediation. Flavius tells them 
 it is vain to address Timon, but yet asks his luckless 
 master to see and speak to them. Timon approaches, but 
 does not apparently notice Flavius, while the senators 
 pray Timon to use his influence with Alcibiades to spare 
 their city. A noble opportunity for generous forgiveness 
 is now before Timon, but neither Greek history nor 
 Shakespeare describe him as capable of relenting. Timon 
 scornfully pretends to pity these Athenian messengers, 
 who evidently believe he can do anything with Alcibiades, 
 but, still full of vindictive bitterness, he mocks their hopes 
 which he at first rather encourages, by cynically advising 
 them to end their troubles by suicide. His words on this 
 occasion seem founded somewhat on historical records.^ 
 He exclaims : 
 
 ' ' I have a tree which grows here in my close, 
 
 Tell Athens in the sequence of degree, 
 
 From high to low throughout, that whoso please 
 
 To stop affliction, let him take his haste, 
 
 Come hither, and hang himself." 
 
 Flavius, knowing his master's desperation, says : 
 " Trouble him no fiirther ; thus you still shall find him." 
 
 Timon : 
 
 " Come not to me again ; but say to Athens, 
 Timon hath made his everlasting mansion, 
 Upon the beached verge of the salt flood ; 
 Who, once a day with his embossed froth 
 The turbulent surge shall cover ; thither come, 
 And let my grave-stone be your oracle. 
 Lips, let sour words go by and language end ; 
 
 Sun, hide thy beams ! Timon hath done his reign." 
 He leaves them with these words, and they return to 
 ' Lempriere's " Dictionary." 
 
44 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Athens. The concluding scene shows the triumphant 
 Alcibiades before Athens, the senators imploring mercy 
 and evidently in his power. Alcibiades, in many respects 
 noble and magnanimous, not quite unworthy of his great 
 teacher, Socrates, thus declares their doom, identifying 
 himself, as it were, with Timon, by viewing all who ill-used 
 him as his own foes also. When compelled to surrender, 
 Alcibiades thus addresses the helpless senators : 
 
 " Open your uncharged ports : 
 Those enemies of Timon's, and mine own, 
 Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof, 
 Fall, and no more." 
 
 He then pardons all the other Athenians, and the city 
 is yielded to him, when the soldier who had first discovered 
 Timon's death, brings the news of it to Athens, bearing 
 with him some lines which Timon had written, still ex- 
 pressing that implacable hatred to mankind which dis- 
 tmguished his last days. Alcibiades reads : 
 
 ' ' Seek not my name : a plague consume you wicked caitiffs left ! 
 Here lie I, Timon ; who, alive, all living men did hate : 
 Pass by and curse thy fill ; but pass and stay not here thy gait. " 
 
 Alcibiades, who well knows Timon's history, exclaims : 
 
 " These well express in thee thy latter spirits : Dead 
 
 Is noble Timon ; of whose memory 
 Hereafter more. Bring me into your city. 
 And I will use the olive with my sword ; 
 Make war breed peace ; make peace stint war." 
 
 Thus Shakespeare ends this affecting story, in which, 
 though pity is aroused for Timon, his ungrateful treatment 
 forms little excuse for the unrelenting, indiscriminate 
 hatred with which he views all men except Flavins. 
 Timon indeed can hardly be fairly termed a hero, at least, 
 not in a very exalted sense of the word. He is often 
 called noble, but save in lavish generosity, arising partly 
 from longing to be popular, he hardly deserves the name. 
 The strange ingratitude occasionally shown by the ancient 
 Greeks and Romans towards their most illustrious men is, 
 perhaps, the most disgraceful feature in their distinguished 
 and even glorious history. Even Alcibiades himself was 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS 45 
 
 not long popular, and finally was banished from Athens. 
 The treatment also of the virtuous Socrates by the Greeks, 
 and of the generals, Coriolanus and Belisarius, by their 
 Roman fellow-countrymen, are far stronger cases of in- 
 gratitude than the treatment of Timon by the Athenians. 
 The murdered Greek philosopher and the banished Roman 
 conquerors were in every sense real patriots, well deserving 
 the thanks and lasting gratitude of their respective nations. 
 Timon was really neither more nor less than a generous 
 spendthrift, driven out of his mind, apparently never a very 
 strong one, by the ingratitude of some frivolous, worthless, 
 acquaintances, among whom he wished to live and enjoy 
 himself 
 
' JULIUS C^SAR 
 
 The instructive contrast between Greeks and Romans 
 may remind modern readers of the extraordinary position 
 held successively by those wonderful races in the 
 history of civilised mankind. " The Greeks," Macaulay 
 observes, " admired only themselves, the Romans admired 
 only themselves and the Greeks."^ 
 
 These two celebrated nations, despite their vast, perma- 
 nent supremacy in all relating to the knowledge, power, 
 and elevation of mankind, yet believed in a religion 
 now thought merely fabulous by their civilised descend- 
 ants. The small exclusive race of the Jews, during all 
 the triumphs of Greek intellect and of Roman power, 
 neither gave nor received much, if any, instruction 
 from either Greeks or Romans.^ Religious accuracy, its 
 closest study and most profound belief among the Jews, 
 the triumphs of intellect among the Greeks, and of 
 martial glory and legislative wisdom among the Romans, 
 severally distinguished these three most illustrious nations 
 known to the ancient world. The political power of the 
 Romans was represented by a magnificent empire in the 
 time of Julius Caesar. This wonderful man, the admiration 
 alike of soldiers and of legislators, combined in himself 
 many of the highest human qualities, some of which are 
 rarely united. Succeeding ages have agreed in celebrating 
 and confirming his extraordinary and varied powers. As 
 an illustrious French writer of the nineteenth century 
 observes : 
 
 " Caesar was the most complete man that Rome ever 
 produced, one in whom was shown the most harmonious 
 
 * Essay on " History." 
 
 2 Ibid. 
 4e 
 
JULIUS C^SAR .47 
 
 development of all faculties. His mind open to the lessons 
 of life forgot none of the counsels which it gives, and 
 always calm amidst the wildest agitations, was obscured 
 neither by anger nor by passion. Even his victories never 
 dazzled him. He continued master of his soldiers and 
 of himself, and dominating from the summit of his fortune 
 the world as it lay stretched at his feet, he never gave 
 way to the intoxication of pride."^ 
 
 Shakespeare evidently admires him greatly, as in 
 Richard the III. young Prince Edward, when shown the 
 Tower of London, and told it was built by Czesar, refers 
 to Caesar's celebrated " Commentaries," which Macaulay 
 pronounces not history, but incomparable models for 
 military despatches.^ 
 
 Of all great conquerors in the ancient world Julius 
 Caesar has perhaps obtained and preserved the chief in- 
 terest of a civilised posterity. The late emperor. Napoleon 
 HI., wrote a life of him, in which that calm, resolute 
 sovereign rather yields to enthusiasm as he says : 
 
 "When Providence raises up such men as Caesar, 
 Charlemagne, and Napoleon, it is to trace out to people 
 the path they ought to follow, to stamp with the seal 
 of their genius a new era, and to accomplish in a few 
 years the labours of many centuries. Happy the peoples 
 who comprehend and follow them."* 
 
 Shakespeare's noble play begins when Julius Caesar is 
 about to be declared Emperor of Rome. His triumph 
 and popularity are at their height, yet the two re- 
 publican leaders, Brutus and Cassius, are more pro- 
 minent in the play than Caesar is. The latter's celebrity 
 is more proclaimed by others, his own true greatness 
 he never reveals himself Cicero is briefly introduced, 
 though none of his brilliant eloquence is described, and the 
 few words he says reveal little of his genius. Brutus has 
 been thought by some the real hero of this play, and he 
 certainly takes a most leading part in it. The play opens 
 in Rome, where many of the populace are rejoicing at 
 
 1 Duru/s "History of Rome," vol. iii. part i. 
 "^ Essay on " History." 
 "Preface to Life of Caesar." 
 
48 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Caesar's return home from distant campaigns; a few 
 eloquent democratic leaders, however, try to repress the 
 popular enthusiasm, and to arouse sympathy for Czesar's 
 fallen rival, Pompey, in language which probably few but 
 Shakespeare could command. One of the leading tribunes, 
 Marullus, thus addresses the exulting Roman mob : 
 
 " Wherefore rejoice ? What conquest brings he home ? 
 What tributaries follow him to Rome, 
 Vou blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things ! 
 Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft 
 Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements. 
 To see great Pompey pass the streets "of Rome: 
 And when you saw his chariot but appear, 
 Have you not made an universal shout. 
 That Tiber trembled underneath her banks. 
 To hear the replication of your sounds ? 
 And do you now put on your best attire? 
 
 And do you now strew flowers in his way 
 That comes in triumph over Pompej^s blood ? 
 
 Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 
 That needs must light on this ingratitude." 
 
 The other tribune, Flavins, in consort with Marullus, 
 exclaims : 
 
 " I'll about. 
 And drive away the vulgar from the streets : 
 So do you too, where you preceive them thick. 
 These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing 
 Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, 
 Who else would soar above the view of men 
 And keep us all in servile fearfulness." 
 
 The Roman multitude in this play seem impression- 
 able to the last degree, easily swayed in their sympathies 
 by various opposing speeches, and always in extremes. 
 Caesar himself now enters Rome in public procession, 
 admired by the great majority, but distrusted by a few. 
 A soothsayer, probably knowing something of Roman 
 politics, bids Caesar beware the Ides of March, but the 
 latter despising him as a dreamer, passes on amid general 
 rejoicing and welcome. The two republicans, Brutus and 
 Cassius, remain aloof, gloomy and suspicious, while reveal- 
 ing to one another their views on their country's politics. 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 49 
 
 A loud shout of the people applauding Csesar startles 
 them, and Brutus exclaims : 
 
 " I do fear, the people 
 Choose Caesar for their king. " 
 
 Cassius, far more crafty and plotting than the fiery- 
 Brutus, artfully replies : 
 
 "Ay, do you fear it ? 
 Then must I think you would not have it so." 
 
 Brutus : 
 
 " I would not, Cassius ; yet I love him well." 
 
 Cassius then, with the consummate art and envious- 
 
 ness of his nature, tries to rouse Brutus against Caesar, 
 
 whom he tries to belittle, or disparage as a nervous, if not 
 
 a cowardly, man, though one of fortune's favourites. He 
 
 declares he once saved Caesar from drowning, and proceeds : 
 
 ' ' This man 
 Is now become a god, and Cassius is 
 A wretched creature and must bend his body. 
 If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 
 He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
 
 His coward lips did from their colour fly, 
 
 And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world 
 
 Did loose his lustre ; I did hear him groan ; 
 
 Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans 
 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 
 
 Alas, it cried, ' Gitie me some drink, Titinius' 
 
 As a sick girl. Ye gods ! it doth amaze me 
 
 A man of such a feeble temper should 
 
 So get the start of the majestic world 
 
 And bear the palm alone." 
 
 More shouting is now heard, and Brutus apprehensively 
 exclaims : 
 
 " I do believe that these applauses are 
 For some new honours that are heap'd on Caesar. '' 
 
 Cassius again works upon his excitable friend, Brutus, 
 
 stirring him up in every way against Caesar. 
 
 Cassius : 
 
 " Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world 
 Like a Colossus, and we petty men 
 Walk under his huge legs 
 
 The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
 D 
 
so SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
 
 Now in the name of all the gods at once, 
 
 Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, 
 
 That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed ! 
 
 Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods ! 
 
 O ! you and I have heard our fathers say, 
 There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd 
 The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome 
 As easily as a king." 
 
 Brutus, thus artfully reminded of his great republican 
 relative, becomes more irritated against Caesar, but still 
 admires him, and while trusting Cassius as his friend, 
 hardly understands his full meaning. He replies : 
 
 " That you do love me, I am nothing jealous ; 
 What you would work me to, I have some aim : 
 How I have thought of this and of these times, 
 I shall recount hereafter ; 
 
 What you have said 
 
 I will consider ; what you have to say 
 
 I will with patience hear, and find a time 
 
 Both meet to hear and answer such high things. 
 
 Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this : 
 
 Brutus had rather be a villager 
 
 Than to repute himself a son of Rome 
 
 Under these hard conditions as this time 
 
 Is like to lay \jpon us." 
 
 Cassius, perceiving that his words are taking effect on 
 Brutus, replies : 
 
 " I am glad that my weak words 
 Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.'' 
 
 They resolve to ask their friend, Casca, who shares 
 their views, to tell them the news, as he is now returning 
 from the state procession ; but before they meet him, 
 Caesar with his train attended by Mark Antony, his 
 devoted adherent, pass them, and Caesar, always observant 
 of everything and everybody, warns Mark Antony against 
 Cassius in words which, though little heeded at the time, 
 Antony probably remembered for ever after. Antony 
 does not suspect Cassius, and Caesar repeats his warning 
 in rather singular language. 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 51 
 
 Caesar : 
 
 "Let me have men about me that are fat : 
 Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights? 
 Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look ; 
 He thinks too much : such men are dangerous." 
 
 A man like Caisar would naturally far prefer men like 
 Mark Antony, loyal, joyous, and convivial, longing for 
 pleasures and rewards, than thoughtful, reasoning states- 
 men like Cassius. Antony, however, only answers : 
 
 " Fear him not, Csesar ; he's not dangerous ; 
 He is a noble Roman and well given." 
 
 Caesar replies with mingled dignity and shrewdness : 
 
 " I fear him not : 
 Yet if my name were liable to fear, 
 I do not know the man 1 should avoid 
 So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much ; 
 He is a great observer and he looks 
 Quite through the deeds of men ; he loves no plays, 
 As thou dost, Antony ; he hears no music ; 
 Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort 
 As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit 
 That could be moved to smile at any thing. 
 Such men as he be never at heart's ease 
 Whiles they behold a greater than themselves. 
 And therefore are they very dangerous. 
 I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd 
 Than what I fear ; for always I am Ceesar. 
 
 Tell me truly what thou think'st of him." 
 
 Caesar and his attendants pass on. Caesar, superior 
 in nearly all great qualities to both Antony and Cassius, 
 yet infinitely prefers the genial gaiety and merriment of 
 the former to the thoughtful gloom or melancholy of the 
 latter. He can control Antony completely, but Cassius is 
 a man not only beyond the control, but the influence of 
 any one, and firmly devoted to his political opinions. 
 Though Caesar speaks truly enough about Cassius, there 
 is surely no laying down such general rules as these. 
 History describes conspirators and revolutionists of many 
 kinds, cheerful or gloomy, musical or unmusical, and, of 
 course, those who conceal their real feelings the best, would 
 be the most dangerous. The gloomy, envious discontent, 
 which, according to Caesar, Cassius cannot conceal, would 
 
52 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 expose him to the constant suspicion of all vigilant rulers, 
 whereas a smooth, frank, or humble demeanour has often 
 availed, as well as disguised, the most dangerous, revolu- 
 tionists. Brutus and Cassius then question Casca, who 
 says a crown was actually offered to Caesar by Antony. 
 Casca : 
 
 " I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown ; he put it by once : but, 
 
 for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to 
 him again ; then he put it by again : but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay 
 his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time ; and still as he 
 refused it, the rabblement shouted and clapped their chopt hands and threw up 
 their sweaty nightcaps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because 
 Ctesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Csesar, for he swooned 
 and fell down at it." 
 
 Brutus : 
 " 'Tis very like : he hath the falling sickness.'' 
 
 Cassius, ever crafty and watchful, rejoins with sarcastic 
 bitterness, referring to Caesar's power and their weakness : 
 
 " No, Csesar hath it not ; but you and I 
 And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness." 
 
 Casca, apparently fond of sneering, though not 
 particularly intelligent, replies : 
 
 " I know not what you mean by that ; but I am sure Cassar fell down. If 
 the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and 
 displeased them, as they used to do the players in the theatre, I am no true 
 man. " 
 
 Brutus, longing to know what are really Caesar's 
 thoughts and intentions, asks : 
 
 " What said he when he came unto himself? " 
 
 Casca, who apparently likes to give sarcastic descrip- 
 tions of all he sees and hears, replies : 
 
 "Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was 
 glad he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet and offered them his 
 throat to cut. ..... And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said. 
 
 If he had done or said anything amiss, he desired their worships to think it was 
 his infirmity. Three or four wenches, where I stood, cried, ' Alas, goodsoul! ' 
 and forgave him with all their hearts ; but there's no heed to be taken of them ; 
 if Csesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less." 
 
 Cassius asks if Cicero spoke, and Casca replies that he 
 
JULIUS C^SAR S3 
 
 did so in Greek, which he himself did not apparently under- 
 stand. Though this account may be Shakespeare's inven- 
 tion, it is not unlikely that the accomplished orator opposing 
 Caesar, yet knowing his popularity, may have spoke in words 
 understood only by a few present whom he could trust. 
 Casca, always sarcastic or envious, contemptuously adds : 
 
 "Those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads ; 
 but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too ; 
 Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. 
 Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it." 
 
 He departs, after agreeing to sup with Cassius. Brutus 
 exclaims to Cassius : 
 
 " What a blunt fellow is this grown to be ! 
 He was quick mettle when he went to school." 
 
 Cassius, evidently a closer observer of character than 
 Brutus, replies : 
 
 " So he is now in execution 
 Of any bold or noble enterprise, 
 However he puts on this tardy form. 
 This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, 
 Which gives men stomach to digest his words 
 With better appetite." 
 
 Brutus, who, unfortunately for himself, greatly relies on 
 Cassius, answers : 
 
 " And so it is. 
 
 To-morrow, if you please to speak with me, 
 I will come home to you ; or, if you will, 
 Come home to me, and I will wait for you. " 
 
 Cassius : 
 " I will do so ; till then, think of the world," 
 
 probably meaning the Roman Empire alone. Brutus 
 departs, and Cassius, when alone, reveals his thoughts or 
 pJans, in one of those remarkable soliloquies in which 
 Shakespeare makes his plotters and villains often explain 
 themselves, especially in Richard the III. and in Othello, 
 where the murderous Prince and the treacherous lago 
 reveal what they withhold from all others around them. 
 
S4 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Cassius : 
 
 " Well, Brutus, thou art noble ; yet, I see, 
 Thy honourable metal may be wrought 
 From that it is disposed : 
 Csesar doth bear me hard ; but he loves Brutus ; 
 
 I will this night. 
 
 In several hands, in at his windows throw, 
 
 As if they came from several citizens, 
 
 Writings all tending to the great opinion 
 
 That Rome holds of his name ; wherein obscurely 
 
 Csesar's ambition shall be glanced at ; 
 
 And after this let Caesar seat him sure ; 
 
 For we will shake him, or worse days endure." 
 
 This odious design of deceiving his friend, in tempting 
 him to slay a political opponent, Cassius now contemplates. 
 He apparently thinks that if Brutus believed in Caesar's 
 popularity with the Romans, he would not, at least by 
 violence, oppose their making him Emperor. There is 
 therefore no mutual confidence now between Brutus and 
 Cassius, though their personal friendship and republican 
 principles maintain hitherto their strict alliance. Shake- 
 speare, following tradition at this period, introduces storms 
 of thunder and lightning in Rome. A lion is declared by 
 Casca to Cicero, to have met him in the street, who 
 " glared " at him and " went surly by " while — 
 "Men all in fire walk up and down the streets,'' 
 
 and adds, either through cunning or superstition : 
 
 "When these prodigies 
 Do so conjointly meet, let not men say 
 ' TTiese are their reasons ; they are natural ' ; 
 For I believe they are portentous things 
 Unto the climate that they point upon." 
 
 Cicero agrees that it is a strangely disposed time, but 
 either distrusts Casca, or takes slight interest in his news, 
 while displaying none of his famous eloquence, and taking 
 little part in this play. Casca again meets Cassius, aill^ 
 they talk over the strange prodigies, real or reported, of the 
 time. Cassius, longing to win over Casca to his own views 
 and designs, exclaims, after alluding to the storms and 
 strange apparitions believed as occurring now in Rome : 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 55 
 
 " Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man 
 Most like this dreadful night, 
 A man no mightier than thyself or me 
 In personal action, yet prodigious grown. 
 And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. " 
 
 Casca, guessing he means Caesar, says : 
 
 " Indeed they say the senators to-morrow 
 Mean to establish Caesar as a king ; 
 And he shall wear his crown by sea and land. 
 In every place, save here in Italy." 
 
 Cassius, pretty sure of Casca's agreement with him, 
 fiercely replies : 
 
 " I know where I will wear this dagger then : 
 Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius : 
 Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong ; 
 Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat : 
 Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass. 
 Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, 
 Can be retentive to the strength of spirit ; 
 But life, being weary of these worldly bars, 
 Never lacks power to dismiss itself." 
 
 During this dangerous talk the storm continues, and 
 Cassius quite wins over Casca to join him in opposing 
 Caesar's expected elevation to supreme power. 
 
 Casca : 
 
 "Hold my hand : 
 Be factious for redress of all these griefs. 
 And I will set this foot of mine as far 
 As who goes farthest." 
 
 Cassius, evidently pleased and more eager than ever, 
 exclaims : 
 
 " There's a bargain made. 
 Now know you, Casca, I have moved already 
 Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans 
 To undergo with me an enterprise 
 Of honourable dangerous consequence ; 
 And I do know, by this they stay for me 
 In Pompey's porch : for now, this fearful night, 
 There is no stir or walking in the streets ; 
 And the complexion of the element 
 In favour's like the work we have in hand. 
 Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible." 
 
S6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Cinna, another conspirator, now joins them, and says to 
 Cassius, who is evidently the moving spirit of the three : 
 
 "O Cassius, if you could 
 But win the noble Brutus to our party." 
 
 Cassius interrupts, confident that he can do so, saying : 
 
 ' ' Be you content : good Cinna, take this paper, 
 And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, 
 Where Brutus may but find it ; and throw this 
 In at his window ; set this up with wax 
 Upon old Brutus' statue ; all this done. 
 Repair to Pompey's porch, where you shall find us." 
 
 By these mean, wicked artifices Cassius tries to 
 convince Brutus that the Roman people are against 
 Caesar, whereas, really, they are in a large majority for 
 him. Throughout this play Brutus is practically the 
 victim of Cassius, who is indeed, as Caesar suspected, an 
 unscrupulous, political fanatic. Brutus is simply a sincere, 
 honest lover of real freedom, and while opposing Caesar 
 or any one else obtaining supreme power, would certainly 
 not by violence resist the popular desire, no matter how 
 different it might be from his own. Cassius, well knowing 
 Brutus, succeeds in deceiving him altogether, and, after 
 despatching Cinna with his directions, says to Casca : 
 
 "Come, Casca, you and I will yet ere day 
 See Brutus at his house ! three parts of him 
 Is ours already, and the man entire 
 Upon the next encounter yields him ours." 
 
 Casca, probably representing the views of many young 
 
 Romans, replies : 
 
 " O ! he sits high in all the people's hearts : 
 And that which would appear offence in us, 
 His countenance, like richest alchemy. 
 Will change to virtue and to worthiness." 
 
 Cassius, quite agreeing with him, eagerly rejoins : 
 
 " Him and his worth and our great need of him 
 You have right well conceited. Let us go, 
 For it is after midnight ; and ere day. 
 We will awake him and be sure of him." 
 
 This odious deceit of these conspirators practised on 
 a trustful friend is here clearly revealed, yet Brutus and 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 57 
 
 Cassius are often named together, as if resembling each 
 other in their views if not in their characters. In reahty 
 these men are contrasts, according at least to Shakespeare 
 in this play. Cassius evidently despairs of winning over so 
 fair and straightforward a man as Brutus to his side by 
 any fair argument or honest discussion, and resorts to the 
 meanest artifice to gain his end. The next act and scene 
 present Brutus with his servant boy, Lucius. This youth, 
 apparently faithful to his master, takes little part in the 
 play, and is not described at any length. Shakespeare 
 indeed rarely introduces either boys or girls, and seldom 
 makes them of much interest. Brutus when alone, like 
 Cassius, reveals his mind in one of those noble soliloquies 
 which Shakespeare so often introduces. Brutus abhors the 
 idea of Caesar or any one becoming sole ruler, being 
 himself a most sincere republican, yet had a monarchy 
 been inevitable he would likely have chosen Caesar before 
 all other competitors. He exclaims in suppressed excite- 
 ment, alarmed, anxious, and apprehensive : 
 
 " It must be by his death : and for my part, 
 I know no personal cause to spurn at him, 
 But for the general. He would be crown'd : 
 How that would change his nature, there's the question 
 It is the bright day that brings forth the adder ; 
 And that craves wary walking. Crown him ? — that ; — 
 And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, 
 That at his will he may do danger with. 
 The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins 
 Remorse from power ; and to speak truth of CsEsar, 
 I have not known when his affections swa/d 
 More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof, 
 That lowliness is young ambition's ladder. 
 Whereto the climber-upward turns his face ; 
 But when he once obtains the upmost round, 
 He then unto the ladder turns his back, 
 Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees 
 By which he did ascend : so Csesar may ; 
 Then, lest he may, prevent. 
 
 And therefore think him as a serpent's egg 
 
 Which hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous, 
 
 And kill him in the shell." 
 
 Lucius re-enters, bringing Brutus a sealed letter which 
 
S8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 he found in his room. Brutus opens it and reads when 
 again alone: 
 
 " 'Brutus, thou sleefst: awake, and see thyself. 
 Shall Rome, etc. Speak, strike, redress! ' " 
 
 This is apparently not the first of Cassius's artifices, 
 
 for Brutus exclaims : 
 
 " Such instigations have been often dropp'd 
 Where I have took them up. 
 ' Shall Rome, etc' Thus must I piece it out : 
 Shall Rome stand under one man's awe ? What, Rome ? 
 My ancestors did from the streets of Rome 
 The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king.'' 
 
 He again refers to the letter : 
 
 " 'Speak, strike, redress T Am I entreated 
 To speak and strike ? O Rome ! I make thee promise ; 
 If the redress will follow, thou receivest 
 Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus ! " 
 
 A knocking is heard, Brutus sends Lucius to the gate, 
 and reveals clearly though unconsciously how he has been 
 deceived by the crafty, plotting Cassius : 
 
 " Since Cassius first did whet me against Csesar, 
 I have not slept." 
 
 His mind is now in that fearful conflict which probably 
 
 many well-meaning, truthful, and deceived people have 
 
 experienced, whether in public or in private life, as he 
 
 proceeds : 
 
 " Between the acting of a dreadful thing 
 And the first motion, all the interim is 
 Like a pbantasma, or a hideous dream : 
 The Genius and the mortal instruments 
 Are then in council ; and the state of man, 
 Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 
 The nature of an insurrection." 
 
 Brutus and Cassius in their soliloquies are alike com- 
 pletely revealed, and it seems probable that they never 
 would have thoroughly agreed had the unsuspicious, im- 
 pulsive Brutus known the other's true nature. Cassius, 
 however, thoroughly understands Brutus, and by an artful 
 mixture of persuasion and falsehood makes him the tool 
 of his political designs. The conspirators, now six in 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 59 
 
 number, are announced by Lucius to be at the door 
 with Cassius, and the youth says, describing them : 
 
 " Their hats are pluck'd about their ears, 
 And half their faces buried in their cloaks," 
 
 SO that he cannot see who they are. Brutus orders them 
 
 all to be admitted, and exclaims when alone, full of anxiety, 
 
 and, unlike Cassius, disliking all plots and plotters : 
 
 " They are the faction. O conspiracy, 
 Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night 
 When evils are most free ? O ! then by day 
 Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 
 To mask thy monstrous visage ? Seek none, conspiracy ; 
 Hide it in smiles and afifability." ' 
 
 The conspirators now enter and confer with Brutus. 
 In choosing allies the great name of Cicero is mentioned. 
 This famous orator now old, is known to oppose Caesar, 
 having formerly made his great rival Pompey the object 
 of his eloquent praise. Brutus first addresses the con- 
 spirators before him, and with the generous enthusiasm 
 of his nature disapproves of Cassius' suggestion that they 
 should all take an oath together. 
 
 Brutus : 
 
 " No, not an oath : 
 
 What need we any spur but our own cause 
 To prick us to redress? 
 
 And what other oath 
 
 Than honesty to honesty engaged, 
 
 That this shall be, or we will fall for it? 
 
 But do not stain 
 
 The even virtue of our enterprise 
 
 Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits. 
 
 To think that or our cause or our performance 
 
 Did need an oath ; when every drop of blood 
 
 That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, 
 
 Is guilty of a several bastardy, 
 
 If he do break the smallest particle 
 
 Of any promise that hath pass'd from him.'' 
 
 ' The same idea Shakespeare expresses in Macbeth, where the 
 guilty usurper says to his equally guilty consort : 
 " Away and mock the time with fairest show, 
 False face must hide what the false heart doth know." 
 
 — Act I. Scene vii. 
 
6o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Of all the assembled plotters, Brutus though their 
 nominal chief would seem the least practical, showing a 
 romantic, noble, yet fanciful mind incapable of much 
 concealment or artifice, if not of ordinary prudence. The 
 others without replying to his impassioned words now 
 discuss their future confederates. Cinna, Cassius, Casca, 
 and Metellus recommend Cicero in these words : 
 
 Cassius: 
 
 "I think he will stand very strong with us." 
 
 Casca : 
 
 "Let us not leave him out.'' 
 
 Cinna : 
 
 "No, by no means." 
 Metellus : 
 
 " His silver hairs 
 Will purchase us a good opinion : 
 It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands ; 
 Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, 
 But all be buried in his gravity." 
 
 Brutus dissents from all four: 
 
 " O ! name him not ; 
 
 For he will never follow anything 
 That other men begin," 
 
 and they agree to leave Cicero out of their list. Cassius 
 then suggests, not unwisely, as the future proved, that 
 Antony, Caesar's chief adherent, should also be assassinated. 
 He evidently knows Antony better than Antony knew 
 him, when he praised him to Caesar, despite of the latter's 
 warning. 
 
 Cassius : 
 
 " We shall find of him 
 A shrewd contriver ; and you know, his means. 
 If he improve them, may well stretch so far 
 As to annoy us all ; which to prevent. 
 Let Antony and Caesar fall together. 
 
 Brutus, far more scrupulous and high-minded than any 
 
 of his present associates, dissents, exclaiming : 
 
 "Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, 
 To cut the head oflf and then hack the limbs. 
 For Antony is but a limb of Caesar : 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 6 1 
 
 We all stand up against the spirit of Cjesar ; 
 And in the spirit of men there is no blood : 
 O ! that we then could come by Caesar's spirit, 
 And not dismember Caesar ! 
 
 And for Mark Antony, think not of him ; 
 For he can do no more than Caesar's arm 
 When Cjesar's head is off." 
 
 Cassius, who certainly is a better judge of men than 
 Brutus, again remonstrates, saying : 
 "Yet I fear him; 
 For in the engrafted love he bears to Caesar " 
 
 Brutus interrupts, again telling Cassius to think no 
 
 more about Antony. Trebonius, one of the conspirators, 
 
 then exclaims, evidently little knowing the feehngs of 
 
 Mark Antony : 
 
 " Let him not die ; 
 
 For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter." 
 
 It is clear enough that except Cassius none of the 
 
 party really understands Antony, " the coming man," with 
 
 a vengeance, who was always able to combine great 
 
 shrewdness, self-control and knowledge of men with 
 
 naturally high spirits and convivial, joyous habits. The 
 
 conspirators having decided on the death of Caesar, then 
 
 part company, Brutus vainly trying to keep up his own 
 
 spirits, and thus bids them adieu for the present. 
 
 " Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily ; 
 Let not our looks put on our purposes. 
 But bear it as our Roman actors do, 
 With untired spirits and formal constancy.'' 
 
 They leave him, and Brutus, calling to his servant 
 
 Lucius and finding him asleep, exclaims as envying his 
 
 innocent ignorance of the crime intended : 
 
 " Boy ! Lucius ! Fast asleep ? It is no matter : 
 Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber : 
 Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies. 
 Which busy care draws in the brains of men ; 
 Therefore thou sleep'st so sound." 
 
 Portia, his wife, now enters, knows something weighs 
 heavily on her husband's mind, but cannot guess the cause, 
 which he withholds from her. Yet she adjures him to 
 trust her in words of most touching entreaty. 
 
62 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Portia : 
 
 " Upon my knees, 
 I charm you, by my once commended beauty. 
 By all your vows of love and that great vow 
 Which did incorporate and make us one, 
 That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, 
 ASThy you are heavy, and what men to-night 
 Have had resort to you." 
 
 Brutus, afraid to tell her, and yet having every con- 
 fidence in her love for him, exclaims : 
 " Kneel not, gentle Portia." 
 
 And she, catching up his words, eagerly replies : 
 
 " I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. 
 Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus. 
 Is it excepted I should know no secrets 
 That appertain to you ? 
 
 I grant I am a woman ; but withal 
 
 A woman well-reputed, Cato's daughter. 
 
 Think you I am no stronger than my sex, 
 
 Being so father'd and so husbanded ? 
 
 Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em." 
 
 Brutus exclaims, deeply touched by this appeal : 
 
 " O ye gods, 
 Render me worthy of this noble wife ! " 
 
 and promises he will tell her his secrets later on, but in 
 this play they do not speak to each other again, and 
 another conspirator, Ligarius, now enters, agreeing with 
 Brutus in the design against Caesar, and they depart 
 together to rejoin the other plotters. In the next scene 
 Csesar himself appears followed by his wife Calpurnia. 
 This lady, either more timid or imaginative than her 
 illustrious partner, is alarmed at repeated apparitions in 
 Rome, and, apprehensive of Caesar's danger, exclaims as 
 if she rather ruled the imperial hero : 
 
 " What mean you, Csesar? think you to walk? 
 You shall not stir out of your house to-day." 
 
 Caesar persists in going out, and she proceeds in 
 terrified entreaty : 
 
 " Csesar, I never stood on ceremonies, 
 Yet now they fright me," 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 63 
 
 and she tells him of the strange unearthly sights and 
 sounds reported from the Roman streets, exclaiming : 
 " A lioness hath whelped in the streets ; 
 
 Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds, 
 In ranks and squadrons and right form of war. 
 The noise of battle hurtled in the air. 
 
 And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. 
 O Caesar ! these things are beyond all use. 
 And I do fear them." 
 
 Caesar while trying to reassure her, utters these grand 
 
 words, worthy of himself indeed, yet apparently due to 
 
 Shakespeare : 
 
 " Cowards die many times before their deaths ; 
 The valiant never taste of death but once. 
 Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. 
 It seems to me most strange that men should fear ; 
 Seeing that death, a necessary end. 
 Will come when it will come," 
 
 yet Caesar as a pagan, believing to some extent in the 
 wisdom of the augurs, asks a servant what they report, 
 and hears that they, like his wife, advise him not to venture 
 into the streets that day. His high spirit, however, makes 
 him disregard all warnings, and Calpurnia again exclaims, 
 with only too much truth : 
 " Alas, my lord. 
 Your wisdom is consumed in confidence. 
 Do not go forth to-day : 
 
 We'll send Mark Antony to the senate-house ; 
 And he shall say you are not well to-day. " 
 
 Caesar is about to yield to Calpurnia's entreaty, when, 
 unluckily, Decius Brutus, a conspirator, but quite un- 
 suspected by Caesar, enters, requesting him earnestly to 
 go with him to the Senate-House. Caesar at first refuses, 
 telling Decius " for his private satisfaction " that he remains 
 at home to please his wife, who has been terrified by 
 dreams about his danger. Decius, however, evidently a 
 deceitful man, yet trusted by Caesar, thus ridicules his 
 fears, and after saying that the Senate intend that day 
 to offer a crown to Caesar, craftily adds : 
 
 "It were a mock 
 Apt to be render'd, for some one to say 
 ' Break up the senate till another time. 
 When Casar's •wife shall meet with better dreams' " 
 
64 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Caesar then yielding to this treacherous man, im- 
 patiently exclaims : 
 
 " How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia ! 
 I am ashamed I did yield to them. 
 Give me my robe, for I will go." 
 
 Some of Caesar's foes, Brutus, Cinna, Trebonius, and his 
 adherent Antony now enter, and Czesar, quite unsuspicious, 
 addresses them all in a few words to each. He says to 
 Brutus : 
 
 " What ! Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too ? " 
 
 and to the gay Antony Caesar says : 
 
 " See ! Antony, that revels long o' nights. 
 Is notwithstanding up. 
 
 I am to blame to be thus waited for. 
 
 Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me ; 
 And we, like friends, will straightway go together." 
 
 The deceived Brutus remorsefully exclaims to himself: 
 
 " That every like is not the same, O Caesar ! 
 The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon." 
 
 They all depart for the Senate-House ; while a certain 
 sophist named Artemidorus reads a paper in his hands 
 warning Caesar against his chief enemies by name, which 
 he intends to show Caesar as the latter passes. In the 
 next short scene Portia, the devoted wife of Brutus, sends 
 Lucius to the Senate- House, to report to her what is pass- 
 ing there. A soothsayer enters and tells her he fears some 
 danger to Caesar. Portia, who apparently has no personal 
 dislike to the latter, and is not in her husband's secret, 
 though wishing him success in everything, exclaims : 
 
 "O ! Brutus, 
 The heavens speed thee in thy enterprise ! 
 
 Brutus hath a suit 
 
 That Caesar will not grant. O ! I grow faint. 
 
 Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord ; 
 
 And bring me word what he doth say to thee. 
 
 Act HI. brings together nearly all the chief men 
 assembled in the Capitol during a meeting of the Senate. 
 Caesar, who though fearless may not be free from some 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 65 
 
 superstition, exclaims to a soothsayer, remembering the 
 previous warning : 
 
 " The Ides of March are come," 
 To which the latter ominously replies : 
 
 " Ay, Csssar ; but not gone.'' 
 Artemidorus, holding his paper of warning against 
 most of the conspirators, vainly tries to get Caesar to read 
 it, saying it concerns him nearly, but Caesar replies 
 what touches himself should be last read, and passes on 
 into the Senate-House. The conspirators are now all 
 around him, and Trebonius artfully entices Antony away 
 with him. The plotters then, according to previous agree- 
 ment, entreat Caesar to pardon a certain Publius Cimber, 
 sentenced to banishment, whose brother Metellus, one of 
 the conspirators, kneels to Caesar, who calmly but steadily 
 refuses the request. Brutus and Cassius then each entreat 
 the pardon of Publius, but Caesar remains inexorable, 
 exclaiming as he sees so many distinguished suppliants 
 before him, though in words which certainly indicate a 
 rather despotic inclination : 
 
 " I could be well moved, if I were as you; 
 
 If I could pray to move, prayers would move me : 
 
 But I am constant as the northern star. 
 
 Of whose true-fix'd and resting quality 
 
 There is no fellow in the firmament. 
 
 The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparlcs, 
 
 They are all fire and every one doth shine. 
 
 But there's but one in all doth hold his place : 
 
 So in the world ; 'tis fiurnish'd well with men, 
 
 Yet in the number I do know but one 
 
 That unassailable holds on his rank, 
 
 Unshaked of motion ; and that I am he. 
 
 Let me a little show it, even in this ; 
 
 That I was constant Cimber should be banish'd, 
 
 And constant do remain to keep him so." 
 
 Such an answer, apparently confirming the fears of 
 the Republicans, was sure to enrage all his foes beyond 
 endurance ; they rush upon him and stab him, Casca giving 
 ttie first and Brutus the last blow, when Cffisar exclaims, 
 both in history and the play : 
 
 "Ettu, Brute!" 
 
 and falls, dying at the foot of Pompey's statue. Evidently 
 
 E 
 
65 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Caesar had no idea of danger from any one, least of all 
 
 from Brutus, whom he had always loved, and who had 
 
 always loved him. The conspirators then shout in 
 
 triumph around the dead Caesar, while Antony alarmed 
 
 takes refuge for a short time in his house. Brutus now 
 
 excited to the utmost, trying to convince himself and 
 
 others that he has done a patriotic duty in slaying a 
 
 tyrant, exclaims to those around : 
 
 "Stoop, Romans, stoop. 
 And let us bathe our hands in Caesar's blood 
 
 And besmear our swords : 
 Then walk we forth, even to the market-place. 
 And waving our red weapons o'er our heads, 
 Let's all cry, ' Peace, freedom and liberty.' " 
 
 Cassius, evidently overjoyed at what has happened, 
 exultingly exclaims : 
 
 " How many ages hence 
 Shall this our lofty scene be acted over 
 In states unborn and accents yet unknown ! " 
 
 A messenger from Antony now approaches Brutus, 
 
 asking a safeguard or assurance of safety, if he comes 
 
 among the conspirators, to view Caesar's body. Antony, 
 
 who hitherto has been only known as the brave, devoted 
 
 follower of Caesar, obeying him in everything, and of 
 
 joyous and gay, if not reckless habits, now develops, as it 
 
 were, a new character, and for some time displays an 
 
 amount of self-control and knowledge of his fellow 
 
 Romans for which none, perhaps not even Caesar himself, 
 
 appears to have given him credit. His message to Brutus, 
 
 whom he knows as well as Cassius does, shows how these 
 
 two crafty, and thoroughly worldly men, can influence or 
 
 deceive an impulsive and fanciful, though brave enthusiast. 
 
 Antony's message delivered by words, says : 
 
 " Say I love Brutus, and I honour him ; 
 Say I fear'd Csesar, honour'd him and loved him. 
 If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony 
 May safely come to him, and be resolved 
 How Caesar hath deserved to lie in death, 
 Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead 
 So well as Brutus living ; but will follow 
 The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus 
 Through the hazards of this untrod state." 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 67 
 
 These artful words deceive Brutus as completely as the 
 forged letters of Cassius had done before. He exclaims 
 in complete confidence to the messenger : 
 
 " Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman, 
 I never thought him worse. 
 Tell him, so please him come unto this place, 
 He shall be satisfied, and, by my honour. 
 Depart untouch'd. 
 I know that we shall have him well to friend." 
 
 Cassius, as before, proves his keener intelligence by 
 rejoining : 
 
 ' ' I wish we may : but yet have I a mind 
 That fears him much." 
 
 Antony then appears. The sight of his dead patron 
 
 and chief seems at first to quite overcome him, as he 
 
 exclaims in mournful words without blaming any one as 
 
 yet: 
 
 " O mighty Caesar ! dost thou lie so low ? 
 Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, 
 Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well." 
 
 Then he addresses the conspirators with assumed 
 humility : 
 
 "I know not, gentlemen, what you intend," 
 
 and after praising Csesar in devoted words, ends by offer- 
 ing himself up as their next and willing victim, probably 
 knowing he is in no danger from them. The generous and 
 credulous Brutus immediately replies, apparently remorse- 
 ful already to some extent for what he has done : 
 
 " O ! Antony beg not your death of us. 
 Though now we must appear bloody and cruel. 
 
 Our hearts you see not ; they are pitiful ; 
 And pity to the general wrong of Rome — 
 
 Hath done this deed on Csesar. 
 
 To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony : 
 
 Our hearts 
 
 Of brothers' temper, do receive you in, 
 
 With all kind love, good thoughts and reverence." 
 
 Cassius, ever an artful practical intriguer, tries to win 
 
68 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 over Antony in a thoroughly worldly spirit, but cannot 
 
 deceive him : 
 
 "Your voice shall be as strong as any man's 
 In the disposing of new dignities. " 
 
 Antony now perceives how they regard him, and, 
 rightly guessing the very slight hold the conspirators have 
 as yet on the Roman people, resolves to praise Caesar, and 
 yet for a short time feign a wish to be friendly with his 
 foes. He shakes each of the chief conspirators ominously 
 by the hand, a deadly grip indeed, as the future proved, 
 while lamenting Caesar's death and glorifying him in 
 general terms, ending with : 
 
 " Here didst thou fall, and here thy hunters stand. 
 
 O world, thou wast the forest to this hart ; 
 How like a deer, strucken by many princes, 
 Dost thou here lie ! " 
 
 Cassius interrupts when Antony, with consummate tact, 
 replies : 
 
 " Pardon me, Caius Cassius ; 
 The enemies of Caesar shall say this : 
 Then in a friend, it is cold modesty." 
 
 Cassius, more and more suspicious of Antony, whom he 
 
 understands better than the other conspirators do, asks 
 
 with practical sense : 
 
 ' ' I blame you not for praising Ceesar so ; 
 But what compact mean you to have with us ? " 
 
 Antony, wishing at present to allay suspicion, answers : 
 ' ' Friends am I with you and love you all, 
 Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons 
 Why and wherein Caesar was dangerous." 
 
 These words touch Brutus, for whom they were chiefly 
 
 intended, and he exclaims : 
 
 " Or else were this a savage spectacle : 
 Our reasons are so full of good regard 
 That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, 
 You should be satisfied." 
 
 Antony at once replies : 
 
 "That's all I seek," 
 
 and then asks leave of Brutus, who at once grants it, to 
 deliver a funeral oration before the assembled Roman mob 
 
JULIUS CESAR 69 
 
 over the remains of Caesar. Brutus is evidently deceived, 
 though in different ways, by both Antony and Cassius, and 
 the latter warns him aside : 
 
 "You know not what you do : do not consent. 
 
 Know you how much the people may be moved 
 By that which he will utter?" 
 
 Brutus then declares that he himself will first address 
 the people, and is confident he can quite vindicate in their 
 eyes the slaying of Caesar. Antony consents, having won 
 his point, and all depart except himself. When alone, 
 Antony, in a terrible soliloquy, thereby relieves his agitated 
 mind from the strong constraint he has hitherto imposed 
 upon it. Addressing the prostrate, silent form of his great 
 hero, he exclaims with all the fervid eloquence of indigna- 
 tion and revenge : 
 
 " O ! pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, 
 That I am meek and gentle with these butchers ! 
 Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 
 That ever lived in the tide of times. 
 Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood ! 
 Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, 
 
 Domestic fiiry and fierce civil strife 
 Shall cumber all the parts of Italy ; 
 And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge. 
 
 Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice 
 Cry ' Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war." 
 
 A servant now enters telling Antony that young 
 Octavius Caesar, nephew of Julius, is approaching Rome, 
 and is within seven leagues of the city. This prince is 
 indeed "the man of the future," in whose glorious reign 
 the vast Roman Empire was destined to attain its highest 
 point of grandeur, power, and prosperity. He is compared 
 by Macaulay to William III. for sagacity even in youth, 
 but in this play he takes only slight part, and does not 
 appear till Act IV.^ 
 
 ' " The faculties which are necessary for the conduct of important 
 business ripened in him (William III.) at a time of life when they 
 have scarcely begun to blossom in ordinary men. Since Octavius 
 the world had seen no such instance of precocious statesmanship." 
 — " History of England," chap. vii. 
 
70 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Shakespeare follows history in representing Octavius 
 at this time quite under Antony's influence, and, owing to 
 his youth, in a rather subordinate position. Antony fore- 
 seeing the future, yet knowing the present time dangerous 
 to Octavius while the Republicans are supreme in Rome, 
 sends the messenger back to Octavius with these words : 
 
 " Post back witli speed, and tell him what hath chanced : 
 Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, 
 No Rome of safety for Octavius yet. " 
 
 The next scene introduces Brutus addressing the 
 Roman citizens at the Forum. He is evidently deceived 
 about their real sentiments, owing at least partly to the 
 forged letters sent him by Cassius, and fancies that Caesar's 
 alleged ambition was an object of general dread, whereas 
 the great Julius was evidently popular with the majority. 
 Yet Shakespeare may perhaps represent the- Roman 
 people as more fickle than they really were, or at least 
 more quickly stirred, though, in the main, he adheres to 
 historic facts. At first they are almost won over by the 
 words of Brutus, certainly those of an honest enthusiast 
 quite misled and placed in a position he never con- 
 templated. He exclaims to the Roman multitude : 
 
 " If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I 
 say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend 
 demand -why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer :— Not that I 
 loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were 
 living and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men ? As 
 CjESar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as he 
 was valiant, I honour him : but, as he was ambitious, I slew him." 
 
 These eloquent words show the real feelings and 
 position of Brutus at this time. He among all the 
 conspirators most loved and admired Csesar. Though a 
 sincere Republican he wished the Roman people to have 
 complete freedom in their choice of government, and had 
 ,he fully known Caesar's vast popularity, would perhaps 
 have never opposed him. This seems likely from 
 Cassius resorting to the odious artifice of sending him 
 forged letters misrepresenting the popular feelings about 
 Caesar. Under their influence in great measure Brutus 
 had joined the conspirators, and stood therefore in a 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 71 
 
 different position from any of the others. He concludes 
 his speech, which, though short, is a masterpiece of 
 eloquence : 
 
 " I have done no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus Here 
 
 comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony : who though he had no hand in 
 his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth ; 
 as which of you shall not? With this I depart— that, as I slew my best loved 
 for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please 
 my country to need my death." 
 
 The people are at first won over by these words, well 
 knowing the honest nature of Brutus, and shout : 
 
 " Live, Brutus ! live ! 
 Bring him with triumph home unto his house. 
 Give him a statue with his ancestors." 
 
 Brutus then departs, requesting all to give a fair 
 hearing to Antony, who now approaches with followers 
 bearing Caesar's body, and prepares to deliver an oration. 
 He first says, with consummate tact : 
 
 " For Brutus' sake, I am beholding to you." 
 
 The citizens, yet under the influence of Brutus' last 
 
 words, exclaim : 
 
 " 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here. 
 This Csesar was a tyrant. 
 
 Nay, that's certain : 
 
 We are blest that Rome is rid of him." 
 
 Amid these discouraging murmurs, Antony delivers his 
 extraordinary speech. He begins by saying he has come 
 only to bury Caesar, not to praise him, and having thus 
 calmed his hearers by a meek declaration, he gradually 
 proceeds to extol Csesar in the most forcible, yet guarded 
 words. 
 
 Antony : 
 
 " The noble Brutus 
 Hath told you Caesar was ambitious : 
 If it were so, it was a grievous fault. 
 And grievously hath Csesar answer'd it. 
 
 When that the poor have cried, Csesar hath wept : 
 Ambition should be made of sterner stuff : 
 Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
 And Brutus is an honourable man. 
 
73 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 You all did see that on the Lupercal 
 I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 
 Which he did thrice refuse : was this ambition ? 
 Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
 
 And sure, he is an honourable man." 
 
 By this style of speaking, so cautiously expressed, yet 
 so full of meaning, Antony obtains a calm hearing, which 
 he knew would be impossible had he at first fiercely 
 denounced Caesar's foes. The Romans begin now to 
 hesitate under the spell of Antony's words, and say to 
 each other: 
 
 " Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. 
 
 If thou consider rightly of the matter, 
 Csesar has had great wrong. 
 
 He would not take the crown ; 
 
 Therefore 'tis certain he was not ambitious. 
 
 There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony." 
 
 The latter, exercising great self-control with determined 
 purpose, proceeds : 
 
 " O masters, if I were disposed to stir 
 Your hearts and minrls to mutiny and rage, 
 I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong. 
 Who, you all know, are honourable men : 
 
 But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar ; 
 'Tis his will : 
 
 Let but the commons hear this testament — 
 (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read — ) 
 And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 
 
 Yea, beg a hair of him for memory." 
 
 The citizens, startled at this news and full of curiosity, 
 eagerly ask to hear the will, but Antony, proceeding, as it 
 were, step by step in his cautious, designing speech, still 
 delays : 
 
 " It is not meet you know how Csesar loved you. 
 
 It will inflame you, it will make you mad ; 
 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ; 
 For, if you should, O ! what would come of it ! " 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 73 
 
 This half-divulged information has its natural effect, 
 as Antony meant. The people again entreat to hear the 
 will, and again Antony delays reading it, saying : 
 
 " I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it : 
 I fear I wrong the honourable men 
 Whose daggers have stabb'd CEEsar ; I do fear it. " 
 
 The mob, more and more won over to Caesar, angrily 
 exclaim : 
 
 " They were traitors : honourable men ! 
 They were villains, murderers : the will ! read the will." 
 
 Antony, with feigned reluctance, answers : 
 
 " You will compel me, then, to read the will ? 
 
 Shall I descend ? and will you give me leave ? " 
 
 At his request the people form a ring around Caesar's 
 body, Antony stands beside it, and still delays reading till 
 he has won over his hearers yet more by enumerating 
 Caesar's triumphs, and describing minutely the particulars 
 of his murder. He exclaims : 
 
 " If you have tears, prepare to shed them now ; 
 
 Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through ; 
 See what a rent the envious Casca made : 
 Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ; 
 
 This was the most unkindest cut of all ; 
 
 For when the noble Ceesar saw him stab. 
 
 Ingratitude more strong than traitors' arms, 
 
 Quite vanquish'd him ; then burst his mighty heart ; 
 
 And, in his mantle muffling up his face. 
 
 Even at the base of Pompey's statue. 
 
 Great Cassar fell. 
 
 O ! what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
 Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
 Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. 
 O ! now you weep, 
 
 Look you here, 
 
 Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors." 
 
74 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The mob, thoroughly aroused, though rather bewildered, 
 shout vehemently : 
 
 " O piteous spectacle ! 
 
 O noble Ceesar ! 
 
 O traitors, villains ! 
 
 We will be revenged. 
 
 Revenge !— Seek !— Burn !— Fire !— Kill !— Slay !— 
 Let not a traitor live ! " 
 
 Antony now interposes with assumed calmness : 
 
 "Stay, countrymen. 
 
 Let me not stir you up 
 
 To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 
 
 They that have done this deed are honourable : 
 
 What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 
 
 That made them do it : they are wise and honourable, 
 
 And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you, 
 
 I am no orator, as Brutus is ; 
 
 But as you know me all, a plain, blunt man ; 
 
 That love my friend ; 
 
 Put were I Brutus, 
 
 And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
 Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue 
 In every wound of Caesar's that should move 
 The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. " 
 
 The people, mad with excitement at these words, shout : 
 "We'll burn the house of Brutus. 
 
 Away, then ! come, seek the conspirators." 
 
 Antony for the last time delays them : 
 
 ' ' Why, friends, you go to do you know not what : 
 Wherein hath Ceesar thus deserved your loves ? 
 
 You have forgot the will I told you of." 
 
 The mob rejoin : 
 
 " Most true : the will ! Let's stay and hear the will." 
 
 Antony now reading it proceeds : 
 
 " To every Roman citizen he gives, 
 To every several man, seventy-five drachmas." 
 
 The citizens gratefully exclaim, though certainly not 
 from unselfish motives : 
 
 " Most noble Csesar ! We'll revenge his death." 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 75 
 
 Antony then declares that Csesar has also left : 
 
 " All his walks, 
 His private arbours and new-planted orchards. 
 On this side Tiber ; he hath left them you, 
 And to your heirs for ever ; common pleasures, 
 To walk abroad and recreate yourselves. 
 Here was a Csesar ! when comes such another ? " 
 
 These words put the finishing stroke in rousing the 
 
 popular rage against the conspirators. The people shout 
 
 in answer : 
 
 " Never, never. Come, away, away ! 
 We'll burn his body in the holy place. 
 And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. 
 
 Go fetch fire. 
 
 Pluck down benches. 
 
 Pluck down forms, windows, anything." 
 
 They rush away, and Antony, as victorious with his 
 tongue as he often was with his sword, exclaims to himself 
 in triumph : 
 
 " Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, 
 Take thou what course thou wilt ! " 
 
 It would appear from this historical scene that Antony 
 thoroughly knew the Roman people, and represented the 
 feeling of the majority at that time. Probably some 
 soldiers of Caesar and their relatives were among Antony's 
 hearers, while Brutus and Cassius find few advocates, 
 unless indeed their partisans were overawed at the time 
 by the enthusiastic violence of Caesar's admirers. The 
 contrast between these celebrated orations of Antony 
 and of Brutus displays with wonderful power the difiFerent 
 qualities of these great men. Antony is a thorough man 
 of the world, at least of the Roman world, ambitious, 
 crafty, observant and self-controlled to an extraordinary 
 degree. He gradually reveals his own feelings and full 
 powers of mind during his long, and wonderful speech. 
 He feels his way with his audience as he proceeds, slowly 
 yet surely gaining ground with his hearers, first exciting 
 their compassion, then arousing their national pride, and 
 
76 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 lastly appealing powerfully to their private interests and 
 pleasures. On the other hand, Brutus, living in a dream 
 comparatively as to the feelings of his countrymen, makes 
 a much shorter speech. He is earnest, eloquent, fearless, 
 and impassioned, yet only understood properly by a few 
 personal friends, or political sympathisers. In this respect 
 he may resemble some other revolutionists in both ancient 
 and modern times, who, being themselves fanciful, dreamy, 
 or unpractical, are easily misled by more cunning, worldly 
 partisans, and quite misunderstood by their immediate 
 followers. Brutus therefore fancies he represents the views 
 of the Roman people, and believes he is their deliverer 
 from an approaching tyranny. During the confusion in 
 Rome after these exciting speeches, a Roman poet named 
 Cinna is mistaken by the angry ignorant mob for his 
 namesake, one of the conspirators, and fiercely attacked. 
 He vainly exclaims : 
 
 " I am Cinna the poet, 
 
 I am not Cinna the conspirator." 
 
 The furious rabble, however, worked up by Antony's 
 words to a pitch of indiscriminate ferocity, slay him, and 
 threaten all the conspirators, who, for the most part, effect 
 their immediate escape from Rome to Greece, where they 
 collect their followers about them and prepare to resist 
 Antony. The next act and scene introduces the Triumvirs, 
 Antony, young Octavius Caesar, and Lepidus in council 
 at Antony's Roman residence, with the names of the fled 
 conspirators before them. Antony first thus reveals their 
 future vindictive policy : 
 
 " These many, then, shall die ; their names are prick'd." 
 
 Lepidus, certainly the dullest of the three, and no 
 match for either, is requested by Antony to withdraw 
 and bring him Caesar's will, and he departs, leaving his 
 colleagues together, when Antony, as crafty as valiant, 
 reveals his contempt for him to Octavius, saying : 
 
 " This is a slight unmeritable man, 
 Meet to be sent on errands : is it fit, 
 The three-fold world divided, he should stand 
 One of tlie three to share it ? " 
 
jtJLIUS C^SAR 77 
 
 Young Octavius, always calm, replies, apparently with 
 slight sarcasm : 
 
 " So you thought hira, 
 And took his voice who should be prick'd to die, 
 In our black sentence and proscription." 
 
 Antony, apparently rather irritated at this cool reply 
 
 from his young colleague, retorts : 
 
 " Octavius, I have seen more days than you : 
 And though we lay these honours on this man, 
 To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, 
 He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, 
 
 Either led or driven, as we point the way ; 
 
 Then take we down his load and turn him off, 
 Like to the empty ass to shake his ears. 
 And graze in commons." 
 
 Octavius, with the calm, discriminating wisdom which 
 always distinguished him, answers cautiously : 
 " You may do your will ; 
 But he's a tried and valiant soldier. " 
 
 Octavius at present cannot oppose Antony, who is 
 now heading the Roman army, but he thus warns him, 
 as if he were the elder instead of the younger of the two, 
 not to underrate a brave colleague, when Antony hotly 
 replies : 
 
 " So is my horse, Octavius ; and for that 
 
 I do appoint him store of provender : 
 
 It is a creature that I teach to fight. 
 
 To wind, to stop, to run directly on. 
 
 His corporal motion govem'd by my spirit. 
 
 And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so ; 
 
 He must be taught, and train'd and bid go forth ; 
 
 A barren-spirited fellow ; 
 
 Do not talk of him 
 
 But as a property. And now, Octavius, 
 
 Listen great things : Brutus and Cassius 
 
 Are levying powers : we must straight make head : 
 
 Therefore let our alliance be combined, 
 
 Our best friends made, our best means stretch'd." 
 
 Octavius, though so young a man, with the cautious 
 apprehension of an old one, replies : 
 
 " Let us do so ; for we are at the stake. 
 And bay'd about with many enemies ; 
 And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, 
 Millions of mischiefs." 
 
78 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The next scene is at the camp of Brutus, near Sardis, 
 where he awaits a junction with Cassius. The conspirators 
 seem on the losing side, and Brutus, whose life is now a 
 succession of disappointments, begins to doubt the friend- 
 ship even of Cassius. Brutus asks his friend Lucilius, who 
 was not among the actual conspirators, how Cassius had 
 received him : 
 
 Lucilius : 
 
 " With courtesy and with respect enough ; 
 But not with such familiar instances, 
 Nor with such free and friendly conference, 
 As he hath used of old." 
 
 Brutus, whose open nature might scarcely have allowed 
 much love for the artful Cassius had it not been for 
 political sympathies, together with their common friends 
 and common foes, replies : 
 
 " Thou hast described 
 A hot friend cooling : ever note, Lucilius, 
 When love begins to sicken and decay. 
 It useth an enforced ceremony. 
 There are no tricks in plain and simple faith." 
 
 Cassius soon joins him, and these two once popular 
 leaders have a remarkable private conference together. 
 Brutus, always strict and scrupulous, had condemned a 
 certain Pella for being bribed by the people of Sardis, 
 while Cassius had written to Brutus in his behalf. Brutus 
 therefore says : 
 
 ' ' You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case. " 
 
 Cassius, less particular and more tricky, replies : 
 
 "In such a time as this it is not meet 
 That every nice offence should bear his comment." 
 
 Then comes a quarrel between the two leaders, which 
 is only a short one, as now beset by the same enemies, 
 they are forced to make the best of each other. 
 
 Brutus : 
 
 " Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
 Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm ; 
 To sell and mart your offices for gold 
 To undeservers." 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 79 
 
 Cassius indignantly denies the charge, and Brutus, 
 
 almost at his wits' end between mortal foes and mean or 
 
 suspected allies, indignantly exclaims : 
 
 ' ' What, shall one of us, 
 That struck the foremost man of all this world 
 But for supporting robbers, shall we now 
 Contaminate our fingers with base bribes. 
 And sell the mighty space of our large honours 
 For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 
 I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon. 
 Than such a Roman. " 
 
 Cassius vehemently resents these words, and the 
 quarrel increases, till Cassius exclaims : 
 
 " When Csesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.'' 
 
 Brutus, as if stung at recollection of his noble victim, 
 retorts : 
 
 "Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. 
 
 I did send 
 
 To you for gold to pay my legions, 
 
 Which you denied me : was that done like Cassius ? 
 
 Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so ? 
 
 When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous. 
 
 To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
 
 Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 
 
 Dash him to pieces ! " 
 
 Cassius : 
 
 " I denied you not : he was but a fool 
 
 That brought my answer back." 
 
 Still Brutus is offended, till Cassius invokes his com- 
 passion by reminding him of their common danger, and 
 of their implacable enemies. He exclaims, as if prepared 
 for instant death, in words intended to affect the generous, 
 impulsive Brutus : 
 
 "Come Antony, and young Octavius, come. 
 
 Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
 
 For Cassius is aweary of the world ; 
 
 Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
 
 Check'd like a bondman ; all his faults observed. 
 
 Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote, 
 
 To cast into my teeth. O ! I could weep 
 
 My spirit from mine eyes ! There is my dagger, 
 
 And here my naked breast ; within, a heart 
 
 Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 
 
 If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; 
 
8o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 I that denied thee gold, will give my heart : 
 
 Strike, as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know, 
 
 When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better 
 
 Than ever thou lovedst Cassius." 
 
 This appeal at once succeeds with Brutus, as Cassius 
 
 probably expected, well knowing his impressionable 
 
 nature. Cassius immediately regains his former influence 
 
 over Brutus, who, completely melted at the other's real or 
 
 assumed distress, exclaims : 
 
 " Sheathe your dagger : 
 Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
 Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 
 O Cassius ! you are yoked with a lamb 
 That carries anger as the flint bears fire, 
 Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark 
 And straight is cold again." 
 
 Thus Brutus, fanciful, credulous, and high-minded, 
 
 yields completely to the words of Cassius, and thoroughly 
 
 trusts and confides in him again. The latter, after more 
 
 professions of friendship, exclaims, in language well 
 
 calculated to soften Brutus : 
 
 " Have you not love enough to bear with me. 
 When that rash humour which my mother gave me 
 Makes me forgetful ? " 
 
 Brutus, quite won over by this language, mildly replies : 
 
 ' ' Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth. 
 When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
 He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so." 
 
 This strange reconciliation is rather suddenly inter- 
 rupted by the entrance of a poet, evidently an eager 
 Republican, followed by Lucilius and Titinius, who, though 
 friends of Brutus and Cassius, say nothing, while the poet 
 reproaches both leaders for quarrelling, saying : 
 
 " For shame, you generals ! what do you mean ? 
 Love, and be friends, as two such men should be." 
 
 Brutus impatiently drives him out, while Cassius, more 
 calm or politic, would fain hear him. Cassius exclaims : 
 
 " I did not think you could have been so angry," 
 and then Brutus answers : 
 
 " O Cassius ! I am sick of many griefs.'' 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 8i 
 
 Cassius : 
 
 " Of your philosophy you make no use, 
 If you give place to accidental evils." 
 
 Then Brutus replies that his wife Portia is dead, when 
 Cassius, expressing sympathy, exclaims : 
 
 " How 'scaped I liilling when I cross'd you so? 
 Upon what sickness ? " 
 
 Brutus : 
 
 " Impatient of my absence. 
 And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony 
 Have made themselves so strong : for with her death 
 That tidings came." 
 
 Cassius continues to utter words of sympathy, when 
 Brutus cuts him short : 
 
 "No more, I pray you." 
 
 Their friends Titinius and Messala then announce that 
 
 Antony and Octavius with united forces are approaching 
 
 Philippi ; also that they have already executed many 
 
 Roman senators, and the great Cicero among them, about 
 
 whom, however, no further allusion is made, as Shakespeare 
 
 throughout this whole play says surprisingly little about a 
 
 man so well worthy of his masterly power of description. 
 
 Messala then confirms the news of Portia's death, and 
 
 Brutus exclaims : 
 
 "Why, farewell, Portia. 
 With meditating that she must die once 
 I have the patience to endure it now." 
 
 Cassius, who either has, or pretends to have, less 
 fortitude, says : 
 
 " I have as much as this in art as you. 
 But yet my nature could not bear it so." 
 
 Brutus, striving to forget his grief in preparing for 
 battle, rejoins : 
 
 " Well, to our work alive," 
 
 and then consults with Cassius about how best to meet 
 their approaching foes. They then part for the night, and 
 Brutus, after speaking to some other friends, bids two of 
 
 F 
 
82 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 them, Varro and Claudius, lie down in his tent and sleep, 
 while, having found a book, he asks his young servant 
 Lucius to play and sing, saying with his usual kindness : 
 " I trouble thee too much, but thou art wiUing." 
 
 The youth plays and sings it is not said what music, 
 but Brutus, overcome by public fears and private grief, 
 exclaims : 
 
 "This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber ! 
 Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, 
 That plays thee music ? " 
 
 Lucius evidently falls asleep, and Brutus continues : 
 
 " I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee : 
 If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument ; 
 I'll take it frum thee ; and, good boy, good-night. " 
 
 Brutus, always a man of mild, even gentle nature when 
 not roused to fury by political excitement, then looks at 
 his book, but never says what it is. 
 
 " Let me see, is not the leaf turn'd down 
 Where I left reading ? Here it is, I think." 
 
 He then exclaims : 
 
 " How ill this taper burns ! " 
 
 and imagines by its dim, uncertain light, that he sees a 
 ghost appear before him. This apparition is meant for the 
 ghost of Caesar, but Brutus does not apparently recognise 
 him as he exclaims : 
 
 " Art thou anything ? 
 Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil. 
 That makes my blood cold and my hair to stare ? 
 Speak to me what thou art." 
 
 The ghost replies : 
 
 ^ "Thy evil spirit, Brutus." 
 
 Brutus, who unlike the guilty princes, Macbeth and 
 Richard III., shows no sign of fear, asks the apparition 
 why it came, and it replies : 
 
 "To tell thee thou shall see me at Philippi." 
 
 Brutus calmly rejoins : 
 
 "Well; then I shall see thee again?" 
 
 The ghost repeats : 
 
 "Ay, at Philippi." 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 83 
 
 And Brutus, with equal firmness, rejoins : 
 "Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then," 
 
 and the ghost vanishes. Evidently no feeling of moral 
 guilt oppresses Brutus during this scene. The grand 
 lines of Milton in Comus apply rather to Brutus when 
 surprised, yet not frightened, before what he thinks is 
 the ghost of Caesar : 
 
 " These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 
 The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 
 By a strong siding champion, Conscience." 
 
 He is troubled and perplexed indeed, knowing that 
 
 the lives of all who are dear to him are now endangered 
 
 to the last degree, but no terror or remorse affects him, 
 
 as he exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Now I have taken heart thou vanishest : 
 111 spirit, I would hold more talk with thee." 
 
 He calls his attendants, asking if they saw anything, 
 but they did not. Brutus, without revealing anything, 
 resolves to keep his vision a secret, and sends a message 
 to Cassius to — 
 
 " Set on his powers betimes before, 
 And we will follow." 
 
 He thus allied with Cassius, means to offer the most 
 desperate resistance to the advancing forces of Octavius 
 and Mark Antony. The fifth and last act is indeed a 
 terrible one, full of battles, savage triumphs, and suicides. 
 Its first scene presents Antony and Octavius together 
 heading their allied forces in the plains of Philippi. Their 
 rather stupid, though perhaps prudent colleague Lepidus 
 does not again appear in this play, but he presents himself 
 in its historical successor Antony and Cleopatra. He 
 is apparently kept out of the way at present, while his 
 more astute fellow-triumvirs intend to share all power 
 between them. They now hear of the immediate approach 
 of the Republican forces under Brutus and Cassius, and in 
 a few words Octavius and Antony reveal some of their 
 different qualities, Antony, hot-tempered, fiery and ener- 
 getic, more like a youth, while Octavius, though so 
 
84 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 much his junior, shows always the calmness and self- 
 command usually, but not in his rare case, the result 
 of experience. 
 Antony : 
 
 ' ' Octavius, lead your battle softly on, 
 Upon the left hand of the^even field." 
 
 Octavius : 
 
 "Upon the right hand I; keep thou the left." 
 
 Antony impatiently retorts : 
 
 "Why do you cross me in this exigent?" 
 
 His cool young colleague replies : 
 
 " I do not cross you ; but I will do so.'' 
 
 Brutus and Cassius now appear and have a parley 
 with the two triumvirs. These mortal foes are brought 
 face to face for the last time. They can all four be 
 well described in Shakespeare's famous words on opposing 
 Englishmen in Richard the II. : 
 
 " High-stomached are they both and full of ire. 
 In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire." 
 
 Yet with their "ire," these philosophic eloquent Romans, 
 in reality, combine a keen sarcasm and knowledge of char- 
 acter, rarely perceptible in the histories of other nations. 
 This short, fiery interview of these martial and enraged 
 chiefs displays in a brief conference their differing char- 
 acters with peculiar exactness. The bitterness of their 
 mutual reproaches and personal allusions illustrates their 
 relative peculiarities more completely, or at least in a more 
 interesting manner, than a lengthened description could do. 
 Brutus calmly commences this fierce conference between 
 martial foes, evidently bent upon each other's destruction 
 " Words before blows : is it so, countrymen ? " 
 
 Octavius answers, with sarcastic calmness, though with 
 suppressed fury : 
 
 " Not that we love words better, as you do." 
 
 Brutus : 
 
 " Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius." 
 
JULIUS CMSAR 8s 
 
 The fiery Antony disdains to preserve the same 
 calmness, and exclaims in full recollection of the slain 
 Caesar : 
 
 " In your bad strokes, Brutus, you gi\-e good words : 
 Witness the hole you made in Cesar's heart. 
 Crying, 'Long' live! haU Cesar!' " 
 
 The sneering Cassius retorts : 
 
 " Antony. 
 The posture of your blows are yet unknown ; 
 But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees. 
 And leave them honeyless." 
 
 This grim allusion to Antony's artful and wonderful 
 speech makes the latter haughtih- answer : 
 
 "Not stingless too. '' 
 
 Brutus fearlessh' rejoins : 
 
 " O ! yes, and soundless too : 
 For you have storn their buzzing, Antony, 
 And very wisely threat before you sting." 
 
 Anton\', now stirred to fury, exclaims : 
 
 ■■ Villains, you did not so, when your vile daggers 
 Hack'd one another in the sides of Casar : 
 You show'd your teeih like apes, and fawn'd like hounds. 
 And bow'd like bondmen, kissing C.vs;\r's feet : 
 Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind 
 Struck Casar on the neck. O you flatterers ! " 
 
 This word enrages Cassius more than any other, who 
 aptly reminds Brutus that had he takeia his advice, 
 Anton}- would have died with Caesar. 
 
 Cassius : 
 
 •' Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank )-ourself: 
 This tongue had not offended so to-day, 
 If Cassius might have ruled." 
 
 Octavius. apparently more practical than these orators, 
 
 impatiently interrupts : 
 
 " Come, come, the cause: if arguing makes us sweat. 
 The proof of it will t\im to redder drops. 
 Look ; 
 
 I draw a sword against conspirators ; 
 When think you that the sword goes up again? 
 Never, till Caesar's three and thirty wounds 
 Be well a\-ei^ed, or till another Qesar 
 Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. 
 
86 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Brutus exclaims : 
 
 " Csesar, thou canst not die by traitors' hands. 
 Unless thou bring'st them with thee." 
 
 Octavius in answer seems to foresee his own glorious 
 future, as he does again in Antony and Cleopatra, and 
 exclaims : 
 
 "I was not born to die on Brutus' sword." 
 
 The calm pride of this reply, apparently provokes 
 Brutus into exclaiming : 
 
 " O ! if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, 
 Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable.'' 
 
 Cassius, falling back on sarcasm, thus taunts his two 
 foes: 
 
 " A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honour, 
 Join'd with a masker and a reveller 1 " 
 
 Cassius apparently knows that many young men have 
 a peculiar aversion to be called boys, and thus hopes to 
 irritate Octavius by the comparison. But this resolute 
 young man is evidently beyond the comprehension of both 
 friends and foes at this time ; and the taunts of Brutus 
 and of Cassius, as well as the opinions of his ally Antony, 
 have little weight with him. 
 
 While calmly observing all around him, Octavius 
 remains firm and self-controlled as if he knew the world 
 and its ways already, and was biding his time in patience. 
 Antony, perhaps truly called a masker and a reveller, 
 considering that Caesar himself had given him much the 
 same character, in reply to the taunt of Cassius scornfully 
 retorts : 
 
 " Old Cassius still ! " 
 
 as if he well knew and despised his character or style of 
 
 speaking. The " peevish schoolboy " caring less for sharp 
 
 words than any of them, anxious for the coming strife, and 
 
 perhaps fully confident of its result, now breaks up this 
 
 fierce conference between mortal enemies, all of whom it 
 
 strikingly displays in their true natures. He exclaims to 
 
 his older colleague : 
 
 " Come, Antony, away ! 
 Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth : 
 
JULIUS C^SAR 87 
 
 If you dare fight to-day, come to the field ; 
 If not, when you have stomachs." 
 
 The angry foes then separate, when Cassius, knowing 
 that nothing but fatal battle is before them, now excitedly 
 exclaims : 
 
 "Why now, blow wind, swell billow and swell bark ! 
 The storm is up, and all is on the hazard." 
 
 He then calls his friend Messala, and to him imparts 
 his singular fears of the coming battle, in words which 
 show that this thoughtful Republican, despite his courage 
 and genius, fully shares in the superstitions of his age and 
 country : 
 
 " Be thou my witness that against my will. 
 
 Am I compell'd to set 
 
 Upon one battle all our liberties. 
 
 You know that I held Epicurus strong 
 
 And his opinion ; now I change my mind, 
 
 And partly credit things that do presage." 
 
 He then says that two eagles, emblems of victory, 
 which lately were fed by his soldiers, and were evidently 
 birds of good omen — have now vanished, and been 
 replaced by ravens, crows, and kites, which fatal birds — 
 
 " Fly o'er our heads and downward look on us. 
 As we were sickly prey : their shadows seem 
 A canopy most fatal, under which 
 Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost." 
 
 Messala, wishing to cheer him, replies : 
 "Believe not so." 
 
 Cassius rejoins, as if vainly trying to regain courage : 
 
 " I but believe it partly ; 
 For I am fresh of spirit, and resolved 
 To meet all perils very constantly." 
 
 He then has a last consultation with Brutus, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 "Now, most noble Brutus, 
 The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may. 
 Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age ! 
 Let's reason with the worst that may befall. 
 If we do lose this battle, then is this 
 The very last time we shall speak together ; 
 What are you then determined to do ? " 
 
88 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Brutus replies, deprecating at first the idea of suicide : 
 
 " I do find it cowardly and vile, 
 For fear of what might fall, so to prevent 
 The time of life." 
 
 Cassius retorts as if in scorn : 
 
 ' ' Then, if we lose this battle, 
 You are contented to be led in triumph 
 Through the streets of Rome ? " 
 
 This odious practice of insulting captives by exposing 
 them to the rude taunts of a street mob, often disgraced, 
 strange to say, the triumphs even of the noblest Romans. 
 Throughout their eventful and, in many ways, glorious 
 history, this hateful practice had an apparent fascination 
 for the conquerors, and was more dreaded by some of 
 the vanquished than death itself Irritated or aroused at 
 its mention, as likely Cassius wished and expected, Brutus 
 exclaims : 
 
 " No, Cassius, no ; think not, thou noble Roman, 
 That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome ; 
 He bears too great a mind. But this same day 
 Must end that work the Ides of March begun ; 
 And whether we shall meet ^ain I know not. 
 Therefore our everlasting farewell take ; 
 For ever and for ever, farewell Cassius ! 
 If we do meet again, why, we shall smile ; 
 If not, why then, this parting was well made." 
 
 Cassius replies : 
 
 "For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus." 
 
 Throughout this affecting parting Brutus evidently 
 has no idea, and apparently never had, how grossly 
 Cassius had deceived him by sending him forged letters, 
 and Cassius never reveals what he did, though it mainly 
 contributed to the murder of Caesar, and this subsequent 
 Roman civil war ; Brutus and Cassius, however, are now 
 so completely combined, committed to the same course, 
 and beset by the same mortal foes, that they are like 
 one man, and must either triumph or perish together. 
 They evidently anticipate defeat rather than victory, and 
 had alike certainly mistook Roman feeling when they slew 
 Julius Caesar. They seem never to have contemplated the 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 89 
 
 terrible, destructive result of this civil war, and to be thus 
 opposed by a majority of their own fellow - countrymen, 
 headed by Caesar's adherents and relatives. By the 
 assassination of a noble ruler, as friends and foes alike 
 called Caesar, despite his alleged ambition, these misled, 
 rash conspirators had now exposed their country to the 
 fierce triumph of his dangerous adherent, Mark Antony. 
 This valiant, yet most crafty general, amid his voluptuous 
 gaiety, had evidently encouraged Caesar's ambition or love 
 of power, by offering him the crown, and seconding him 
 in everything, yet he was altogether inferior to Caesar in 
 all the best qualities of a ruler. Thus these unfortunate 
 Republican leaders now find themselves threatened with 
 a worse military despotism, under the vindictive Antony, 
 than they ever apprehended under the high-minded Caesar, 
 and almost despair of victory before the coming battle has 
 decided their fate. The fatal encounter now begins, in 
 which at first Brutus seemed gaining some advantage over 
 Octavius ; but this was likely a feint, as Antony soon 
 surrounds his foes. Cassius slays a man he thinks a 
 deserter, but his faithful friend Titinius tells him : 
 
 ' ' O Cassius ! Brutus gave the word too early ; 
 Who, having some advantage on Octavius, 
 Took it too eagerly ; his soldiers fell to spoil, 
 Whilst we by Antony are all enclosed." 
 
 Cassius, watching the strife from an eminence, tells 
 Titinius to return to the battle, hearing that Antony has 
 attacked his tents. He tells his attendant Pindarus, to 
 look again towards the scene of battle, and report what he 
 sees, exclaiming : 
 
 " My sight was ever thick ; Sirrah, what news?" 
 
 Pindarus : 
 
 " Titinius is enclosed round about 
 With horsemen, that make to him on the spur ; 
 Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. 
 Now Titinius ! Now some 'light : O ! he 'lights too : 
 He's ta'en ! And hark ! they shout for joy." 
 
 Cassius, hearing of his friend's capture, gives up all for 
 lost and resolves on suicide, the Roman's frequent resort 
 
90 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 in defeat. He foresees indeed that only death preceded 
 by insult if not torture awaits him, and thus appeals to 
 his faithful servant, Pindarus. 
 Cassius : 
 
 "Come down, behold no more. 
 O ! coward that I am, to hve so long. 
 To see my best friend ta'en before my face ! 
 
 In Parthia did I take thee prisoner ; 
 
 And then I swore thee, saving of my life, 
 
 That whatsoever I did bid thee do. 
 
 Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath ; 
 
 Now be a freeman : and with this good sword, 
 
 Search this bosom. 
 
 Stand not to answer : here, take thou the hilts ; 
 
 And when my face is cover'd, as 'tis now, 
 
 Guide thou the sword." 
 
 Pindarus obeys the fatal direction, and stabs Cassius, 
 who, dying, exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Caesar, thou art revenged. 
 Even with the sword that kill'd thee. " 
 
 Pindarus : 
 
 " So, I am free ; yet would not so have been, 
 Durst I have done my will. O Cassius ! 
 Far from this country Pindarus shall run. 
 Where never Roman shall take note of him." [Mxit. 
 
 Pindarus, however, whether wilfully or by mistake, 
 had wrongly reported to Cassius. Titinius was really 
 gaining some advcuitage, and exclaims when seeing the 
 dead Cassius : 
 
 " O settii^ sun. 
 As in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night, 
 So in his red blood Cassius' day is set ; 
 The sun of Rome is set ! Our day is gone ; 
 Clouds, dews, and dangers come ; our deeds are done ! 
 Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. 
 
 Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius ? 
 
 Did I not meet thy friends ? and did not they 
 
 Put on my brows this wreath of victory, 
 
 And bid me give it thee ? Didst not thou hear their shouts ? 
 
 Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything ! " 
 
 The brief success of Titinius was apparently trifling, 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 91 
 
 for like Cassius he gives up all for lost, while exclaiming, 
 addressing the body of Cassius : 
 
 " Take this garland on thy brow ; 
 Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I 
 Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace, 
 And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. 
 By your leave, gods ; this is a Roman's part : 
 Come, Cassius' sword, and find Titinius' heart." 
 
 So perishes this faithful friend, resolved not to survive 
 Cassius, yet had he expected victory for the cause of 
 Cassius, he might hardly have destroyed himself before 
 the final result of the battle. Antony probably com- 
 manded the most formidable part of the divided Roman 
 forces, and was apparently victorious throughout. The 
 suicides of one Republican leader after another end this 
 exciting play, and seem according to historic fact. The 
 dread of cruel insults, if not torture, preceding execution, 
 evidently induced many of the bravest Romans to destroy 
 themselves, rather than become prisoners of war. Brutus 
 now appears viewing the body of his zealous yet rather 
 unscrupulous partisan. The deceit of Cassius in the 
 matter of the forged letters is not named, and it seems 
 likely that Brutus was never enlightened about them. 
 
 To the last this heroic enthusiast believed he had been 
 entreated by a Roman majority to assassinate Caesar, 
 whereas only a minority in Rome would seem to have 
 approved of his doing so. The successful deceit of 
 Cassius had finally caused his own ruin and that of 
 Brutus, but the latter, having apparently no suspicion of 
 it, now mourns over his artful colleague, as if he had 
 always been his truest friend, and, alluding to both 
 Cassius and Titinius, exclaims, in mingled superstition 
 and sorrow : 
 
 ' ' O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet ! 
 Thy spirit walks abroad. 
 
 Are yet two Romans living such as these ? 
 The last of all the Romans, fare thee well ! 
 Friends, I owe more tears 
 To this dead man than you shall see me pay. 
 
9a SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. 
 Let us to the field. Set our battles on : 
 
 And, Romans, yet ere night 
 
 We shall try fortune in a second fight.' 
 
 This last struggle ends in the total defeat of Brutus, 
 and he escapes with a few followers to a retired spot, but 
 only to commit deliberate suicide. He has indeed nothing 
 to live for now, most of his friends slain, his political cause 
 ruined, and he himself in danger of capture, insult, torture 
 and execution. He therefore resolutely addresses his last 
 adherents : 
 
 ' ' Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock. 
 
 Sit thee down, Clitus : slaying is the word ; 
 It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus." 
 
 He evidently begs Clitus in a whisper to slay him, but 
 the latter, a faithful servant even at this desperate moment, 
 shrinks from the idea, and Brutus, fanciful and imaginative, 
 though fearless to the last, addresses severally two other 
 adherents, Dardanius and Volumnius, to the same effect. 
 They all behold and pity their unfortunate leader, and 
 Dardanius says : 
 
 " Look, he meditates." 
 
 Clitus : 
 
 " Now is that noble vessel full of grief, 
 That it runs over even at his eyes." 
 
 It is evident that weeping, thought a proof of weakness 
 
 or cowardice by many brave men, was not thought so 
 
 among the most heroic Romans. Brutus still haunted, or 
 
 bewildered, yet never terrified by the recollection of Caesar's 
 
 ghost, exclaims : 
 
 " Volumnius : 
 The ghost of Caesar hath appear'd to me 
 Two several times by night ; 
 
 I know my hour is come. 
 
 Good Volumnius, 
 
 Thou know'st that we two went to school together i 
 
 Even for that our love of old, I prithee. 
 
 Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it." 
 
JULIUS CiESAR 93 
 
 Volumnius refuses, while the shouts of the approaching 
 victorious troops become louder. His attendants vainly 
 urge him to fly for his life, but Brutus, to whom his country 
 is the whole world, has no wish to survive all that is lost. 
 Like Cassius, and in later years Cleopatra, he foresees that 
 capture will inevitably cause his public disgrace, as a 
 captive exposed to the insults of a Roman mob. Brutus, 
 imaginative and kindly to the last, perhaps the most 
 civilised and modern in his feelings of all existing Romans, 
 except Octavius, now exclaims to his few friends : 
 
 " Countrymen, 
 My heart doth joy that yet in all my life 
 I found no man but he was true to me." 
 
 This fond idea shows how little he knew of Cassius. 
 In the same deluded spirit he continues, as if in a dream, 
 still fancying that he and his political views were popular 
 at Rome, instead of the reverse : 
 
 " I shall have glory by this losing day, 
 More than Octavius and Mark Antony 
 By this vile conquest shall attain unto. 
 So fare you well at once ; for Brutus' tongue 
 Hath almost ended his life's history : 
 Night hangs upon mine eyes ; my bones would rest, 
 That have but labour'd to attain this hour." 
 
 The shouts of the coming army become louder as the 
 victors approach. His attendants again urge Brutus to 
 escape, and all leave him except his servant Strato, to 
 whom he makes the last appeal : 
 
 " I prithee, Strato, stay thee by thy lord : 
 
 Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face. 
 While I do run upon it. 
 
 Farewell, good Strato." 
 
 Then recollection of his illustrious victim again over- 
 comes his ardent mind, and he exclaims with his last 
 breath, while falling on his sword : 
 
 " Caesar, now be still : 
 I kill'd not thee with half so good a will." 
 
 He dies, and Antony with Octavius now appear, and 
 
94 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 the latter exclaims with the calm magnanimity which 
 
 distinguished his future life, though now he acts as second 
 
 to Antony : 
 
 "All that served Brutus, I will entertain Ihem." 
 
 While Antony himself, beholding the dead Brutus, 
 exclaims with a generosity of feeling which he sometimes, 
 though by no means always, displayed : 
 
 " This was the noblest Roman of them all : 
 All the conspirators, save only he, 
 Did that they did in envy of great Caesar ; 
 He only, in a general honest thought 
 And common good to all, made one of them. " 
 
 This praise though well deserved, comes rather strangely 
 from Antony who had said of Brutus stabbing Caesar : 
 "This was the most unkindest cut of all," 
 
 and had charged Brutus especially with, 
 
 " Ingratitude more strong than traitors' arms." 
 
 But probably complete triumph, if it did not soften 
 Antony's heart, yet put him in a sufficiently forgiving 
 mood to do justice to a fallen foe no longer dangerous. 
 
 Thus ends this eventful play, Octavius and Antony 
 being still associated in authority with " the ass " Lepidus 
 and this strange Triumvirate reign in Rome with supreme 
 power ; which was fated, however, not to be of long dura- 
 tion. Its disruption, as stated in recorded history, is nobly 
 described in the following magnificent play. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 
 
 This play, with Julius Gcesar, presents a somewhat con- 
 nected sketch of Roman history, and it may be regretted 
 that Shakespeare did not continue it by recording the 
 subsequent sole reign of Octavius, when known as the 
 Emperor Augustus. The joint triumph of Octavius and 
 Antony was followed by the invasion, or entrance of the 
 latter into Egypt, whose celebrated Queen Cleopatra hap 
 rather taken the part of Brutus.^ The beauty and talents 
 of Cleopatra soon made a complete conquest of the gay 
 and joyous Antony, and this play begins in Egypt with the 
 surprise or disgust of two among Antony's military 
 followers, Philo and Demetrius, at the thorough captiva- 
 tion of their leader by this artful princess. 
 
 In Cleopatra's palace at Alexandria, Philo says to 
 Demetrius in regretful wonder : 
 
 " Nay, but this dotage of our general's 
 O'erflows the measure ; those his goodly eyes, 
 That o'er the files and musters of the war 
 Have glow'd like plated Mars, now bend,' now turn, 
 The office and devotion of their view 
 Upon a tawny front," 
 
 alluding apparently to Cleopatra's dark complexion. 
 Antony, with Cleopatra, approaches while he is speaking, 
 and he exclaims at sight of them to Demetrius : 
 
 " Take but good note, and you shall see in him 
 The triple pillar of the world transform'd 
 Into a strumpet's fool ; behold and see." 
 
 This expression, "triple pillar," of course means Antony's 
 position as triumvir ; but his two colleagues, Octavius and 
 
 ' Lempriere's " Dictionary." 
 
96 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Lepidus, are now absent, and Antony is enjoying sole 
 authority in Egypt. His first scene with Cleopatra proves 
 more perhaps than any other the complete power she 
 has acquired over him. Despite her " tawny " or gipsy-like 
 complexion, the fascinating charms of this extraordinary 
 queen have thoroughly enslaved her nominal Roman 
 conqueror. Antony's enslavement, however, may not have 
 been a very hard task for this artful woman to effect, after 
 the experience she had derived in the art of captivation 
 by her previous ascendancy over Pompey and Julius Caesar 
 in succession. After her conquest over such illustrious, 
 strong-minded men as these, her captivating the voluptuous 
 Antony, who, despite some great qualities, was an inferior 
 man to both, is not much to be wondered at. She 
 evidently wishes to stir up strife between Antony and his 
 young colleague Octavius, now in Rome, where Antony's 
 wife, Fulvia, resides also. Messengers from Rome are 
 announced, whom Antony, thoroughly happy with Cleo- 
 patra, is in no hurry to hear, but she artfully exclaims : 
 
 " Nay, hear them, Antony : 
 Fulvia, perchance, is angry ; or, who knows 
 If the scarce-bearded Csesar have not sent 
 His powerful mandate to you, ' Do this, or that. 
 Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that ; 
 Perform' t, or else we damn thee. ' " 
 
 Antony is startled at these words, and seems hardly to 
 understand their full meaning, and she, then pretending to 
 be jealously fond of Antony, says, really afraid for her own 
 future safety : 
 
 ' ' Perchance ! nay, and most like ; 
 You must not stay here longer ; your dismission 
 Is come from Ceesar ; therefore hear it, Antony. 
 Where's Fulvia's process ? Caesar's I would say ? both ? 
 Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt's queen. 
 Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine 
 Is Caesar's homager ; else so thy cheek pays shame 
 When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers ! " 
 
 Still Antony will not summon them, but exclaims, com- 
 pletely yielding to Cleopatra's influence, and alienated from 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 97 
 
 all Roman friends, duties, and interests, as if in a fanciful 
 
 dream : 
 
 " Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch 
 Of the ranged empire fall ! Here is my spate. 
 
 The nobleness of life 
 
 Is to do thus ; when such a mutual pair [Embracing. 
 
 And such a twain can do't, in which I bind. 
 
 On pain of punishment, the world to weet 
 
 We stand up peerless. " 
 
 Thus praising himself and Cleopatra, yet knowing their 
 strange alliance is full of danger from the Roman world, 
 Antony hopes to attach Cleopatra solely to himself, but 
 she is more selfish as well as more artful than such a man 
 is able to imagine. She says, apparently to herself, at hear- 
 ing his words : 
 
 " Excellent falsehood ! 
 Why did he marry Fulvia and not love her ? 
 I'll seem the fool I am not ; " 
 
 Then addressing Antony she says : 
 
 " Antony 
 Will be himself." 
 
 The infatuated general replies : 
 
 " But stirr'd by Cleopatra." 
 
 Then, completely relapsing into voluptuous self-indul- 
 gence, the amorous warrior proceeds : 
 
 " Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, 
 Let's not confound the time with conference harsh : 
 There's not a minute of our lives should stretch 
 Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night ? " 
 
 Cleopatra, ever crafty, watchful, and practical, persever- 
 
 ingly repeats : 
 
 " Hear the ambassadors." 
 
 Antony, provoked at their very mention in the midst of 
 his selfish enjoyments, replies with passionate fondness : 
 
 " Fie, vwangling queen ! 
 Whom everything becomes, to chide, to laugh, 
 To weep ; whose every passion fully strives 
 To make itself, in thee, fair and admired. 
 No messenger ; but thine, and all alone, 
 To-night we'll wander through the streets and note 
 The qualities of people. Come, my queen ; 
 Last night you did desire it : " 
 G 
 
98 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then, addressing his attendants, he scornfully says : 
 " Speak not to us,'' 
 
 and departs with his royal enchantress. His Roman 
 followers can indeed hardly recognise in this reckless 
 profligate the astute orator and able soldier who had 
 made Rome ring with his triumphs, both in eloquence 
 and in battle, and Demetrius astonished, knowing the 
 position of Octavius Csesar in Rome, exclaims : 
 " Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight ? " 
 
 Philo, fully sympathising with his fellow Roman, can 
 only answer : 
 
 " Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony, 
 He comes too short of that great property 
 Which still should go With Antony," 
 
 and Demetrius, apprehending the anger of the Romans at 
 Antony's present conduct confirming the reports of his 
 foes, rejoins : 
 
 " I am full sorry 
 That he approves the common liar, who 
 Thus speaks of him at Rome ; but I will hope 
 Of better deeds to-morrow." 
 
 In this hope Demetrius may show some knowledge of 
 
 Antony, as the next scene indicates, though it begins 
 
 with a strange talk between Cleopatra's ladies-in-waiting, 
 
 Charmian and Iras and a eunuch named Alexas, with 
 
 a soothsayer. The common idea of "like mistress, like 
 
 maid," is apparently proved here, as these two attendants, 
 
 by their loose, dissolute talk, reveal the state of the 
 
 Egyptian palace at this extraordinary time. Charmian, 
 
 as if following her voluptuous mistress's example, though 
 
 without showing her talents, rallies the eunuch, who 
 
 summons a soothsayer to tell this lively lady's fortune, 
 
 while the Roman Enobarbus, a man devoted to Antony, 
 
 enters, and calls for wine to drink Cleopatra's health. 
 
 Under the patronage, or in the service of such a pair, 
 
 the wild dissipated talk of their attendants is natural 
 
 enough. Charmian gaily addresses the fortune-teller : 
 
 ' Good now, some excellent fortune ! Let me be married to three kings in 
 1 forenoon, and widow them all ; let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 99 
 
 of Jewry may do homage ; find me to marry me with Octavius Ctesar, and 
 companion me with my mistress." 
 
 Octavius was probably at this time the most powerful 
 of known rulers, except his colleague Antony, and being 
 much younger, was the greatest match existing for 
 either Roman or Egyptian ladies. The soothsayer 
 pleasantly predicts that Charmian will survive her 
 mistress, and then tells Iras, Cleopatra's other attendant, 
 that she and Charmian will have the like fortunes, and 
 after some jesting with the eunuch Alexas these gay ladies 
 are interrupted by the sudden entrance of their mistress, 
 alarmed and agitated with good reason. It seems that 
 Antony, after reflecting on the state of the Roman empire, 
 has begun to remember his political duties and dangers, as 
 Demetrius had hoped, and Cleopatra exclaims : 
 
 " He was disposed to mirth ; but on the sudden 
 A Roman fliought hath struck him. Enobarbus ! 
 Seek him and bring him hither. " 
 
 Then hearing Antony is coming, she withdraws without 
 his seeing her, and he enters with a messenger from Rome, 
 who tells him first of the dangers there, that Sextus 
 Pompey and Labienus, who were allied with Brutus, are 
 still resisting the triumvirs, Octavius and Lepidus, and 
 that his own indolent stay in Egypt is generally blamed by 
 his fellow-countrymen. Antony, partly reproaching him- 
 self, angry and confused, exclaims to the messenger : 
 
 " Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue ; 
 Name Cleopatra as she is call'd in Rome ; 
 Rail thou in Fulvia's phrase : and taunt my feults 
 With such full license as both truth and malice 
 Have power to utter." 
 
 Another messenger is announced, when Antony 
 exclaims : 
 
 "Let him appear." 
 
 And then, conscience-struck, adds : 
 
 " These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, 
 Or lose myself in dotage." 
 
 This new messenger announces Fulvia's death, giving a 
 
loo SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 letter about it to Antony, and then departs, while Antony, 
 
 when alone, exclaims : 
 
 " There's a great spirit gone. Thus did I desire it ; 
 What our contempts do often hurl from us 
 We ^yish it ours again ; 
 
 I must from this enchanting queen break off ; 
 Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know. 
 My idleness doth hatch." 
 
 Enobarbus enters, and Antony, who quite trusts him, 
 declares they must leave Egypt. This shrewd Roman 
 replies with a touch of humour : 
 
 "Why, then, we kill all our women Cleopatra, catching but the 
 
 least noise of this, dies instantly ; I have seen her die twenty times upon far 
 poorer moment. I do think there is mettle in death which commits some 
 loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying." 
 
 In this art of pretending death, the crafty Egyptian 
 queen rather recalls Dickens's Mr Mantalini, but Antony is 
 now in no mood to be either diverted or offended by his 
 free-spoken follower, and almost feebly rejoins : 
 " She is cunning past man's thought.'' 
 
 Enobarbus replies with whimsical exaggeration ; perhaps 
 
 mingled with sarcasm : 
 
 " Alack ! sir, no ; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of 
 pure love. We cannot call her winds and water sighs and tears ; they are 
 greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report : this cannot be cunning 
 in her ; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove." 
 
 Antony grieved, perplexed, ashamed of his weakness, 
 and to some extent afraid of his enchantress, utters, 
 evidently from the bottom of his heart, this emphatic 
 sentence : 
 
 ' ' Would I had never seen her ! " 
 
 Enobarbus in the same light or jeering manner as before 
 rejoins : 
 
 "O, sir ! you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work.'' 
 
 Antony tells him of Fulvia's death, when Enobarbus, 
 
 relying on Cleopatra's influence over him, gaily retorts : 
 
 "Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their 
 deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the 
 earth ; comforting therein, that when old robes are worn out, there are 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA loi 
 
 members to make new This grief is crowned with consolation ; 
 
 your old smock brings forth a new petticoat ; and indeed the tears live in an 
 onion that should water this sorrow." ' 
 
 This odious levity at such a time apparently rather 
 
 shocks Antony, who exclaims : 
 
 " No more light answers. Let our officers 
 Have notice what we purpose. I shall break 
 The cause of our expedience to the queen, 
 And get her leave to part. For not alone 
 The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches, 
 Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too 
 Of many our contriving friends in Rome 
 Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius 
 Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands 
 The empire of the sea ; our slippery people, 
 
 Begin to throw 
 
 Pompey the Great and all his dignities 
 
 Upon his son ; 
 
 Much is breeding, 
 
 Say, our pleasure, 
 
 To such whose place is under us, requires 
 
 Our quick remove from hence." 
 
 They depart, and in the next scene Cleopatra appears 
 with Charmian, Iras, and the eunuch Alexas. She is much 
 alarmed at Antony's sudden change of mood, and tries in 
 every way to maintain her fatal influence over him. She 
 says to Alexas : 
 
 "See where he is, who's with him, what he does ; 
 I did not send you :' if you find him sad. 
 Say I am dancing ; if in mirth, report 
 That I am sudden sick : quick and return. " 
 
 He departs, and Charmian gives her artful mistress 
 some rejected advice : 
 
 " In each thing give him way, cross him in nothing." 
 
 And Cleopatra sharply replies : 
 
 " Thou teachest like a fool ; the way to lose him." 
 
 Charmian announces Antony's approach, when Cleo- 
 patra exclaims, as if trying a new device : 
 " I am sick and sullen." 
 
 Antony begins almost timorously for him : 
 
 " I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose " 
 
I02 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 / When she interrupts, pretending to be faint : 
 
 I " Help me away, dear Charmian, I shall fall : 
 
 I cannot be thus long, the sides of nature 
 Will not sustain it." 
 
 Antony begins : 
 
 " Now, my dearest queen " 
 
 When she again interrupts, exclaiming : 
 
 " Pray you, stand fiirther from me. 
 
 I know, by that same eye, there's some good news. 
 What says the married woman ? You may go : 
 Would she had never given you leave to come ! 
 Let her not say 'tis I that keep you here ; 
 I have no power upon you ; hers you are. " 
 
 Antony perplexed apparently, says protesting : 
 " The gods best know " 
 
 But she interrupts : 
 
 " O ! never was there queen 
 So mightily betra/d ; yet at the first 
 I saw the treasons planted." 
 
 Antony, perhaps confused, exclaims : 
 
 "Cleopatra " 
 
 And she again interrupts : 
 
 " Why should I think you can be mine and true. 
 Though you in swearing shake the throned gods. 
 Who have been false to Fulvia ? " 
 
 Antony vainly tries to get a hearing : 
 
 ' ' Most sweet queen " 
 
 And she interrupts as before : 
 
 " Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going, 
 But bid farewell, and go ; when you sued staying 
 Then was the time for words ; no going then : 
 Eternity was in our lips and eyes, 
 Bliss in otu: brows' bent ; they are so still, 
 Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world. 
 Art tum'd the greatest liar. " 
 
 She then flashes into real or assumed anger and 
 defiance : 
 
 " I would I had thy inches ; thou shouldst know 
 There were a heart in Egypt." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 103 
 
 These taunts rouse Antony's pride, and he begins with 
 more firmness to explain his position and intentions : 
 
 " Hear me, queen ; 
 The strong necessity of time commands 
 Our services awhile, but my full heart 
 Remains in use with you. Our Italy 
 Shines o'er with civil swords ; Sextus Pompeius 
 Makes his approaches to the port of Rome ; 
 Equality of two domestic powers 
 
 Breed scrupulous faction. The hated, grown to strength, 
 Are newly grown to love ; the condemn'd Pompey, 
 Rich in his father's honour, creeps apace 
 Into the hearts of such as have not thrived." 
 
 Then leaving Roman politics for domestic troubles, 
 Antony adds : 
 
 " My more particular. 
 And that which most with you should safe my going, 
 Is Fulvia's death." 
 
 / Cleopatra, jealous, excited, yet always crafty, exclaims : 
 
 " Though age from folly could not give me freedom 
 It does from childishness : can Fulvia die ? " 
 
 Antony, who in Cleopatra's presence conceals, or 
 perhaps no longer feels, the sorrow he indicated when 
 first hearing of his wife's death, replies : 
 
 " She's dead, my queen. 
 Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read 
 The garboils she awaked ; 
 See when and where she died." 
 
 Cleopatra now convinced of her rival's death, exclaims 
 
 I in assumed reproach : 
 
 " O most false love ! 
 Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill 
 With sorrowful water ? Now I see, I see, 
 In Fulvia's death, how mine received shall be.'' 
 
 Antony, still devoted to her, yet wearied of her raillery, 
 
 his mind distracted between political dangers and her 
 
 artifices, replies : 
 
 ' ' Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know 
 The purposes I bear, which are or cease 
 As you shall give the advice. By the fire 
 That quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence 
 Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war 
 As thou affect'st." 
 
I04 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Again she pretends to faint, yet resolves to try him 
 still further so as to attach him as much as possible to 
 her, before he leaves Egypt. She exclaims to her 
 attendant, who well understands her: 
 
 " Cut my lace, Charmian, come ; 
 But let it be : I am quickly ill, and well ; 
 So Antony loves." 
 
 Antony, always deceived by her, exclaims in a kind 
 of entreaty : 
 
 " My precious queen, forbear. 
 And give true evidence to his love which stands 
 An honourable trial." 
 
 Cleopatra, artfully attributing her own deceit to this 
 enamoured soldier, ironically retorts : 
 
 " So Fulvia told me. 
 I prithee, turn aside and weep for her ; 
 Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears 
 Belong to Egypt : good now, play one scene 
 Of excellent dissembling, and let it look 
 Like perfect honour. " 
 
 Antony, excited, perhaps provoked, yet quite under her 
 influence, exclaims almost pitifully : 
 
 " You'll heat my blood ; no more." 
 
 Cleopatra, calmly watching him, replies : 
 
 " You can do better yet, but this is meetly." 
 
 Antony, yet more excited, protests : 
 
 " Now, by my sword " 
 
 Cleopatra sarcastically interrupts : 
 
 " And target. Still he mends ; 
 But this is not the best," 
 
 then appealing to her cunning confidante, who, though 
 dutifully silent, hears all this scene : 
 
 " Look, prithee, Charmian, 
 How this Herculean Roman does become 
 The carriage of his chafe " 
 
 Antony, apparently unable to endure any longer the 
 raillery of the one, and the observant looks of the other, 
 exclaims abruptly : 
 
 " I'll leave you, lady." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA lo.; 
 
 / 
 
 Then Cleopatra, exerting her wonderful powers of 
 
 ' mingled cajolery and self-control, slightly notices his 
 
 / bluntness, and then becomes sentimental : 
 
 " Courteous lord, one word. 
 Sir, you and I must part, but that's not it : 
 Sir, you and I have loved, but there's not it ; 
 That you know well ; something it is I would, — 
 O ! my oblivion is a very Antony, 
 And I am all forgotten." 
 
 Antony, whose whole mind is divided between love 
 and ambition, though captivated by Cleopatra, never quite 
 understands her extraordinary arts and pretences, can now 
 only exclaim : 
 
 "But that your royalty 
 Holds idleness your subject, I should take you 
 For idleness itself." 
 
 Cleopatra, perceiving he is quite determined to' go, and 
 knowing besides his political danger from his fellow- 
 countrymen if he remains longer in Egypt, reconciles 
 herself to his departure, but resolves to please him to 
 the last, by words and wishes she knows will specially 
 gratify a Roman warrior, and exclaims : 
 
 " Your honour calls you hence ; 
 Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, 
 And all the gods go with you ! Upon your sword 
 Sit laurel victory, and smooth success 
 Be strew'd before your feet ! " 
 
 Antony, quite confirmed in love for her by these words, 
 
 hating to leave Egypt, yet knowing his life and fortune 
 
 depend on his hastening to Rome, exclaims in mingled 
 
 sadness and excitement : 
 
 "Come ; 
 Our separation so abides and flies. 
 That thou, residing here, go'st yet with me. 
 And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.'' 
 
 The next scene is in Rome, where Octavius Caesar 
 is reading a letter from Egypt to his fellow-triumvir, 
 Lepidus. This man, whom Antony had ridiculed to 
 Octavius, and proposed to dismiss, the shrewd young 
 Caesar had evidently befriended all along. He had mildly 
 protested against Antony's censure of Lepidus before, 
 
io6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 without having then the power to vindicate the despised 
 triumvir. Now, however, Octavius is in a stronger 
 position, while Antony is in Egypt, and Sextus Pompey, 
 son of Julius Coesar's great rival, is still at war with the 
 Roman Triumvirate, whose authority he had never acknow- 
 ledged. In this scene Octavius displays that marvellous 
 calmness and determination which always distinguished 
 him, while Lepidus, a comparatively dull, though brave 
 officer, little knows Antony, who is well understood by 
 the calm, discerning mind of Octavius. The latter now 
 gravely censures his absent colleague more in the style 
 of an old man blaming a reckless youth, than a young 
 man condemning an older one: 
 
 " From Alexandria 
 This is the news : he fishes, drinks, and wastes 
 The lamps of night in revel ; is not more man-like 
 Than Cleopatra, 
 
 Hardly gave audience, or 
 
 Vouchsafed to think he had partners ; you shall find there 
 
 A man who is the abstract of all faults 
 
 That all men follow." 
 
 Lepidus, unsuspicious, perhaps stupid, and little guess- 
 ing Antony's contempt for himself, which Octavius had 
 evidently never told him, rather good-naturedly tries to 
 excuse Antony : 
 
 " I must not think there are 
 Evils enow to darken all his goodness ; 
 His faults in him seem as the spots in heaven. 
 More fiery by night's blackness ; hereditary 
 Rather than purchased ; what he cannot change 
 Than what he chooses." 
 
 Octavius, ever practical, replies with stern calmness : 
 "You are too indulgent," 
 
 and then proceeds to examine Antony's conduct and 
 character in a way not very complimentary to that gay 
 and joyous general : 
 
 " Let us grant it is not 
 Amiss to tumble on the bed of Pompey, 
 To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit 
 And keep the turn of tippling with a slave. 
 To reel the streets at noon, say this becomes him, 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 107 
 
 As his composure must be rave indeed 
 
 Whom these things cannot blemish, yet must Antony 
 
 No way excuse his soils, when we do bear 
 
 So great weight in his lightness. 
 
 But to confound such time 
 
 That dniras him from his sport, and speaks as loud 
 
 As his own state and ours, 'tis to be chid 
 
 As we rate boys, who being mature in knowledge, 
 
 Pawn their experience to their present pleasure. 
 
 And so rebel to judgment." 
 
 A messenger now announces the success and power 
 
 of Sextus Pompey at sea, and the streifgth of pirates in 
 
 the Mediterranean. He exclaims : 
 
 " Csesar, I bring thee word, 
 Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates. 
 Make the sea serve them, which they ear' and wound 
 With keels of every kind ; many hot inroads 
 They make in Italy ; 
 
 No vessel can peep forth, but 'tis as soon 
 Taken as seen ; for Pompey's name strikes more 
 Than could his war resisted." 
 
 The name of Pompey, the foe of his race, irritates the 
 
 calm listening Csesar, and he exclaims, speaking from 
 
 his heart, as if addressing his absent colleague : 
 
 " Antony, 
 Leave thy lascivious wassails," 
 
 and recalls some of Antony's former hardships and 
 triumphs, comparing these with his present conduct, while 
 even the indolent Lepidus exclaims : 
 '"Tis pity of him." 
 
 But Octavius, firm and resolute, rejoins : 
 ' ' Let his shames quickly 
 Drive him to Rome. 'Tis time we twain 
 Did show ourselves i' the field ; and to that end 
 Assemble we immediate council ; Pompey 
 Thrives in our idleness.' 
 
 Lepidus agrees, but though perhaps not very wise, yet 
 
 as a brave officer, he says to Csesar : 
 
 "Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime 
 Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, 
 To let me be partaker." 
 
 '■ Plough. 
 
io8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Octavius, always politic, has no wish yet to quarrel 
 with his fellow- triumvir, and replies politely : 
 
 " Doubt not, sir ; 
 I knew it for my bond." 
 
 The next scene reverts to Cleopatra's palace at 
 Alexandria, where the queen is full of anxiety about the 
 absent Antony. This anxiety is caused alike by her 
 personal interests and her affection for him, for though 
 nominally queen of Egypt, Cleopatra is really a subject of 
 Rome and of its successive rulers. To Rome she has 
 always looked for political guidance, direction, and support ; 
 she apparently, at least in the play, admits no Asiatic or 
 African rulers to her intimacy. All her talents or resources 
 are at the service of the various rulers at Rome, the capital 
 at this time of nearly all the civilised world. Thus 
 / Cleopatra has in succession attracted and influenced 
 I Pompey, Julius Caesar, and lastly Antony, but the 
 I continued civil war in the Roman empire now endangers 
 her authority, if not her safety. It is only by her keen 
 knowledge of character, craft, and rare talents that she 
 has hitherto maintained her high and luxurious position 
 in the subjected land of Egypt, now merely a province of 
 the vast Roman empire. Cleopatra, knowing or correctly 
 apprehending Antony's dangerous position in Rome, owns 
 to her confidante Charmian, while recalling former Roman 
 admirers, her present anxiety about her last one : 
 
 "O Charmian ! 
 Where think'st thou he is now ? Stands he, or sits he ? 
 Or is he on his horse ? 
 
 O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony ! 
 Do bravely, horse, for wott'st thou whom thou movest ? 
 The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm 
 And burgonet of men. " 
 
 From these words she apparently rather overrates 
 
 ; Antony's present power, as hitherto she knows little 
 
 about Octavius, and she proceeds, still thinking of nothing 
 
 but Antony, now both her lover and protector : 
 
 " He's speaking now, 
 Or murmuring 'Where's my serpent of old Nile?' 
 For so he calls me." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 109 
 
 The elderly beautj' perhaps begins to fear her attractions 
 
 are waning as she proceeds, hoping but not sure that she 
 
 still fascinates Antony : 
 
 " Now I feed myself 
 With most delicious poison. Think on me, 
 That am with Phcebus' amorous pinches black. 
 And wrinkled deep in time ? Broad-fronted Caesar, 
 When thou wast here above the ground I was 
 A morsel for a monarch, and great Pompey 
 Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow ; 
 There would he anchor his aspect and die 
 With looking on his life." 
 
 She thus meditates on Caesar, Pompey, and Antony, 
 
 men whose ages were not very dififerent from each other, 
 
 and were in turn her successive admirers. But younger 
 
 men, Sextus Pompey and Octavius Caesar, the son and the 
 
 nephew of her former lovers, are now contending for the 
 
 Roman empire, and though Cleopatra was termed one 
 
 " whom age could not wither," yet her own self-allusion as 
 
 " wrinkled deep in time " indicates a somewhat different and 
 
 inevitable consciousness. Alexas now enters, bringing a 
 
 message from Antony, couched in these singular words : 
 
 " ' Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends 
 This treasure of an oyster ; at whose foot. 
 To mend the petty present, I will piece 
 Her opulent throne with kingdoms ; all the east 
 Say thou, shall call her mistress.'' " 
 
 Cleopatra : 
 
 " What ! was he sad or merry ? " 
 
 Alexas : 
 
 " Like to the time o' the year between the extremes 
 Of hot and cold ; he was nor sad nor merry." 
 
 Cleopatra, full of hope, and on the whole gratified, 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 " O well-divided disposition ! Note him, 
 Note him, good Charmian, 'tis the man, but note him ; 
 He was not sad, for he would shine on those 
 That made their looks by his ; he was not merry, 
 Which seem'd to tell them his remembrance lay 
 In Egypt with his joy ; but between both : 
 O heavenly mingle ! 
 
 Mett'st thou my posts ? " 
 
no SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Alexas : 
 
 " Ay, madam, twenty several messengers. 
 Why do you send so thick ? " 
 
 Cleopatra, whose present affection and worldly interest 
 direct the same course of action, eagerly replies : 
 
 " Who's born that day 
 When I forget to send to Antony, 
 Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian. 
 
 Did I, Charmian, 
 Ever love Ctesar so ? " 
 
 This rather trying question evidently diverts Charmian, 
 who, though afraid of her capricious, vehement mistress, 
 now ventures, though it is playing with fire, to slightly 
 provoke her by recalling her praises of Caesar ; and 
 perhaps imitating her voice and manner, she exclaims, 
 probably amusing herself and Alexas : 
 
 "O ! that brave Caesar." 
 
 Cleopatra, partly provoked, impatiently retorts : 
 
 ' ' Be choked with such another emphasis ! 
 Say, the brave Antony. " 
 
 Charmian, evidently amused, ventures once, but only 
 once again to provoke her in the same way, exclaiming : 
 " The valiant Caesar ! " 
 Then Cleopatra, losing patience, exclaims apparently in 
 
 real anger : 
 
 " By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth. 
 If thou with Csesar paragon again 
 My man of men." 
 
 Charmian hastens to pacify her by a humble reminder : 
 
 " By your most gracious pardon, 
 I sing but after you." 
 
 Cleopatra cannot deny this, and merely replies : 
 
 ' ' My salad days. 
 When I was green in judgment, cold in blood. 
 To say as I said then ! " 
 
 But evidently her " man of men " varies with Roman 
 political history^ and at present Antony is alike her hope 
 and strength. jThe next act and scene introduces Sextus 
 Pompey with his pirate allies, Menecrates and Menas, at 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA iii 
 
 Messina in council. Pompey is gay and confident of 
 success, trusting to his own popularity, and ridiculing 
 Antony, whose intrigue with Cleopatra is naturally blamed 
 and despised among all Romans at this time. 
 Pompey : 
 
 " The people love me, and the sea is mine ; 
 
 Mark Antony 
 
 In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make 
 
 No wars without doors ; Csesar gets money where 
 
 He loses hearts ; Lepidus flatters both. 
 
 Of both is flatter'd ; but he neither loves, 
 
 Nor either cares for him." 
 
 In this account Pompey rather disparages or underrates 
 his foes when he is told that Caesar and Lepidus with large 
 forces are coming against him. Pompey disbelieves this 
 news, and amuses himself by ridiculing what he and young 
 Caesar may consider the two elderly lovers, Antony and 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Pompey : 
 
 '"Tis false. 
 
 I know they are in Rome together. 
 
 Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love. 
 
 Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip ! 
 
 Let witchcraft join vrith beauty, lust with both ! 
 
 Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts. 
 
 Keep his brain fuming ; Epicurean cooks 
 
 Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite. 
 
 That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour 
 
 Even till a Lethe'd dulness ! " 
 
 Pompey is now told by his adherent Varrius that 
 Antony is expected in Rome immediately, which news 
 surprises him, as he exclaims : 
 " I did not think 
 This amorous surfeiter would have donn'd his helm 
 For such a petty war ; his soldiership 
 Is twice the other twain." 
 
 Pompey well knows that neither Octavius nor Lepidus 
 has the martial fame or genius of Antony, and he now 
 resolves on further strife, and departs with his friends, saying 
 like a devout Pagan : 
 
 " Be't as our gods will have't ! It only stands 
 Our lives upon to use our strongest hands." 
 
112 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 In the next scene Lepidus is at Rome, he always 
 shows common-sense and a conciliatory spirit, though 
 without the ambition or talents of Octavius and Antony, 
 he urges the latter's adherent, Enobarbus, to make peace 
 between his fellow-triumvirs. Enobarbus possesses some 
 influence with Antony, and thoroughly understands the 
 artifices of Cleopatra, which he so well described to his 
 voluptuous chief when mentioning her " celerity in dying." 
 Yet Enobarbus is solely devoted to Antony's interests, 
 while Lepidus wishes supreme power to be fairly divided 
 between these great leaders. All the triumvirs now 
 appear together, and Lepidus addresses the others in a 
 conciliatory style : 
 
 " Noble friends, 
 That which combined us was most great, and let not 
 A leaner action rend us. What's amiss. 
 May it be gently heard ; when we debate 
 Our trivial difference loud, we do commit 
 Murder in healing wounds ; then, noble partners, 
 
 Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms." 
 
 — ■ This quiet peace-making at first has little eiifect on the 
 haughty spirits of Octavius and Antony, who now face 
 each other in a spirit so different from that of their former 
 friendship. Octavius, the future Augustus, inheriting the 
 pride of his race, possesses a rare, far-seeing philanthropy 
 little known at his period, and which always seems to raise 
 him above both friends and foes. Antony's pride and true 
 glory are entirely in the past, and thus the old and the 
 young man, the rising and the setting sun of the glorious 
 Roman empire, now confront each other with mutual dis- 
 trust. These fiery spirits at once begin to quarrel, but 
 they are now watched by mediators anxious to make them 
 friends. Antony haughtily exclaims to Csesar : 
 
 " I learn, you take things ill which are not so, 
 Or being, concern you not. 
 
 My being in Egypt, Cjesar, 
 What was't to you?" 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 113 
 
 This irritating question Octavius answers with admir- 
 able spirit, yet perfect self-control : 
 
 " No more than my residing here in Rome 
 Might be to you in Egypt ; yet, if you there 
 Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt 
 Might be my question." 
 
 They continue a wordy dispute till Octavius brings 
 
 matters to a point by saying : 
 
 "I wrote to you 
 When rioting in Alexandria ; you 
 Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts 
 Did gibe my missive out of audience." 
 
 Antony tries to excuse himself for a certain degree of 
 
 intemperance, answering : 
 
 " Sir, 
 He fell upon me ere admitted ; then 
 Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want 
 Of what I was i' the morning ; but next day 
 I told him of myself, ' which was as much 
 As to have ask'd him pardon. Let this fellow 
 Be nothing of our strife ; if we contend 
 Out of our question wipe him." 
 
 Still young Caesar is not satisfied, and, feeling his 
 
 position strong in Rome at present, while Antony's is 
 
 decidedly weakened, continues to coolly reproach him : 
 
 "You have broken 
 The article of your oath, which you shall never 
 Have tongue to charge me with." 
 
 Lepidus, anxious for peace, here exclaims as in 
 remonstrance : 
 
 "Soft, Caesar!" 
 
 But Antony firmly exclaims : 
 
 "No, 
 Lepidus, let him speak : " 
 
 Caesar then charges Antony with denying him the 
 assistance he needed, and Antony, now among Romans, 
 is forced to allude, despite his pride, to the "poison'd} 
 hours" in Egypt which had "bound him from his own 
 knowledge," and that he so far asks pardon as befits his 
 honour " to stoop in such a case." Lepidus- and Mecaenas, 
 
 H 
 
114 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 the latter always devoted to Octavius, longing to make 
 peace between the triumvirs, joyfully hail this apology, 
 urging Octavius to accept it, while Enobarbus, fearless and 
 outspoken, urges the same, though in a different style. 
 Lepidus, delighted at Antony's excuse, says : 
 " Tis noble spoken." 
 
 Mecaenas wisely advises : 
 
 " If it might please you, to enforce no further 
 The griefs between ye : " 
 
 Enobarbus bluntly observes : 
 
 " Or, if you borrow one another's love for the instant, you may, when 
 you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again : you shall have time 
 to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do." 
 
 Antony, knowing doubtless that Octavius is too strong 
 for him in Rome, rather checks his adherent for presump- 
 tion, imperiously saying : 
 
 " Thou art a soldier only ; speak no more." 
 
 Octavius then says with cool gravity : 
 
 " I do not much dislike the matter, but 
 The manner of his speech ; 
 
 Yet if I knew 
 , What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to edge 
 Of the world I would pursue it." 
 
 This consent to be friends with Antony induces 
 Agrippa, Caesar's adherent, to make an important sugges- 
 tion to him : 
 
 " Give me leave, Csesar. 
 Thou hast a sister by the mother's side, 
 Admired Octavia ; great Mark Antony 
 Is now a widower." 
 
 Caesar sarcastically exclaims: 
 
 "Say not so, Agrippa; 
 If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof 
 Wert well deserved of rashness." 
 
 Antony assures Caesar that he is not married, and 
 Agrippa, who apparently has the confidence of both to 
 some extent, then declares that a marriage between 
 Octavia and Antony would be an excellent means of 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 115 
 
 reconciling the two triumvirs. He ends his politic 
 suggestion : 
 
 " By this marriage, 
 All little jealousies which now seem great, 
 And all great fears which now import their dangers. 
 Would then be nothing ; 
 
 Pardon what I have spoke. 
 
 For 'tis a studied, not a present thought. 
 
 By duty ruminated." 
 
 The suggestion seems acceptable to all present, and 
 Antony exclaims : 
 
 " What power is in Agrippa, 
 If I would say, 'Agrippa, be it so,' 
 To make this good?" 
 
 Octavius then replies : 
 
 " The power of Caesar, and 
 His power unto Octavia." 
 
 From this ready assent it seems likely that Caesar and 
 
 and his friend Agrippa had agreed upon this idea 
 
 previously, in case of Antony's making the apology he did. 
 
 Antony now eagerly rejoins, as if forgetting Cleopatra in 
 
 his Roman ambition : 
 
 " May I never 
 To this good purpose, that so fairly shows. 
 Dream of impediment ! Let me have thy hand ; 
 Further this act of grace, and from this hour 
 The heart of brothers govern in our loves 
 And sway our great designs ! " 
 
 Caesar, proud and gratified, yet always watchful, rejoins : 
 
 " There is my hand. 
 A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother 
 Did ever love so dearly; let her live 
 To join our kingdoms and our hearts, and never 
 Fly off our loves again ! " 
 
 The peace-loving Lepidus delightedly exclaims : 
 
 " Happily, amen ! " 
 
 and the triumvirs depart consulting one another about 
 the war with Sextus Pompey. When they are gone, 
 Enobarbus, Agrippa, and Mecaenas, the respective ad- 
 herents of Antony and of Caesar, hold a remarkable con- 
 ference together. These men evidently well know the 
 
ii6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 different characters of their leaders, and are all three 
 devoted to the interests of the Roman empire. The 
 wonderful influence of Cleopatra over Antony is a cause 
 of regret and apprehension to each, and Enobarbus, from 
 his luxurious stay in Egypt and his personal knowledge 
 of her, is able to enlighten his fellow Romans on the 
 subject of Antony's captivation by this artful queen. 
 Mecaenas, alluding to Egyptian luxury, says to Eno- 
 barbus : 
 
 " You stayed well by't in Egypt." 
 
 And the other replies : 
 
 " Ay, sir ; we did sleep day out of countenance, and made the night light 
 with drinking." 
 
 Mecaenas, a practical Roman, not used to Oriental 
 luxury asks : 
 
 " Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve persons 
 there ; is this true ? " ' 
 
 Enobarbus, who perhaps rather exaggerates for the 
 pleasure of seeing the other's wonder, replies : 
 
 " This was but as a fly by an eagle ; we had much more monstrous matter 
 of feast, which worthily deserved noting." 
 
 Mecaenas, who had apparently never seen Cleopatra 
 but has heard Roman reports about her, exclaims : 
 " She's a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her." 
 
 Then Enobarbus launches forth into a beautiful and 
 graphic, though perhaps over-coloured description of 
 Cleopatra's first meeting with Antony, exclaiming to his 
 two interested and wondering hearers : 
 
 " She pursed up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus 
 
 The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, 
 
 Burn'd on the water ; the poop was beaten gold, 
 
 Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 
 
 The winds were love-sick with them, the oars were silver. 
 
 Which to the tune of the flutes kept stroke, and made 
 
 The water which they beat to follow faster. 
 
 As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, 
 
 • Plutarch's " Life of Antony." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 117 
 
 It beggar'd all description ; she did lie 
 In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue, 
 O'er-picturing that Venus where we see 
 The fancy outwork nature ; on each side her 
 Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 
 With divers-coloured fans, whose wind did seem 
 To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool. 
 And what they undid did." 
 
 Agrippa, like most Romans, knowing Antony's volup- 
 tuous nature, and that this beautiful scene was arranged 
 by Cleopatra to specially attract him, here exclaims : 
 " O ! rare for Antony," 
 
 while Enobarbus proceeds in his glowing, yet partly true 
 
 description :^ 
 
 " Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
 So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, 
 And made their bends adorning ; at the helm 
 A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
 Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands. 
 From the barge 
 
 A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
 Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
 Her people out upon her, and Antony 
 Enthron'd i' the market-place, did sit alone. 
 Whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy. 
 Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too 
 And made a gap in nature." 
 
 Agrippa, as if overcome by this splendid description, 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 "Rare Egyptian !" 
 
 and Enobarbus then narrates with evident pride, though 
 with a little exaggeration, and perhaps a touch of ridicule, 
 his chief Antony's devotion to women, and his persever- 
 ing efforts to look at his best before his enslaver. 
 
 " Upon her landing Antony sent to her. 
 Invited her to supper ; she replied 
 It should be better he became her guest. 
 Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony, 
 Whom ne'er the word of 'A'a,' woman heard speak. 
 Being barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast, 
 And for his ordinary pays his heart 
 For what his eyes eat only." 
 
 ' This account seems founded on Plutarch's authority, on whom 
 Shakespeare chiefly relies in some classical plays. (See " Life of 
 Antony.") 
 
ii8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The three Romans, the narrator and his listeners, 
 wonder at Cleopatra's charms and abilities, when Mecaenas, 
 referring to Antony's proposed marriage to Octavia, says 
 that now Antony must altogether abandon Cleopatra ; he 
 says this with evident sincerity, being himself quite devoted 
 to the interests of Caesar, but Enobarbus, who best knows 
 both Cleopatra and Antony, replies : 
 
 " Never ; he will not. 
 Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale ' 
 Her infinite variety." 
 
 Mecaenas, who highly appreciates Octavia, naturally 
 exclaims : 
 
 " If beauty, wisdom, modesty can settle 
 The heart of Antony, Octavia is 
 A blessed lottery to him." 
 
 The three depart, Enobarbus being Agrippa's guest 
 
 during the former's stay in Rome, and the next scene 
 
 introduces Caesar with his sister Octavia and Antony, 
 
 who now plays a rather hypocritical part in assuming 
 
 regret at leaving Octavia. He exclaims : 
 
 " The world and my great office will sometimes 
 Divide me from your bosom." 
 
 Octavia, unsuspicious and pure-minded, replies : 
 
 "AH which time 
 Before the gods my knees shall bow my prayers 
 To them for you." 
 
 Antony replies : 
 "My Octavia, 
 Read not my blemishes in the world's report ; 
 I have not kept my square, but that to come 
 Shall all be done by the rule. Good-night, dear lady." 
 
 Caesar and his sister depart, and Antony, when alone 
 receives a soothsayer. This man is the same soothsayer 
 before introduced in Egypt, and would seem acting in 
 Cleopatra's interest, unless indeed he may be a sincere 
 believer in his extraordinary art. Antony asks : 
 "Now, sirrah ; you do wish yourself in Egypt?" 
 
 ahd the man, perhaps cunningly, replies : 
 
 "Would I had never come from thence, nor you 
 Thither ! 
 
 Hie you to Egypt again." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 119 
 
 Antony, evidently not free from the credulity or ideas 
 of his period, asks : 
 
 "Say to me, 
 Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar's or mine ? " 
 
 Soothsayer : 
 
 \^' " Csesar's. 
 
 Therefore, O Antony ! stay not by his side ; 
 Thy demon, that's thy spirit which keeps thee, is 
 Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable. 
 Where Csesar's is not ; but near him thy angel 
 Becomes a fear, as being overpower'd ; therefore 
 Make space enough between you." 
 
 Antony, alarmed or uneasy, yet half inclined to believe 
 
 him, exclaims : 
 
 " Speak this no more." 
 
 But the soothsayer, perceiving or guessing his influence, 
 
 > proceeds : 
 
 " To none but thee ; no more but when to thee, 
 If thou dost play with him at any game 
 Thou art sure to lose, and of that natural luck, 
 He beats thee 'gainst the odds ; thy lustre thickens 
 When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit 
 Is all afraid to govern thee near him. 
 But he away, 'tis noble." 
 
 These strange, perhaps artful, words evidently prevail 
 with Antony, who bids the soothsayer to send Ventidius, 
 another of his adherents, to him. The soothsayer departs, 
 and Antony when alone reveals his mind : 
 
 " He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap 
 He hath spoken true ; the very dice obey him. 
 And in our sports my better cunning faints 
 Under his chance ; if we draw lots he speeds. 
 
 I will to Egypt ; 
 
 And though I make this marriage for my peace, 
 
 I' the east my pleasure lies." 
 
 He then sends off Ventidius to Parthia, but he evidently 
 knows that Caesar is above him at Rome, and must always 
 be his superior there in everything. Octavius and his 
 sister are strongly united in their mutual affection ; and 
 Antony's pride chafes at their influence and popularity 
 with the Romans. The remembrance of Cleopatra now 
 
120 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 overcomes him, and the words of the soothsayer complete 
 
 his resolution to break off again with Octavius and to enjoy 
 
 himself in Egypt. The next short scene describes the 
 
 triumvir Lepidus with Mecaenas and Agrippa preparing 
 
 to set out on their campaign against Sextus Pompey ; 
 
 Lepidus bids his companions follow each his respective 
 
 leader, Csesar or Antony, intending to follow soon himself, 
 
 and Agrippa cheerfully says : 
 
 " Sir, Mark Antony 
 Will e'en but kiss Octavia, and we'll follow." 
 
 Lepidus, who always seems an easy-going homely man, 
 
 exclaims to both : 
 
 "Till I shall see you in your soldier's dress, 
 Which will become you both, farewell." 
 
 The next scene reverts to Alexandria, where Cleopatra 
 
 with her attendants laments Antony's absence. She 
 
 exclaims to Charmian: 
 
 " We'll to the river : there. 
 My music playing far off, I will betray 
 Tawny-finn'd fishes ; my bended hook shall pierce 
 Their slimy jaws ; and, as I draw them up, 
 I'll think them every one an Antony, 
 And say ' Ah, ha I you're caught.' 
 
 Charmian, evidently wishing to cheer her agitated 
 mistress, exclaims : 
 
 " 'Twas merry when 
 
 You wager'd on your angling." 
 
 Cleopatra : 
 
 "That time— O times !— 
 I laughed him out of patience ; and that night 
 I laugh'd him into patience : and next morn. 
 Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed ; 
 Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst 
 I wore his sword Philippan, " 
 
 meaning the one he wore at the battle of Philippi.^ A 
 messenger now arrives from Rome ; Cleopatra, greatly 
 
 1 " Whether Antony were in the gay or the serious humour, still 
 she had something ready for his amusement. She was with him night 
 and day. She gamed, she drank, she reviewed with him." — Plutarch's 
 " Life of Antony." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 121 
 
 excited and apprehensive, receives the man, who is 
 naturally afraid of what he has to tell. Cleopatra first 
 imagines Antony is dead, and threatens the messenger 
 before he has time to speak. He asks her to hear him, 
 and she rejoins in excitement : 
 •' Well, go to, I will ; 
 But there's no goodness in thy face. " 
 
 Despite these unpleasant words he again begs to be 
 
 heard, and she exclaims : 
 
 ' ' I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st : 
 Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, 
 Or friends with Csesar, or not captive to him, 
 I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail 
 Rich pearls upon thee." 
 
 He first pleases by saying Antony is well, and more 
 friendly with Caesar than ever, and, delighted at this news 
 believing it may confirm her own power and safety, she 
 hastily exclaims : 
 
 " Make thee a fortune from me." 
 
 But the cause of this friendship being Antony's marriage 
 
 with Octavia is next told, and Cleopatra becomes nearly 
 
 frantic with rage and jealousy, perhaps mingled with fear, 
 
 knowing that Antony is her political support as well as her 
 
 lover. Without his protection she knows that all Roman 
 
 opinion and power would be turned against her, and she 
 
 strikes as well as reproaches the unlucky bearer of evil 
 
 tidings, who vainly exclaims to the beautiful fury : 
 
 " Gracious madam, 
 I that do bring the news made not the match." 
 
 Cleopatra, almost beside herself with anger and passion- 
 ate excitement, exclaims : 
 
 " Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee, 
 And make thy fortunes proud." 
 
 The poor messenger, however, cannot alter his report, 
 she draws a dagger, and he then runs away. Charmian 
 interposes, reminding her mistress that the man is inno- 
 cent, and Cleopatra, partly recovering herself, exclaims : 
 
 " Call the slave again : 
 Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call." 
 
122 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Charmian says that he is afraid to come, but he re- 
 enters with Charmian, but can only repeat his news. 
 After he again leaves, Cleopatra, recalling her former 
 distinguished lover in her present anger with Antony, 
 exclaims to Charmian : 
 
 " In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar." 
 
 Charmian : 
 
 " Many times, madam." 
 
 Cleopatra, apparently exhausted, bitterly rejoins : 
 
 ' ' I am paid for 't now. 
 Lead me from hence ; 
 I faint." 
 
 Then full of jealous curiosity of her Roman rival, she 
 
 sends Alexas to the messenger : 
 
 " Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; bid him 
 Report the feature of Octavia, her years. 
 Her inclination, let him not leave out 
 The colour of her hair : bring me word quickly." 
 
 Then to another attendant, Mardian, she exclaims : 
 
 "Bid you Alexas 
 Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian, 
 But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber." 
 
 The next scene is near Misenum, introducing the 
 opposing leaders, Octavius Caesar, Sextus Pompey, 
 Antony, Lepidus, and Menas, with their respective 
 followers, at an important conference. This is their first 
 meeting together in the play ; Sextus Pompey and 
 Octavius CsEsar, the son and the nephew of the former 
 noble rivals for the Roman empire, are the chief men, 
 but Octavius is a far more worthy representative of the 
 great Julius, his uncle, than Pompey of his heroic father. 
 Pompey addresses the triumvirs as : 
 
 " The senators alone of this great world. 
 Chief factors for the gods." 
 
 Though disapproving their form of government, he 
 proceeds : 
 
 "What was't 
 That moved pale Cassius to conspire ? and what 
 Made the all honour'd, honest Roman, Brutus, 
 With the arm'd rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 123 
 
 To drench the Capitol, but that they would 
 Have one man but a man ? And that is it 
 Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden 
 The anger'd ocean foams." 
 
 Csesar and Antony do not argue this point, but calmly 
 ask if he means to accept their offers of peace on certain 
 terms. Pompey agrees, and proposes a friendly feast, 
 which the jovial Antony welcomes, and Pompey exclaims : 
 
 " We'll feast each other ere we part ; and let's 
 Draw lots who shall begin." 
 
 Antony : 
 
 "That will I, Pompey." 
 
 Pompey, wishing to remind Antony of his Egyptian 
 luxuries, says : 
 
 ' ' No, Antony, take the lot : 
 But first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery 
 Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Ceesar 
 Grew fat with feasting there." 
 
 These allusions perhaps amused all Romans present 
 except Antony, who replies as if wincing under them : 
 " You have heard much." 
 
 Pompey : 
 
 " I have fair meanings, sir." 
 
 Antony : 
 
 ' ' And fair words to them. " 
 
 Pompey is continuing this talk, when Enobarbus, who 
 well knows Cleopatra's history, alludes to a certain queen 
 being once carried to Julius Caesar in a mattress. Pompey 
 recognises this gallant though talkative officer, and 
 exclaims : 
 
 " I know thee now ; how farest thou, soldier ? " 
 
 and Enobarbus shrewdly replies : 
 
 Well; 
 
 And well am like to do ; for I perceive 
 
 Four feasts are toward." 
 
 Pompey : 
 
 " Let me shake thy hand ; 
 I never hated thee. I have seen thee fight. 
 When I have envied thy behaviour." 
 
124 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Enobarbus : 
 
 "Sir, 
 I never loved you much, but I ha' praised ye." 
 
 Pompey, liking his frankness, rejoins : 
 
 " Enjoy thy plainness. 
 It nothing ill becomes thee. 
 Aboard my galley I invite you all. " 
 
 This candid invitation to a friendly banquet is ac- 
 cepted by every one, and all depart except Menas and 
 Enobarbus, devoted severally to Pompey and to Antony, 
 who now compare notes together. Menas at first says 
 to himself: 
 
 " Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er have made this treaty," 
 
 then after some light words with each other, Enobarbus 
 coming to the point, says ; 
 
 " We came hither to fight with you." » 
 
 and Menas answers : 
 
 " For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a drinking. Pompey doth this 
 
 day laugh away his fortune We looked not for Mark Antony here : 
 
 pray you, is he married to Cleopatra ? " 
 
 Enobarbus, as if sarcastically evading the question, 
 replies coolly : 
 
 "Caesar's sister is called Octavia. But she is now the wife of Marcus 
 Antonius." 
 
 Menas observes : 
 
 "Then is Csesar and he for ever knit together," 
 
 while Enobarbus, better acquainted with these personages, 
 
 replies : 
 
 " If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so. . . . 
 The band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler 
 of their amity. Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation. " 
 
 Menas, who seems to have very civilised moral ideas, 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Who would not have his wife so?" 
 
 and the other rather sharply retorts : 
 
 " Not he that himself is not so ; which is Mark Antony. He will to his 
 Egyptian dish again ; then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Csesar. 
 
 Antony will use his affection where it is ; he married but his occasion 
 
 here." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 125 
 
 Menas gaily exclaims : 
 
 " Come, sir, will you aboard ? I have a health for you." 
 
 and Enobarbus, who seems to enjoy himself wherever he 
 goes, merrily replies : 
 
 " I shall take it, sir ; we have used our throats in Egypt," 
 
 and they go off together. The next scene is on Pompey's 
 galley, where at first two waiting men discuss the coming 
 banquet thereon. The rather dull triumvir, Lepidus, is 
 the special subject of their ridicule. This leader, evidently 
 far inferior to his two high and mighty colleagues, yet 
 continues to maintain his position with them, and to enjoy 
 some degree of their confidence, though never sharing the 
 same power. They observe : 
 
 " Lepidus is high-coloured As they pinch one another, he cries 
 
 out, ' No more ' ; reconciles them to his entreaty, and himself to thai drink. 
 Why this it is to have a name in great men's fellowship. " 
 
 " To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in't, 
 
 are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks." 
 
 After this talk ensues the great feast on Pompey's 
 vessel. This gay scene is the most humorous in the 
 whole play. Antony talks about Egypt, without naming 
 Cleopatra, evidently an embarassing subject; Lepidus, self- 
 indulgent, and not over wise, though a trusty warrior, asks 
 questions and drinks rather too much. Antony and 
 Pompey, both addicted to wine and pleasure, thoroughly 
 enjoy themselves, forgetting their causes of enmity for a 
 time. Among this lively party Octavius Caesar, though 
 so young, preserves habitual calmness ; and behaves more 
 like the oldest and wisest than the youngest at this 
 festivity. Antony, when describing the Nile, says to 
 Caesar. 
 
 " The higher Nilus swells 
 The more it promises ; as it ebbs, the seedsman 
 Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain, 
 And shortly comes to harvest. 
 
 Lepidus, who is apparently becoming confused by all 
 the good cheer around him, indolently remarks : 
 
 " You've strange serpents there." 
 
"6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Antony curtly replies : 
 
 "Ay, Lepidas." 
 
 And the other continues: 
 
 "Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the operation of 
 your sun ; so is your croqodile." 
 
 Antony replies, still speaking briefly : 
 " They are so," 
 
 and Pompey, apparently perceiving that Lepidus is easily 
 made drunk, exclaims to the attendants : 
 
 " Sit, — and some wine ! A health to Lepidus ! " 
 
 The latter then admits rather like Cassio in Othello : 
 " I am not so well as I should be, but I'll ne'er out," 
 
 when the crafty Enobarbus says to himself: 
 
 " Not till you have slept ; I fear me you'll be in till then." 
 
 Lepidus, rather the worse already, goes maundering on : 
 
 " Nay, certainly I have heard the Ptolemies' pyramises are very goodly 
 things ; without contradiction, I have heard that," 
 
 The designing Menas asks Pompey to speak to him in 
 private, but the latter, bent on fun and merry-making, puts 
 him off, exclaiming : 
 
 " Forbear me till anon. This wine for Lepidus ! " 
 
 And then the latter asks Antony to describe the 
 crocodile. Antony complies, yet Lepidus goes on asking 
 questions till the observant Caesar, apparently out of 
 patience, says aside to Antony : 
 
 " Will this description satisfy him ? " 
 
 while Antony jokingly replies : 
 
 "With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very epicure." 
 
 Menas then solicits Pompey's attention, and ,the 
 latter exclaims to the company : 
 
 " Be jolly, lords," 
 
 and walks aside with his follower, who thus suggests the 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 127 
 
 assassination of Pompey's dangerous guests. Alluding to 
 
 the triumvirs Menas says : 
 
 " These three world-sharers these competitors, 
 Are in thy vessel : let me cut the cable ; 
 And, when we are put off, fall to their throats : 
 All there is thine." 
 
 To this atrocious proposal Pompey makes this strange 
 
 answer, showing that though not troubled with moral 
 
 scruples, he practically prefers present to future enjoyment : 
 
 " Ah ! this thou shouldst have done, 
 And not have spoken on't. In me 'tis villainy ; 
 In thee 't had been good service. 
 
 Repent that e'er thy tongue 
 Hath so betray'd thine act ; being done unknown, 
 I should have found it afterwards well done, 
 But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink." 
 
 Menas disappointed, says aside : 
 
 "For this, 
 
 I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more." 
 
 While Pompey returns to his amusement of ridiculing 
 Lepidus, again exclaiming : 
 
 " This health to Lepidus ! " 
 And Antony jeeringly rejoins : 
 
 " Bear him ashore. I'll pledge it for him, 
 Pompey." 
 
 Lepidus, now unable to speak or stand, is borne off, 
 while the shrewd Enobarbus, doubtless used to many a 
 drinking bout, points at the attendant carrying away 
 Lepidus, and scornfully exclaims to Menas : 
 
 " There's a strong fellow, 
 A' bears the third part of the world, man ; see'st not ? " 
 
 Menas, with grim wit, replies : 
 
 " The third part then is drunk ; would it were all, 
 That it might go on wheels ! " 
 
 Enobarbus, wishing to continue the merriment while 
 craftily watching everybody, replies : 
 
 " Drink thou ; increase the reels." 
 
 While Pompey, merrily rallying Antony, exclaims ; 
 " This is not yet an Alexandrian feast," 
 
128 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 To which the experienced Antony jovially replies 
 
 " It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho ! 
 Here is to Csesar ! " 
 
 Octavius, the liquor apparently taking some effect even 
 on his calm nature, yet guarding against it, exclaims : 
 " I could well forbear 't. 
 It's monstrous labour, when I wash my brain, 
 And it grows fouler." 
 
 Antony, who has no sympathy for this idea, jovially 
 replies : 
 
 " Be a child o' the time," 
 
 as he himself is now, and probably usually was on such 
 occasions, but Caesar again protests : 
 
 " But I had rather fast from all four days 
 Than drink so much in one." ^ 
 
 Then Enobarbus, well knowing Antony's tastes, and 
 wishing to gratify them, addresses him : 
 
 " Ha ! my brave emperor ; 
 Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals, 
 And celebrate our drink ? " 
 
 Pompey, wishing to humour them, rejoins : 
 " Let's ha't, good soldier,'' 
 
 while Antony, now thoroughly excited, joyously 
 
 exclaims to all around : 
 
 " Come, let us all take hands, v 
 
 Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense 
 In soft and delicate Lethe. " 
 
 Enobarbus, echoing his chiefs desires, and well know- 
 ing how to gratify them, then exclaims : 
 
 " All take hands, 
 Make battery to our ears with the loud music ; 
 The which I'll place you : then the boy shall sing. 
 The holding every man shall bear as loud 
 As his strong sides can volley." 
 
 ^ The wisdom and sobriety of young Cassar among so many 
 topers may recall Falstaffs words about the cold-blooded yet valiant 
 boy, Prince John of Lancaster. 
 
 " Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me ; nor 
 a man cannot make him laugh but that's no marvel, he drinks no wine. 
 There's never any of these demure boys come to any proof." — Henry IV., 
 Part II. Act IV. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 129 
 
 Placing them hand in hand while the loud music 
 sounds, the boy whoever he is, then sings, followed by 
 all in chorus : 
 
 " Come, thou monarch of the vine, 
 Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne ! 
 In thy vats our cares be drown'd. 
 With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd." 
 
 The chorus, in which probably Octavius was the only 
 reluctant singer, repeat the line : 
 
 " Cup us, till the world go round." 
 
 Octavius Cassar, apparently the only disapproving 
 member of this drinking party, now reveals his disgust, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " What would you more ? Pompey, good-night. Good brother, 
 Let me request you off ; our graver business 
 Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let's part ; 
 You see we have burnt our cheeks ; strong Enobarb 
 Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue 
 Splits what it speaks ; the wild disguise hath almost 
 Antick'd us all. What needs more words ? Good-night. 
 Good Antony, your hand." 
 
 Pompey, evidently the worse for what has passed, 
 exclaims, as if in confused defiance : 
 
 " I'll try you on the shore," 
 
 and Antony, in the same vein, retorts : 
 
 " And shall, sir. Give's your hand." 
 
 Pompey, not knowing if he should be angry or not, 
 exclaims : 
 
 " O Antony ! 
 You have my father's house. But what ? we are friends. 
 Come down into the boat." 
 
 Enobarbus, seeing the present state of both heroes, 
 calls out in cautious warning : 
 
 " Take heed you fall not," 
 
 and all depart except the shrewd subordinates, Enobarbus 
 and Menas. These worthies exchange a few words, though 
 likely both have enjoyed themselves, they yet well know 
 
 I 
 
130 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 what they are about. Menas, alluding to the drums and 
 flutes sounding on the ship, exclaims : 
 
 " Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell 
 To these great fellows : sound and be hang'd ! sound out ! " 
 
 and they depart, i The third act and next scene introduces 
 Antony's frienH, Ventidius, in Syria, after a successful 
 campaign in Persia. This scene has little connection with 
 the play, but shows how victorious the Romans were in 
 foreign campaigns, despite the war between their chief 
 men at home. Ventidius reveals to his comrade, Silius, 
 how jealous Antony and other Roman leaders are of 
 subordinate chiefs, whether faithful or not. Ventidius 
 says : 
 
 " Learn this, Silius, 
 
 Better to leave undone than by our deed 
 
 Acquire too high a fame when him we serve's away. 
 
 Csesar and Antony have ever won 
 
 More in their officer than person ; 
 
 I could do more to do Antonius good, 
 But 'twould offend him ; and in his offence 
 Should my performance perish." 
 
 These Roman generals are now on their way to Athens 
 expecting to find Antony there ; but the next scene is in 
 Rome, where Enobarbus and Agrippa, respective adherents 
 of Antony and of Octavius Caesar, are together. Cicero's 
 well-known idea, that a more truthful account of dis- 
 tinguished people is derived from their subordinates, 
 may also inspire Shakespeare, who, in this brief talk 
 between men of inferior station, reveals impressively the 
 motives and characters of their leaders. Enobarbus, 
 answering Agrippa's question, if the brothers, meaning 
 Caesar and Antony, are parted, says : 
 
 " They have despatch'd with Pompey ; he is gone. 
 The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps 
 To part from Rome ; Csesar is sad." 
 
 and he adds with mingled truth and sarcasm : 
 
 "And Lepidus, 
 Since Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled 
 With the green sickness." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 131 
 
 Lepidus is throughout the butt of his acquaintances, 
 both of high and low degree, while continuing to maintain, 
 perhaps chiefly by personal bravery, his important position 
 among the dangerous men, friends and foes, by whom he 
 is surrounded. Agrippa, in apparent ridicule of the drunken 
 triumvir, exclaims : 
 
 " 'Tis a noble Lepidus,'' 
 
 and Enobarbus retorts perhaps in the same spirit : 
 
 " A very fine one. O ! how he loves Csesar." 
 
 So says Antony's follower, and Caesar's friend retorts : 
 
 " Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony ! " 
 
 Enobarbus, knowing the popularity of Octavius, 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Csesar ? Why, he's the Jupiter of men." 
 
 Agrippa asks : 
 
 ' ' What's Antony ? The god of Jupiter. " 
 
 In this conversation, Enobarbus, an able observer, 
 reveals admiration for young Caesar, whose glorious career 
 is now beginning, and whose great qualities are gradually 
 being more perceived by all intelligent Romans. He 
 therefore exclaims : 
 
 " Spake you of Csesar ? How ! the nonpareil ! 
 
 Would you praise Csesar, say ' Casar' ; go no further.'' 
 
 Agrippa, recalling the respect of Lepidus for both these 
 triumvirs, rejoins : 
 
 " Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.'' 
 
 when Enobarbus replies : 
 
 " But he loves Csesar best ; yet he loves Antony. 
 Hoo ! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot 
 Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number ; hoo ! 
 His love to Antony. But as for Csesar, 
 Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder." 
 
 After thus praising their leaders, these two adherents 
 retire, and Caesar, with Antony, Lepidus, and Octavia, 
 enter. Octavia and Antony, now departing for Greece, 
 
13* SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 bid farewell to Caesar, who for the present remains in 
 Rome. Octavia and her brother, now the most powerful 
 man in Rome, are deeply attached to one another. The 
 crafty Antony also pretends to love Octavia, and for a 
 short time he deceives both brother and sister. Caesar 
 therefore says in all sincerity, yet as if foreboding trouble : 
 
 " Most noble Antony, 
 Let not the piece of virtue, which is set 
 Betwixt us as the cement of our love 
 To keep it builded, be the ram to batter 
 The fortress of it ; for better might we 
 Have loved without this mean, if on both parts 
 This be not cherish'd." 
 
 Antony, as if shocked at any suspicion of what he 
 knows to be the truth, replies : 
 
 " Make me not offended 
 In your distrust. 
 
 You shall not find, 
 
 Though you be therein curious,' the least cause 
 For what you seem to fear. So, the gods keep you. 
 And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends ! " 
 
 In these last words the crafty old general is utterly 
 false, as his jealousy of Caesar is steadily increasing, and 
 results in their fatal enmity. Caesar, however, believing 
 or trying to believe him, exclaims in noble words : 
 
 " Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well. 
 The elements be kind to thee, and make 
 Thy spirits all of comfort ! " 
 
 Octavia weeping, only exclaims : 
 " My noble brother ! " 
 
 and Antony, as if imitating Cleopatra in deceit, with 
 pretended sympathy observes : 
 
 " The April's in her eyes ; it is love's spring, 
 Aid Tiiese the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful. " 
 
 The two adherents, Agrippa and Enobarbus, watch this 
 scene, keenly observing the faces of the speakers, yet are 
 perhaps too far off to hear their words. They think that 
 
 1 Scrupulous. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 133 
 
 Caesar, pained at the parting, can hardly repress his tears, 
 while Agrippa thus reveals the emotional, yet designing 
 character of Antony : 
 
 " Why, Enobarbus, Ov 
 
 When Antony found Julius Csesar dead ^*^ 
 
 He cried almost to roaring ; and he wept 
 When at Philippi he found Brutus slain." 
 
 Enobarbus, probably better acquainted with Antony's 
 
 nature, coolly replies : 
 
 "That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum ; 
 What willingly he did confound he wail'd, 
 Believe' t, till I wept too." 
 
 Caesar again bids farewell to his sister, who departs 
 with Antony, and the next scene reverts to Egypt, where 
 Cleopatra, attended by Charmian, Iras, and Alexas, re- 
 sumes her jealous enquiries about her rival Octavia. The 
 frightened messenger from Rome is again recalled, and 
 to him Cleopatra puts the most pressing questions : 
 
 " Is she as tall as me ? " 
 
 Messenger : 
 
 " She is not, madam." 
 Cleopatra : 
 
 " Didst hear her speak ? is she shrill-tongued or low ? " 
 Messenger : 
 
 " Madam, I heard her speak ; she is low-voiced." 
 Cleopatra, catching hope, exclaims eagerly : 
 
 " That's not so good. He cannot like her long." 
 
 Charmian, thoroughly obsequious to her queen, eagerly 
 rejoins : 
 
 " Like her! O Isis ! 'tis impossible." 
 
 The messenger, evidently friends with Charmian, and 
 guessing his own interests, then describes Octavia as 
 creeping rather than walking, adding contemptuously : 
 
 " She shows a body rather than a life, 
 A statue than a breather." 
 
 Charmian, recommending the messenger, exclaims : 
 
 " Three in Egypt 
 Cannot make better note." 
 
134 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Her passionate mistress, rather comforted, rejoins : 
 
 " He's very knowing, 
 I do perceive 't. There's nothing in her yet. 
 The fellow has good judgement." 
 
 Charmian : 
 
 " Excellent." 
 Cleopatra proceeds, addressing him : 
 " Guess at her years, I prithee." 
 
 Messenger : 
 
 " Madam, 
 She was a widow." 
 
 Cleopatra, surprised and hopeful, exclaims : 
 " Widow! Charmian^ hark.'' 
 
 and the messenger, apparently growing bolder, and for 
 every reason wishing to please, adds : 
 " And I do think she's thirty." 
 
 Cleopatra, beginning to favour him, asks : 
 " Bear'st thou her face in mind? is't long or round?" 
 
 The messenger, becoming more confident, replies : 
 " Round, even to faultiness. 
 
 Cleopatra, gradually relieved, observes : 
 
 " For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so. 
 Her hair, what colour ? " 
 
 The messenger, apparently now at his ease, answers : 
 
 " Brown, madam ; and her forehead 
 As low as she would wish it." 
 
 Cleopatra, greatly consoled and almost grateful, rejoins : 
 
 " There's gold for thee : 
 Thou must not take my former sharpness ill. 
 I will employ thee back again ; I find thee 
 Most fit for business." 
 
 And then when he is gone, she exclaims to Charmian, 
 
 referring to Octavia. 
 
 " Why, methinks, by him, 
 This creature's no such thing." 
 
 and hoping from Octavia's reported appearance that 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 135 
 
 Antony will soon tire of her and be again devoted to 
 herself, Cleopatra exclaims cheerfully : 
 " All may be well enough.'' 
 
 To which the complaisant Charmian dutifully replies : 
 
 " I warrant you, madam." 
 
 The next scene is in Antony's temporary abode at 
 
 Athens, between Octavia and him. Antony already 
 
 contemplates returning to Egypt, but now complains to 
 
 Octavia of her brother, whom he accuses of making a 
 
 new war on Pompey, and also of speaking contemptuously 
 
 of himself Evidently no firm friendship was likely to 
 
 last long between such opposing characters as the proud, 
 
 selfish, cunning Antony, and the calm, resolute, ambitious 
 
 young Caesar. Octavia, though little described in this 
 
 play^ yet seems one of the most amiable of Shakespeare's 
 
 female characters, and to some extent resembles Cordelia 
 
 in King Lear. A princess so mild, pure, and gentle, 
 
 placed between ambitious men like Antony and young 
 
 Caesar, owing duty to both, certainly occupies a very 
 
 difficult position, admirably described in her pathetic 
 
 reply to her husband's complaints of her brother. She 
 
 answers : 
 
 ' ' O my good lord ! 
 Believe not all ; or, if you must believe, 
 Stomach not all ! A more unhappy lady, 
 If this division chance, ne'er stood between. 
 Praying for both parts ; 
 The good gods will mock me presently. 
 When I shall pray, ' O ! bless my lord and husband^ 
 Undo that prayer by crying out as loud, 
 ' O ! bless my brother. ' Husband win, win brother, 
 Prays, and destroys the prayer, no midway 
 'Twixt these extremes at all." 
 
 Antony, a man utterly unworthy of Octavia, and likely 
 
 incapable of quite understanding such a virtuous character, 
 
 then speaks courteously about her return to Rome, which 
 
 she had apparently requested, that she might mediate 
 
 there between them, and says at last : 
 
 " Provide your going ; 
 Choose your own company, and command what cost 
 Your heart has mind to." 
 
136 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The next short scene is also at Athens, between 
 Antony's followers, Enobarbus and Eros, who perhaps 
 naturally, though unfairly, blame Caesar for his quarrel 
 with their leader, evidently foreseeing a war between them. 
 It seems that the dull Lepidus has now also offended 
 Caesar, so that the Triumvirate is completely broken up. 
 Eros exclaims, indignant against Caesar, and alluding to 
 Lepidus : 
 
 " Caesar, having made use of him in the wars 'gainst Pompey, presently 
 denied him rivality, would not let him partake in the glory of the action; 
 and, not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to 
 Pompey ; upon his own appeal, seizes him ; so the poor third is up, till death 
 enlarge his confine." 1 
 
 Enobarbus : 
 
 " Then, world. 
 
 Throw between them all the food thou hast, 
 They'll grind the one the other. Where's Antony ? " 
 Eros: 
 
 " He's walking in the garden — thus : and spurs 
 The rush that lies before him ; cries, ' Fool Lepidus ! ' " 
 
 Antony evidently foresees and regrets Caesar's absolute 
 power in Rome, and despises the unlucky Lepidus for 
 being so easily deposed by his youthful yet far more 
 astute colleague. The following scene is in Rome, where 
 Caesar, with his future great minister Mecaenas and his 
 adherent Agrippa, are indignant with Antony. Caesar's 
 anger is now almost beyond the control of his firm spirit, 
 and he informs his two confidants that Antony, now in 
 Egypt, is behaving like an absolute ruler, and again under 
 Cleopatra's influence. Ctesar, addressing both, says : 
 " Concemning Rome, he has done all this, and more, 
 
 In Alexandria ; here's the manner of 't ; 
 I' the market-place, on a tribunal silver'd, 
 Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold 
 Were publicly enthroned." 
 
 In this denunciation of Antony, Caesar mentions 
 Cleopatra's reputed son by Julius Caesar called Caesarion ; 
 
 ' Participation. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 137 
 
 but this youth, who was probably an interesting character, 
 being born of such illustrious parents, and well worthy of 
 description, is never introduced in this play. Mecaenas 
 and Agrippa, with the shocked feelings of proud Romans, 
 
 exclaim to Caesar : 
 
 "Let Rome be thus 
 Inform'd." 
 Agrippa : 
 
 " Who, queasy with his insolence 
 Already, will their good thoughts call from him." 
 
 Caesar then says Antony is making accusation against 
 him of having made war on Sextus Pompey, and adds : 
 
 " Lastly, he frets 
 That Lepidus of th'; Triumvirate 
 Should be deposed ; ani being, that we detain 
 All his revenue. 
 
 I have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel ; 
 That he his high authority abused. 
 And did deserve his change. " 
 
 During Caesar's censure on Antony and Lepidus, no 
 longer his . ",liow-triumvirs, Octavia appears, returned 
 from Greece to Rome. Though Caesar knows all about 
 Antony's late proceedings, Octavia has heard nothing of 
 them, and he with affectionate sympathy asks : 
 " Why have you stol'n upon us thus? 
 
 The wife of Antony 
 Should have an army for an usher, and 
 The neighs of horse to tell of her approach 
 Long ere she did appear ; 
 
 We should have met you 
 
 By sea and land, supplying every st^e 
 
 With an augmented greeting. " 
 
 Octavia innocently replies in explanation : 
 
 " To come thus was I not constrain'd, but did it 
 On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony, 
 Hearing that you prepared for war, acquainted 
 My grieved ear withal ; whereon, I begg'd 
 His pardon for return. " 
 
 Caesar, with suppressed yet deep indignation against 
 Antony, scornfully replies : 
 
 ' ' Which soon he granted. 
 Being an obstruct 'tween his lust and him. " 
 
138 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Octavia, surprised and shocked, exclaims : 
 " Do not say so, my lord." 
 
 and he replies : 
 
 ' ' I have eyes upon him. 
 And his affairs come to me on the wind. 
 Where is he now ? " 
 
 Evidently Caesar employs spies on Antony, and knows 
 thus all about him, while Octavia, quite unsuspicious, 
 replies : 
 
 "My lord, in Athens.'' 
 
 Then comes the terrible revelation from her fond 
 brother's lips : 
 
 ' ' No, my most wronged sister ; Cleopatra 
 Hath nodded him to her." 
 
 He then tells Octavia that Antony is inciting the 
 many tributary kings obeying Rome to revolt against 
 him who is now acknowledged as chief ruler at Rome, 
 and then adds a beautiful greeting : 
 
 "Welcome to Rome ; 
 Nothing more dear to me. You are abused 
 Beyond the mark of thought, and the high gods, 
 To do you justice, make their ministers 
 Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort. 
 And ever welcome to us." 
 
 The wise statesman Mecaenas, destined to future fame 
 
 under young Caesar, then addresses Octavia in respectful 
 
 and sympathetic words : 
 
 "Welcome, dear madam. 
 Each heart in Rome does love and pity you ; 
 Only the adulterous Antony, most large 
 In his abominations, turns you off. 
 And gives his potent regiment ' to a trull 
 That noises it against us." 
 
 Octavia, always mild and calm, only exclaims : 
 
 "Is it so, sir?" 
 
 And her brother, resolutely awaiting the future for 
 which his firm spirit seems always prepared, replies : 
 
 " Most certain. Sister, welcome ; pray you. 
 Be ever known to patience ; my dear'st sister ! " 
 
 1 Rule. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 139 
 
 Amid all the ambitious warriors and dangerous in- 
 trigues at this stormy period, Octavius and his sister 
 seem to represent a moral and enlightened age, and 
 to understand or appreciate each other more than any one 
 else' understands them. The next scene reverts to Egypt, 
 at Antony's camp, where Cleopatra quarrels with Eno- 
 barbus, Antony's follower, who now foresees his leader's 
 ruin under her influence in the coming war with Caesar, 
 and irritates her by opposing her being with Antony in 
 war time. He says : 
 
 "Your presence needs must puzzle Antony ; 
 
 Take from his heart, take from his brain, from's time, 
 
 What should not then be spared. He is already 
 
 Traduced for levity, and 'tis said in Rome 
 
 That Photinus an eunuch and your maids 
 
 Manage this war." 
 
 Cleopatra answers this reasonable remonstrance with 
 a burst of passion denouncing Rome and Romans : 
 
 " Sink Rome, and their tongues rot 
 That speak against us ! A charge we bear i' the war, 
 And, as the president of my kir^om, will 
 Appear there for a man. Speak not against it ; 
 I will not stay behind." 
 
 Enobarbus, knowing he can prevail nothing against her, 
 
 helplessly replies : 
 
 "Nay, I have done." 
 
 / And Antony enters, whom she persuades to oppose 
 ' Caesar by sea, against the advice of Enobarbus and another 
 officer Canidius. Antony in this case, as in others, yields 
 to her, and Enobarbus foresees the unfortunate result. 
 The Egyptian fleet took to flight either through fear or 
 treachery, Antony himself follows it, while his Roman 
 adherents Enobarbus, Scarus, and Canidius, despair of 
 Antony, and view him as almost a madman, hopelessly 
 opposing the victorious young Caesar, who now heads and 
 represents by far the majority of their fellow-countrymen. 
 Enobarbus exclaims full of shame at beholding the 
 Egyptian flight : 
 
 " Naught, naught, I can behold no longer. 
 The Antoniad, the E^;yptian admiral, 
 With all their sixty, fly, and ttirn the rudder ; 
 To see't mine eyes are blasted." 
 
MO SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 His fellow adherent Scarus now enters full of passionate 
 indignation at the disgraceful flight, and laying the blame 
 on Cleopatra, Enobarbus asks : 
 
 " What's thy passion?" 
 
 and Scarus replies : 
 
 " The greater can tie of the world is lost 
 With very ignorance ; we have kiss'd away 
 Kingdoms and provinces. 
 
 Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt, 
 
 Whom leprosy o'ertake ! i' the midst of the fight, 
 
 Hoists sails and flies. " 
 Enobarbus : 
 
 "That I beheld: 
 Mine eyes did sicken at the sight." 
 
 Scarus continues : 
 
 " She once being loof d. 
 The noble ruin of her magic, Antony, 
 Claps on his sea- wing, and like a doting mallard. 
 Leaving the iight in height, flies after her. 
 I never saw an action of such shame." 
 
 Canidius appears with the same news, and intends 
 joining Csesar, while Enobarbus and Scarus, though losing 
 all confidence in Antony, cannot resolve yet to desert him. 
 Canidius exclaims : 
 
 " To Caesar will I render 
 My legions and my horse ; six kings already 
 Show me the way of yielding." 
 
 He likely alludes to some tributary princes under 
 Roman rule, but Enobarbus replies : 
 
 " I'll yet follow 
 The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason 
 Sits in the wind against me." 
 
 The next scene shows Antony in Alexandria with 
 attendants. His proud spirit humbled yet confused by 
 sudden defeat, now in the temporary absence of Cleopatra 
 his evil genius reveals itself partly in words of great power. 
 They seem a confused record of former triumphs, mingled 
 with utter depression while under Cleopatra's fatal in- 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 141 
 
 fluence, which he knows is hastening his ruin yet cannot 
 resist. He exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Hark ! the land bids me tread no more upon't ; 
 It is ashamed to bear me. Friends, come hither ; 
 I am so lated in the world that I 
 Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship 
 Laden with gold ; take that, divide it ; fly. 
 And make your peace with Csesar." 
 
 His devoted followers exclaim : 
 
 " Fly ! not we." 
 
 and he rejoins in remorseful despair : 
 
 " I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards 
 To run and show their shoulders. 
 Friends, be gone ; 
 
 I have myself resolved upon a course 
 Which has no need of you ; be gone: 
 My treasure's in the harbour, take it. 
 
 Friends, be gone ; you shall 
 
 Have letters from me to some friends that will 
 
 Sweep your way for you. Pray you, look not sad, 
 
 Leave me, I pray, a little ; pray you now : 
 
 Nay, do so ; for, indeed, I have lost command, 
 
 Therefore I pray you. I'll see you by and by." [Siis down. 
 
 While Antony is thus unable to speak more, overcome 
 
 both in mind and body by emotion, Cleopatra enters led 
 
 as if exhausted by Charmian and Iras, while Eros, 
 
 Antony's faithful adherent, follows them. Antony at first 
 
 seems almost too confused to recognise her, and his 
 
 distracted mind vaguely reverts to scenes of his former 
 
 triumphs. He exclaims as if to himself: 
 
 "I struck 
 The lean and wrinkled Cassius ; and 'twas I 
 That the mad Briitus ended : 
 
 Yet now — No matter.' 
 
 Eros, perceiving his absence of mind, announces 
 Cleopatra's presence, and he then exclaims in sad 
 reproach : 
 
 " O ! whither hast thou led me, Egypt ? " 
 
 while she replies : 
 
 " Forgive my fearful sails ! I little thought 
 You would have followed. " 
 
142 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and he rejoins, evidently relenting : 
 
 " Egypt, thou knew'st too well 
 My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings, 
 And thou shouldst tow me after ; o'er my spirit 
 Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that 
 Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods 
 Command me. " 
 
 Cleopatra exclaims : 
 
 " O ! my pardon." 
 
 and Antony, yielding yet more, continues : 
 "Now I must 
 To the young man send humble treaties, dodge 
 And palter in the shifts of lowness. 
 
 You did know 
 
 How much you were my conqueror, and that 
 My sword, made weak by my affection, would 
 Obey it on all cause." 
 
 Cleopatra again asks pardon, and Antony, now quite 
 won over to her, exclaims with passionate, doting fondness : 
 
 ' ' Fall not a tear, I say ; one of them rates 
 All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss ; 
 Even this repays me." 
 
 and then in reviving spirits calls out : 
 
 "Some wine, within there, and our viands ! Fortune knows 
 We scorn her most when most she offers blows." 
 
 Octavius Caesar, " the young man," is now advancing 
 
 with his army against Antony, who sends him peace 
 
 proposals in rather humble terms, only stipulating that he 
 
 may be left undisturbed in Egypt or in Athens, while 
 
 I Cleopatra also sends to the young conqueror, owning his 
 
 ; supremacy, and asking that her children, who are never 
 
 introduced in the play, may succeed her in nominal 
 
 authority in Egypt, but as Roman subjects. Octavius, 
 
 however, now knowing that he is already almost master 
 
 of the Egyptian situation, refuses all terms with Antony, 
 
 while consenting to treat with Cleopatra provided she : 
 
 " From Egypt drives her all-disgraced friend, 
 Or take his life there." 
 
 He then sends his trusted follower, Thyreus, to 
 Cleopatra, wishing to detach her from Antony, and gain 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 143 
 
 her over apparently at least to his side. Thyreus departs 
 on his rather dangerous mission, and then Enobarbus, 
 devoted to Antony, reproaches Cleopatra as the cause of 
 his master's ruin. She asks, being now sure of her recon- 
 ciliation with Antony : 
 
 " Is Antony or we in fault for this ? " 
 
 Enobarbus replies with deep meaning : 
 
 ' ' Antony only, that would make his will 
 Lord of his reason. What though you fled 
 From that great face of war, 
 
 AVhy should he follow ? 
 
 'Twas a shame no less 
 
 Than was his loss, to course your flying flags. 
 
 And leave his navy gazing." 
 
 Cleopatra, knowing this to be true, only replies : 
 "Prithee, peace.'' 
 
 and Antony enters with his envoy, Euphronius, who has 
 brought him Caesar's haughty reply. The older triumvir 
 roused to anger, and always remembering the comparative 
 youth of his former colleague, says to Cleopatra : 
 
 " To the boy Csssar send this grizzled head 
 And he will fill thy wishes to the brim 
 With principalities." 
 
 Cleopatra asks, as if shocked : 
 
 "That head, my lord?" 
 
 and he resumes : 
 
 " To him again. Tell him he wears the rose 
 Of youth upon him, from which the world should note 
 Something particular, his coins, ships, legions. 
 May be a coward's, whose ministers would prevail 
 Under the service of a child as soon 
 As i' the command of Csesar ; I dare him therefore 
 To lay his gay comparisons apart. 
 And answer me declined, sword against sword, 
 Ourselves alone. I'll write it ; follow me." 
 
 Antony goes out with Euphronius, by whom he intends 
 sending a challenge to personal combat with swords to 
 Caesar. When they are gone, Enobarbus, who well knows 
 the characters, relative positions, and designs of the two 
 
144 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Roman leaders, exclaims to himself in sad sarcasm, pitying 
 the now reckless Antony : 
 
 " Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar will 
 Unstate his happiness, and be staged to the show 
 Against a sworder ! 
 
 That he should dream, 
 Knowing all measures, the fiill Csesar will 
 Answer his emptiness ! Csesar, thou hast subdued 
 His judgement too." 
 
 Enobarbus well knows that Caesar, commanding almost 
 the entire forces of Rome, and acknowledged there as 
 supreme ruler, would never endanger his almost certain 
 triumph in a personal encounter with an old skilled warrior 
 like Antony, now distrusted, and abandoned by the 
 majority of their fellow Romans. Enobarbus now thinks 
 his master, Antony, almost out of his wits, under Cleo- 
 patra's influence, and hardly knows whether he should 
 abandon him or not ; as he adds still to himself : 
 ' ' Mine honesty and I begin to square. 
 
 The loyalty well held to fools does make 
 
 Our faith mere folly." 
 
 Thyreus, sent by Csesar, now enters, wishing to see 
 
 Cleopatra alone, but she bids him proceed at once, and 
 
 he tells her that Caesar knows she fears Antony more 
 
 than loves him, to which she indicates assent by saying 
 
 of Caesar: 
 
 " He is a god, and knows 
 What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded. 
 But conquer'd merely." 
 
 From this admission it seems likely that had Cleopatra 
 deceived Octavius Caesar, he would soon have replaced 
 Antony in her favour, and Charmian again been in danger 
 of " bloody teeth " had she ventured to praise the super- 
 seded Antony. Enobarbus, enraged at her treachery to 
 his luckless chief, departs to acquaint him, and the artful 
 Thyreus proceeds : 
 
 " Shall I say to Csesar 
 What you require of him ? for he partly begs 
 To be desired to give. 
 
 It would warm his spirits 
 
 To hear from me you had left Antony." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 145 
 
 , Cleopatra, evidently preferring her own interests as 
 } far as she can understand them at this time, to all other 
 . considerations, replies humbly : 
 
 " Tell him, I am prompt 
 To lay my crown at 's feet, and there to kneel ; 
 Tell him, from his all-obeying breath I hear 
 The doom of Egypt. " 
 
 Thyreus replies : 
 
 ' ' 'Tis your noblest course. " 
 
 and is kissing her hand, when Antony, accompanied by 
 Enobarbus, enters in a perfect fury, savagely ordering the 
 unlucky messenger, Thyreus, to be whipped. Enobarbus, 
 comparing Caesar and Antony, says to himself, as the 
 attendants drag away Thyreus for punishment: 
 
 " 'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp 
 Than with an old one dying." 
 
 Then Antony fiercely reproaches Cleopatra, but only 
 in a fit of temporary passion : 
 
 " I found you as a morsel cold upon 
 Dead Csesar's trencher ; nay, you were a fr^ment 
 Of Cneius Pompey's ; 
 
 To let a fellow that will take rewards 
 
 Be familiar with 
 
 My playfellow, your hand ; this kingly seal 
 
 And plighter of high hearts." 
 
 He then sends back the beaten Thyreus with defiant 
 words to Caesar, and when he is gone, exclaims to 
 Cleopatra : 
 
 ' ' To flatter Caesar would you mingle eyes 
 With one that ties his points, 
 
 Cold-hearted toward me ? ' 
 
 Then Cleopatra, resuming her coaxing language, 
 affectionately answers : 
 
 "Ah ! dear, if I be so, 
 From my cold heart let heaven engender hail, 
 And poison it in the source." 
 
 After a few more protesting words Antony is again 
 
 K 
 
146 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 won over to her, and regaining some of his former spirit, 
 exclaims : 
 
 "I am satisfied. 
 Csesar sits down in Alexandria, where 
 I will oppose his fate. 
 
 I will be treble-sinew'd, hearted, breathed, 
 
 And fight maliciously ; 
 
 Now I'll set my teeth, 
 
 And send to darkness all that stop me. Come, 
 
 Let's have one other gaudy night : call to me 
 
 All my sad captains ; fill our bowls once more ; 
 
 Let's mock the midnight bell." 
 
 Cleopatra, whose only policy now is to encourage him, 
 or, as some might say, " to fool him to the top of his bent," 
 exclaims : 
 
 " It is my birthday ; 
 I had thought to have held it poor ; but since my lord 
 Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra." 
 
 and he rejoins, trying to rouse his spirits to the utmost : 
 
 " Come on, my queen ; 
 There's sap in't yet. The next time I do fight 
 I'll make death love me, for I will contend 
 Even with his pestilent scythe." 
 
 He goes out with his enchantress, and Enobarbus, 
 now despairing of enlightening Antony about Cleopatra's 
 treachery, after his failure in exposing Thyreus, resolves 
 to abandon his infatuated leader. Believing still that 
 Antony's sudden resumption of courage is merely the effect 
 of furious desperation, Enobarbus exclaims to himself : 
 "Now he'll outstare the lightning. 
 
 And I see still, 
 
 A diminution in our captain's brain 
 
 Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason 
 
 It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek 
 
 Some way to leave him." 
 
 In fact, Enobarbus perceives that in following Antony 
 he is practically favouring the arts or interests of Cleopatra. 
 He is evidently still agitated in mind at deserting his 
 renowned leader, who, having done so much to promote the 
 glory of Rome, is now condemned or distrusted by nearly 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 147 
 
 all Romans as an infatuated enemy of his country. 'The 
 next act and first scene introduces Caesar reading Antony's 
 defiant letter to himself, and attended by Mecaenas and 
 Agrippa. Caesar, at once scornful and indignant, exclaims : 
 
 "He calls me boy, and chides, as he had power 
 To beat me out of Egypt ; my messenger 
 He hath whipp'd with rods ; dares me to personal combat, 
 Ccesar to Antony. Let the old rufiSan know 
 I have many other ways to die ; meantime 
 Laugh at his challenge." 
 
 Mecaenas advises Caesar to hasten the impending battle : 
 
 " Give him no breath, but now 
 Make boot of his distraction ; never anger 
 Made good guard for itself." 
 
 Caesar agrees, ordering preparation for speedy encoun- 
 ter, and then as if recollection of former friendship and 
 alliance flashed across his mind, exclaims : 
 "Poor Antony !" 
 
 In the next scene Antony receives Cassar's refusal of 
 
 his personal challenge, and, evidently disheartened about 
 
 the approaching contest, yet trying to bear up, addresses 
 
 some of his adherents before Cleopatra and Enobarbus. 
 
 He utters foreboding words which surprise both, but 
 
 especially Cleopatra. He exclaims, taking several in 
 
 turn by the hand : 
 
 " Thou hast been rightly honest ; so hast thou : 
 Thou and thou ; and thou ; you have served me well. 
 And kings have been your fellows." 
 
 Cleopatra asks Enobarbus what Antony means, and 
 
 his old adherent replies : 
 
 " Tis one of those odd tricks which sorrow shoots 
 Out of the mind." 
 
 and Antony proceeds : 
 
 " Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night; 
 Scant not my cups, and make as much of me 
 As when mine empire was your fellow too. 
 And suffered my command." 
 
 Again the anxious Cleopatra asks Enobarbus aside 
 what his chief means, and he replies : 
 
 "To make his followers weep." 
 
148 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Antony proceeds in the same strain : 
 
 "Tend me to-night; 
 May be it is the period of your duty ; 
 ^ Haply you shall not see me more ; or if, 
 
 A mangled shadow ; perchance to-morrow 
 You'll serve another master. I look on you 
 As one that takes his leave." 
 
 Enobarbus entreats him to encourage rather than 
 
 depress his followers, when Antony, trying to assume a 
 
 light heart which he is far from feeling, exclaims : 
 
 " My hearty friends, 
 You take me in too dolorous a sense, 
 
 Know, my hearts, 
 
 I hope well of to-morrow ; and will lead you 
 
 Where rather I'll expect victorious life 
 
 Than death and honour. Let's to supper, come, 
 
 And drown consideration." 
 
 These words show Antony's confused if not desperate 
 state of mind at this time. He is completely ruled by 
 devotion to Cleopatra, and whenever he thinks of anything 
 but her, sees nothing but ruin before him. When he next 
 appears Cleopatra herself helps to arm him for the impend- 
 ing battle, and her skill in doing so the enamoured Antony 
 praises at the expense of his devoted servant Eros. Cleo- 
 patra asks : 
 
 " Is not this buckled well? " 
 
 and he answers : 
 
 "Rarely, rarely:" 
 
 Thou fumblest, Eros ; and my queen's a squire 
 More tight at this than thou ; dispatch. O love ! 
 That thou couldst see my wars to-day. 
 
 I'll leave thee 
 
 Now, like a man of steel. Adieu." 
 
 He goes forth to the battle, and Cleopatra, becoming 
 despondent as to its result, says to Charmian : 
 
 " He goes forth gallantly. That he and Csesar might 
 Determine this great war in single fight ! 
 Then Antony, — but now — ^Well, on." 
 
 She well knows Caesar would be no match for such an 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 149 
 
 able " sworder," as Enobarbus termed Antony, but she also 
 knows that Csesar's army, composed likely of the best 
 Roman troops, is pretty sure of victory. In the next short 
 scene, Antony hears from a soldier that Enobarbus has 
 joined Caesar. His desertion instead of enraging Antony, 
 as might have been expected, only depresses the un- 
 fortunate general, whose conscience apparently often 
 reproaches him for his unpatriotic conduct towards his 
 own country. The doomed leader therefore mournfully 
 exclaims to his attendant : 
 
 " Go, Eros, send his treasure after ; do it ; 
 Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him, 
 I will subscribe, gentle adieus and greetings ; 
 Say that I wish he never find more cause 
 To change a master. O ! my fortunes have 
 Corrupted honest men." 
 
 Antony well knows that Enobarbus, hitherto his most 
 faithful follower, is also a true Roman in feeling, and would 
 never have deserted him, had not Antony himself turned 
 against the interests of the Roman empire. Whenever 
 Antony is not under Cleopatra's influence, he sees and 
 knows his real duties, but when he thinks of or sees her, 
 all duty to Rome is gone from his mind. This Enobarbus 
 knows, and Antony's conscience confirms it. The next 
 scene introduces Caesar with adherents, and also Enobarbus. 
 The former exclaims, anticipating the result of the coming 
 battle : 
 
 " The time of universal peace is near ; 
 
 Prove this a prosperous day, the three-nook'd vforld 
 
 Shall bear the olive freely." 
 
 In all this play there is no other sentence, for its length, 
 so sublime and full of meaning. It shows the desire of 
 the future Augustus that his vast Roman empire, in its 
 three-nook'd divisions of Europe, Asia, and Africa, should, 
 after so many terrible wars, enjoy the inestimable blessing 
 of profound peace. The habit of terming the Roman 
 dominion " the world " was apparently the usual custom of 
 the proud Romans, thus the well-known record in the Bible 
 that a decree came from this same Caesar Augustus " that 
 all the world should be taxed," conveys the same idea, yet 
 
ISO SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Greeks, Romans, and Jews well knew that Eastern Asia, 
 Northern Europe, and Southern Africa, were quite inde- 
 pendent of Roman power. Shakespeare, however, attributes 
 this exaggerated expression to young Csesar at perhaps 
 the most important or trying moment of his eventful 
 career. To a man of his philanthropic purposes and grand 
 ideas the opposition of such selfish, cruel profligates as 
 Antony and Cleopatra was merely a temporary obstacle 
 to his enlightened views, destined, as he seems to anticipate, 
 to rule the Roman empire during its noblest period of 
 happiness and true glory. Meanwhile Enobarbus, still 
 personally loving Antony, reproaches himself for desertion 
 when the battle begins, at first rather in Antony's favour, 
 and Cleopatra congratulates him on apparent success. 
 Antony in this brief triumph shows his former savage 
 spirit, exclaiming to his men : 
 
 " To-morrow, 
 Before the sun shall see us, we'll spill the blood 
 That has to-day escaped. I thank you ail." 
 
 He then presents his brave follower Scarus to Cleopatra, 
 
 exclaiming in wild voluptuous excitement : 
 
 " To this great fairy I'll commend thy acts, 
 Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o' the world ! 
 Chain mine arm'd neck ; leap thou, attire and all, 
 Through proof of harness to my heart. " 
 
 Cleopatra replies : 
 
 " Lord of lords ! 
 O infinite virtue ! comest thou smiling from 
 The world's great snare uncaught ? " 
 
 He rejoins : 
 
 " My nightingale, 
 We have beat them to their beds. 
 
 Give me thy hand : 
 
 Through Alexandria make a jolly march ; 
 
 Had our great palace the capacity 
 
 To camp this host, we all would sup together 
 
 And drink carouses to the next day's fate." 
 
 The next scene introduces Enobarbus thinking himself 
 alone at night, but observed and heard by some of Caesar's 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 151 
 
 soldiers. This luckless man cannot forgive his own 
 desertion from Antony. He now apparently dies of a 
 broken heart, and exclaims to the moon : 
 
 " Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon, 
 When men revolted shall upon record 
 Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did 
 Before thy face repent ! 
 
 O sovereign mistress of true melancholy. 
 The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me, 
 That life, a very rebel to my will, 
 May hang no longer on" me ; 
 
 O Antony ! O Antony ! " [Dies. 
 
 Caesar's soldiers find he is dead, though they first think 
 him asleep. Antony's complete defeat now ensues, though 
 not at length described, and again Antony lays the blame 
 on Cleopatra with whom he is now more furious than before, 
 as he suspects she wishes to be friends with Caesar. He 
 exclaims to Scarus before calling Eros : 
 
 ' ' All is lost ! 
 This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me ; 
 
 Has sold me to this novice, 
 
 Bid them all fly ; be gone. " {Exit Scarus. 
 
 ' ' O sun ! thy uprise shall I see no more ; 
 Fortune and Antony part here ; 
 
 Betray'd I am. 
 
 O ! this false soul of Egypt ! " 
 
 He calls for Eros, but Cleopatra alone enters, and he 
 drives her off, exclaiming : 
 
 " Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving. 
 And blemish Csesar's triumph. Let him take thee, 
 And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians ; 
 Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot 
 Of all thy sex." 
 
 She departs, and he vainly calls on Eros, and exclaims 
 in reckless rage: ^ 
 
 " The witch shall die : /' 
 
 To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall 
 Under this plot ; she dies for't." 
 
152 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 He departs, still calling on Eros, and the next scene 
 introduces Cleopatra with Charmian, Iras, and Mardian. 
 She is now really afraid of Antony's fury, and again 
 resolves to deceive and win him back by pretending death. 
 She retires to a monument, and sends Mardian to Antony 
 to acquaint him of her death. She exclaims with her 
 usual artfulness: 
 
 " Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself; 
 Say that the last I spoke was ' Antony,' 
 And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, 
 Mardian, and bring me how he -takes my death." 
 
 In the next scene Antony is with Eros, his chief 
 remaining follower, and tells him he believes Cleopatra is 
 secretly allied with Caesar, exclaiming : 
 
 " I made these wars for Egypt ; and the queen. 
 Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine, 
 
 She, teros, has 
 
 Pack'd cards with Cxsar, and false-play'd my glory 
 
 Unto an enemy's triumph. 
 
 Nay, weep not, gentle Eros ; there is left us 
 
 Ourselves to end ourselves." 
 
 While thus indicating suicide as the last resource, like 
 many other Romans when desperate, the eunuch Mardian 
 enters, and Antony at sight of him exclaims in sudden 
 rage: 
 
 "O! thy vile lady ; 
 She has robb'd me of my sword." 
 
 But he gravely answers : 
 
 " No, Antony ; 
 My mistress loved thee. 
 
 The last she spake 
 
 Was ' Antony ! most noble Antony ! ' " 
 
 and he assures Antony of her death. The artifice again 
 succeeds, and the broken-hearted warrior, once the glory 
 of Rome, but now so changed, exclaims to Eros in final 
 despair : 
 
 " Unarm, Eros ; the long day's task is done, 
 And we must sleep." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 153 
 
 He then disarms with the help of Eros, saying : 
 
 "Off, pluck oflF: 
 The seven-fold shield of Ajax cannot keep 
 The battery from my heart. 
 
 Apace, Eros, apace. 
 
 No more a soldier ; bruised pieces, go ; 
 
 You have been nobly borne. From me awhile. " 
 
 Eros departs and Antony, then alone, exclaims : 
 
 ' ' I will o'ertake thee, Cleopatra, and 
 Weep for my pardon." 
 
 After more lamentation he calls Eros, and like many 
 other Roman heroes vainly urges his faithful follower to 
 slay him, saying that otherwise they will both be dragged 
 through the streets of Rome to grace Caesar's triumph amid 
 the insults of the mob. This idea drives Eros desperate, 
 and while pretending to kill Antony he slays himself 
 Then Antony exclaims as his faithful adherent falls : 
 
 "Thrice nobler than myself! 
 Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what 
 I should, and I couldst not." 
 
 He falls on his sword fatally wounded, vainly entreat- 
 ing his attendant Dercetas and others to despatch him. 
 They refuse, but Dercetas, apparently wishing to please 
 Caesar, exclaims : 
 
 " Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly. 
 This sword but shown to Caesar, with this tidings. 
 Shall enter me with him. " 
 
 Diomed, a servant of Cleopatra, now enters, saying the 
 queen is not dead, but " lock'd in her monument." Antony 
 causes himself to be carried to her, addressing these 
 afifecting words to his followers : 
 
 " Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides ; 
 'Tis the last service that I shall command you. 
 
 Take me up ; 
 
 I have led you oft ; carry me now, good friends. 
 
 And have my thanks for all." 
 
 When drawn up into the monument, he warns 
 Cleopatra, who is now grieving wildly over him, to trust 
 
154 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 none about Caesar except Proculeius, and entreats her not 
 
 to sorrow for his death, exclaiming : 
 
 " But please your thoughts 
 In feeding them with those my former fortunes 
 Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o' the world. 
 The noblest ; and do now not basely die, 
 
 A Roman by a Roman 
 Valiantly vanquish'd. " 
 
 He dies, and Cleopatra exclaims : 
 
 ' ' The crown o' the earth doth melt. 
 
 The soldier's pole is fall'n : young boys and girls 
 Are level now with men ; 
 And there is nothing left remarkable 
 Beneath the visiting moon." 
 
 then faints, but soon recovers, saying to Charmian and 
 
 Iras : 
 
 ' ' Come away ; 
 This case of that huge spirit now is cold ; 
 Ah ! women, women. Come ; we have no friend 
 But resolution, and the briefest end." 
 
 ! 
 
 Although in her present excitement she seems to con- 
 
 r template suicide, Clgopatra has not yet given up all hope 
 
 ; of captivating Cajsar.j In the next scene Caesar hears from 
 
 Dercetas of Antony's death. He and his distinguished 
 
 Roman followers, Mecaenas and Agrippa, cannot help 
 
 alike lamenting their illustrious fellow-countryman's death 
 
 despite their indignation at his recent conduct. Young 
 
 Caesar exclaims : 
 
 " The death of Antony 
 Is not a single doom ; in the name lay 
 A moiety of the world." 
 
 Dercetas presents Antony's sword and announces his 
 suicide by it Caesar exclaims ; 
 
 " The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings 
 To wash the eyes of kings." 
 
 while Agrippa and Mecaenas in different words express a 
 
 similar admiration for the noble Roman. 
 
 Mecaenas : 
 
 " His taints and honours 
 Waged equal with him." 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 
 
 iSS 
 
 Agrippa : 
 
 " A rarer spirit never 
 Did steer humanity ; but you gods will give us 
 Some faults to make us men. Cresar is touch'd." 
 
 Mecaenas, observing this, exclaims : 
 
 ' ' When such a spacious mirror's set before him, 
 He needs must see himself." 
 
 Caesar, with many recollections of his former great ally 
 
 rushing on his mind, exclaims with natural sorrow : 
 
 "O Antony! 
 I have foUow'd thee to this ; 
 
 I must perforce 
 
 Have shown to thee such a declining day 
 
 Or look on thine ; we could not stall together 
 
 In the whole world. But yet let me lament. 
 
 That thou my brother, my competitor 
 In top of all design, my mate in empire. 
 
 That our stars, 
 
 Unreconcilable, should divide 
 Our equalness to this." 
 
 / A messenger from Cleopatra now comes, saying she 
 
 aAvaits from Caesar 
 
 ' " Instruction, 
 
 That she preparedly may frame herself 
 To the way she's forced to." 
 
 Caesar returns a favourable message, and commissions 
 
 Proculeius to assure Cleopatra that no shame is intended 
 
 towards her ; yet owns to his followers, when Cleopatra's 
 
 messenger is gone, his reasons for apparent favour. 
 
 " Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke 
 She do defeat us ; for her life in Rome 
 Would be eternal in our triumph." 
 
 These words prove that Octavius Caesar, despite many 
 noble qualities, thought it no shame to deceive a deceiver, 
 and that like most, if not all, of his fellow Romans, he 
 gloried in a public triumph, through the streets of the 
 capital, where prisoners were exposed to the insults, though 
 likely not to the violence of the populace. This' odious 
 practice, indulged in by nearly every Roman conqueror, 
 had caused many suicides by vanquished foes to escape 
 
iS6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 public disgrace. In this conduct towards Cleopatra 
 Caesar shows a duplicity, as well as vindictive pride un- 
 worthy of him, at least in modern estimation, which throws 
 a dark shade on his glory, though perhaps few if any of 
 his fellow-countrymen would have thought so. Doubt- 
 less, the wrong done to his virtuous sister, as well 
 as the alienation of Antony from Roman duty by the 
 arts of Cleopatra, specially exasperated Cffisar, and prob- 
 ably all Rome against her. Caesar in fact sees in 
 Cleopatra the enemy of his sister and of his country 
 combined, and it would have needed a religious faith en- 
 joining higher morality than Paganism to have taught 
 Caesar the duty of forgiving such a foe. The Roman 
 Paganism, despite its many noble principles, rarely if ever 
 checked or in any way censured the national delight, as 
 dear to Romans as bull fights are to this day in Christian 
 Spain, of public triumph over captives. Even in English 
 history till later years this odious custom was sometimes 
 followed. Shakespeare describes a notable, disgraceful 
 instance in Bolingbroke's, afterwards Henry IV.'s, triumph 
 over his luckless cousin, Richard II., the latter being led 
 captive through London streets, the mob cheering the 
 conqueror and hooting at the conquered.^ In the next 
 scene Cleopatra at first after Antony's death seems to 
 contemplate suicide, as she says to Charmain and Iras : 
 
 " My desolation does begin to make 
 A better life. 
 
 And it is great 
 
 To do that thing that ends all other deeds," 
 
 ^ " All tongues cried — ' God save thee, Bolingbroke,' 
 You would have thought the very windows spoke, 
 So many greedy looks of young and old 
 Through casements darted their desiring eyes 
 Upon his visage. 
 
 Whilst he from one side to the other turning 
 Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck 
 Bespoke them thus — .*- 
 
 ' I thank you, countrymen,' 
 Men's eyes did scowl on Richard, no man cried 
 ' God save him,' 
 But dust was thrown upon his sacred head." 
 
 —Richard II., Act V, 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 157 
 
 when Proculeius comes from Caesar through whom she 
 sends the request that she may retain Egypt for her son, 
 a prince who, as before observed, is never introduced in 
 this play. She also begs to see Caesar, when his guards, 
 ascending the monument, surround her, and she tries to 
 stab herself, but is prevented by Proculeius, who tries to 
 re-assure her in these words : 
 
 " Do not abuse my master's bounty by 
 The undoing of yourself ; let the world see 
 His nobleness well acted, which your death 
 Will never let come forth." 
 
 / Cleopatra then wildly declares that she will destroy 
 
 / herself rather than be led captive through Rome, exclaim- 
 
 / ing at last : 
 
 " Rather make 
 My country's high pjramids my gibbet, 
 And hang me up in chains." 
 
 Proculeius, after again trying to re-assure her, departs, 
 and Dolabella, Caesar's other officer, enters ; Cleopatra sees 
 or guesses that she is now a prisoner, and in excited words 
 praises Antony as if to relieve for the moment her 
 distracted mind : 
 
 " I dream'd there was an Emperor Antony : 
 
 His legs bestrid the ocean ; his rear'd arm 
 Crested the world ; 
 
 In his livery 
 
 Walk'd crowns and crownets, realms and islands were 
 
 As plates dropped from his pocket." 
 
 Dolabella feels, or pretends to feel, compassion for her, 
 which perceiving, the captive queen asks a question, and 
 receives an answer that decides her fate. 
 
 Cleopatra : 
 
 "I thank you, sir. 
 Know you what Csesar means to do with me ? " 
 
 Dolabella : 
 
 " I am loth to tell you what I would you knew." 
 
iS8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Cleopatra, guessing his meaning, asks : 
 " He'll lead me then in triumph ? " 
 
 and he replies : 
 
 " Madam, he will ; I know 't." 
 
 This answer Cleopatra well believes, and now Caesar 
 himself appears, to whom she kneels, while he says with 
 apparent graciousness : 
 
 ' ' Arise, you shall not kneel : 
 I pray you, rise ; rise, Egypt." 
 
 and she replies, perhaps still thinking she may win him 
 over: 
 
 " Sir, the gods 
 
 Will have it thus ; my master and my lord 
 
 I must obey." 
 
 and he replies, still in a gracious manner : 
 
 " Take to you no hard thoughts ; 
 The record of what injuries you did us, 
 Though written in our flesh, we shall remember 
 As things but done by chance." 
 
 Cleopatra, as if still trying to please or propitiate, 
 
 replies : 
 
 " Sole sir o' the world, 
 I cannot project mine own cause so well 
 To make it clear ; but do confess I have 
 Been laden with like frailties which before 
 Have often shamed our sex." 
 
 Caesar cannot but see in her the successful rival of his 
 sister, as the seducer of Antony. He indirectly warns her, 
 therefore, not to commit suicide, which he apprehends, 
 assuring her in guarded language of gentle treatment, 
 but she is destined to more humiliation, when she presents 
 him with an account of her money, plate, jewels, and 
 valuables, and summons her steward, Seleucus, to declare 
 that she withheld nothing. This man, either through rare 
 honesty or dread of Caesar, owns that she has reserved to 
 herself " enough to purchase " what she has made known. 
 This admission well-nigh confounds Cleopatra, while Caesar 
 either admires, or pretends to admire and excuse her 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 159 
 
 prudence. She then exclaims, still trying to deceive or 
 
 propitiate him : 
 
 " O Cassar ! what a wounding shame is this, 
 That thou, vouchsafing here to visit me, 
 Doing the honour of thy lordliness 
 To one so meek, that mine own servant should 
 Parcel the sum of my disgraces by 
 Addition of his envy. Say, good Cassar, 
 That I some lady trifles have reserved. 
 
 And say. 
 
 Some nobler token I have kept apart 
 For Livia and Octavia, to induce 
 Their mediation ; must I be unfolded 
 With one that I have bred ? " 
 
 / She then reproaches Seleucus, who withdraws, and 
 / Caesar, whom Cleopatra can never deceive, despite 
 her extraordinary arts, bids her a calm farewell, which 
 likewise does not deceive her. In fact, they thoroughly 
 understand one another's wishes and intentions. Yet a 
 greater contrast could hardly be than that of the grave, 
 calm, future " King of the world," anticipating a time 
 when under his rule a vast empire should enjoy complete 
 peace, and an artful, voluptuous, cruel woman, engrossed 
 by selfish enjoyment, and with no idea beyond it, though 
 endowed with rare talents and accomplishments alike 
 devoted to the same end. Caesar's last words to her are : 
 
 " And believe, 
 Cesar's no merchant to make prize with you 
 Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheer'd 
 
 Our care and pity is so much upon you. 
 That we remain your friend ; and so, adieu." 
 
 Cleopatra helplessly exclaims : 
 
 " My master, and my lord ! " 
 
 and he replies : 
 
 "Not so. Adieu," 
 
 and leaves her. She, however, guesses his intention about 
 
 the Roman triumph, and exclaims to her attendants : 
 
 " He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not 
 Be noble to myself." 
 
 Dolabella re-enters, and though faithful to Caesar, 
 
i6o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 yet reveals to Cleopatra what he knows to be his master's 
 future intentions in leading her a captive through Rome. 
 Convinced of this design, Cleopatra dismisses him, and, 
 addressing Charmian and Iras in passionate language, 
 describes the public disgrace which she believes awaits 
 them all in Rome. She exclaims : 
 
 " Mechanic slaves 
 With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall 
 Uplift us to the view ; the quick comedians 
 Extemporally will stage us, and present 
 Our Alexandrian revels. Antony 
 Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see 
 Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness. " 
 
 She thus tempts them as well as herself to commit 
 suicide to escape what she describes, and in strange 
 excitement recalling happy days with Antony, and even 
 expecting their renewal, bids Charmian : 
 
 "Go fetch 
 My best attires ; I am again for Cydnus, 
 To meet Mark Antony. 
 
 Bring our crown and all. " 
 
 A country man bearing figs now craves admittance, 
 and Cleopatra addresses him. This man is far more 
 like an English peasant than an Oriental, and may have 
 been sent for by Cleopatra to bring a deadly snake 
 among the fruit, as she exclaims : 
 
 "What poor an instrument 
 May do a noble deed ! he brings me liberty." 
 
 She then asks the man : 
 
 " Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there, 
 That kills and pains not ? " 
 
 The clown, evidently a comic, or strange character, 
 replies that he has the snake, and has known it kill many 
 people. He says : 
 
 " I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday ; a very honest woman, 
 but something given to lie, how she died of the biting of it. Truly, she 
 makes a very good report n' the worm, but he that believes all that they 
 say shall never be saved by half that they do. But this is most fallible, 
 the worm's an odd worm," 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA i6i 
 
 He sets down the basket, which Cleopatra apparently 
 retains containing figs and snakes, and he says : 
 " Give it nothing, I pray, for it is not worth the feeding." 
 Cleopatra : 
 
 "WiUiteatme?" 
 
 and he replies : 
 
 " You must not think I am so simple, but I know the devil himself will 
 not eat a woman ; I know that a woman is a dish for the gods." 
 
 Cleopatra : 
 
 " Well, get thee gone ; farewell." 
 
 and he replies : 
 
 " I wish you joy o' the worm," 
 
 and departs. Cleopatra then, full of the idea that she will 
 soon rejoin Antony, exclaims : 
 
 "Methinks I hear 
 Antony call ; I see him rouse himself 
 To praise my noble act." 
 
 Iras, apparently first bitten by the snake, falls and dies, 
 when Cleopatra exclaims : 
 
 " This proves me base : 
 If she first met the curled Antony, 
 He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss 
 Which is my heaven to have." 
 
 She then applies two asps in succession to her breast. 
 Charmian follows her example, and both perish apparently 
 without any dread of the next world, but eagerly expect- 
 ing a renewal of this world's happiness in it, and in the 
 most voluptuous forms. (There is really nothing truly 
 pathetic in these tragic events, if calmly considered. 
 Cleopatra's jealous dread of Iras dying first, lest Antony 
 should take a fancy to her, is almost ludicrous, according 
 to modern ideas. It shows, however, that instead of 
 apprehending the wrath of heathen deities, she merely 
 expects that the feelings and passions of this world will 
 be renewed in another, and be indulged in with more 
 safety. The Roman guards now rush in, and Caesar 
 
 L 
 
i62 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 himself soon follows to behold the last of Cleopatra and 
 her two ladies. At this moment Octavius Caesar doubtless 
 reveals his true feelings. Though endowed with many 
 noble qualities, he is yet by birth and education a Pagan 
 Roman, sharing, perhaps inevitably, the love of public 
 triumph, which specially inspired the most if not all of 
 his fellow-countrymen. As Mr Lecky observes : 
 
 " Historians rarely make sufficient allowance for the 
 degree in which the judgments and dispositions even of the 
 best men are coloured by the moral tone of the time, society, 
 and profession in which they lived." ^ 
 
 Octavius exclaims at seeing the dead Cleopatra, in 
 words revealing his baffled intentions : 
 
 " Bravest at the last, 
 She levell'd at our purposes, and being royal, 
 Took her own way. 
 
 High events as these 
 
 Strike those that make ihem." 
 
 He then signifies his speedy return to Rome, where a 
 most glorious reign is before the future Augustus. By 
 the Egyptian war he has alike vindicated Roman authority 
 by crushing Antony's practical revolt against it, and has 
 avenged his sister's wrongs. Young Ca;sar's great task 
 now is to confirm, strengthen, and in every way improve 
 and develop the noble empire now acknowledging him, and 
 admirably he accomplished it. As he himself had hoped, 
 the " three-nook'd world" of Roman dominion in Europe, 
 Asia, and Africa was now fated to enjoy under him not 
 only peace, but a period of real happine.ss and intellectual 
 glory hitherto unequalled perhaps in the history of man- 
 kind. Bacon's opinion of Augustus, expres.sed in vigorous 
 concise prose, much resembles the poetic;il description of 
 him by Shakespeare, in the successive plays of Julius 
 CcEsar and Antony and Cleopatra. 
 
 " If ever mortal had a great, serene, well-regulated mind, 
 it was Augustus Caesar. Augustus, sober and mindful 
 of his mortality, seemed to have thoroughly weighed 
 
 ' " Map of Life," chap. vi. 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 163 
 
 his ends and laid them down in admirable order. In 
 his youth he affected power, in his middle age, dignity, 
 in his decline of life, pleasure, and in his old age, 
 fame and the good of posterity."^ 
 
 His reign, called the Augustan Age, has ever been cele- 
 brated in subsequent history as combining the real happiness 
 of subjected millions in different parts of the world, with the 
 triumphs of art and literature in the Roman capital. At the 
 court of Augustus, his wise minister Mecaenas, and the gifted 
 poets, Horace and Virgil, alike enlightened and improved 
 their fellow-countrymen by their able administration and 
 attractive talents. This illustrious ruler and his noble 
 Roman contemporaries were fated to leave the changing 
 scene of this world's transitory glory, still believing that 
 singular, fantastic Faith, perhaps inevitably trusted during 
 centuries of what is now called religious ignorance. Yet 
 their Paganism certainly numbered among its votaries 
 some of the highest intellects, whose genius and wisdom, 
 bequeathed by art, literature, and legislation, remain the 
 study and the admiration of the subsequent Christian 
 world. As Gibbon observes : 
 
 " All the provinces of the empire were embellished by the 
 same liberal spirit of public magnificence, and were filled with 
 amphitheatres, theatres, temples, porticos, triumphal arches, 
 baths and aqueducts, all variously conducive to the health, 
 the devotion, and the pleasures of the meanest citizen." ^ 
 
 * Bacon's " Historical Essays." 
 
 2 "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,'' chap. ii. 
 
KING RICHARD III. 
 
 Though Richard III. may have been vindicated by some 
 historical writers, yet Shakespeare's sketch of this extra- 
 ordinary prince represents him a bold and crafty villain 
 from first to last.i In Henry VI. Shakespeare first 
 describes Richard aiding his brother Edward IV. to obtain 
 the crown, both by personal valour and earnest counsel. 
 In the opening of this most exciting play, the York faction, 
 of whom Richard of Gloucester was a foremost champion, 
 is completely triumphant. The Court in London is enjoy- 
 ing every kind of festivity ; the Lancastrian party, for a 
 time at least, completely vanquished, and peace is restored 
 in England. Yet the exulting triumph of the House of 
 York is fated to be short-lived, and its fall is finally 
 caused indirectly by the discontent of its brave champion, 
 Gloucester himself. In- all the London rejoicings and 
 palace festivities, in honour of his own victorious family, 
 Gloucester finds no enjoyment when once the eager ex- 
 citement of warfare is over, in which his daring spirit keenly 
 delighted. When contemplating his relatives and partisans, 
 feasting, dancing, and enjoying themselves around him in 
 the gay palaces of London, this prince disfigured, though 
 evidently not disabled by personal deformity, is yet unable 
 or unwilling to take part in the surrounding enjoyments, 
 and gradually resolves to turn against his own family, and 
 seize upon the crown himself. This daring idea he had 
 vaguely indicated at intervals during the civil war de- 
 
 ^ Hume admits that this king has "met with partisans among 
 the later writers" ("History of England," vol. iii.), but he and 
 Shakespeare seem to take much the same view of him. 
 
 164 
 
KING RICHARD III. 165 
 
 scribed in Henry VI., but had kept this design a secret 
 while combating with such bravery for the York party, 
 that none among them had the least suspicion of it. His 
 elder brothers, King Edward IV. and George, Duke of 
 Clarence, trust him completely, and his plans are alone 
 revealed in soliloquy. During the actual civil war he 
 has no confidant, and trusts nobody. His first revelations 
 are in the last part of Henry VI., during the war 
 and fully explain his future designs in the anticipated 
 triumph of his faction. Even at this time of doubt, 
 danger, and excitement, he longs to obtain the crown 
 with all the determined force and energy of his enterpris- 
 ing nature. He exclaims, when of course none hear him : 
 
 " Between my soul's desire and me 
 (The lustful Edward's title buried) 
 Is Clarence, Henry, and his young son Edward." 
 
 The thoughts of these living obstacles to his ambition 
 then seem to somewhat perplex or depress him, but his 
 indomitable spirit soon prevails, and he continues : 
 
 " Why then I do but dream on sovereignty 
 Like one that stands upon a promontory 
 And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, 
 Wishing his foot were equal with his eye 
 And chides the sea that sunders him from thence. 
 
 My eye's too quick, my heart o'er weens too much, 
 
 Unless my hand and strength could equal them 
 
 Well say there is no kingdom then for Richard 
 
 What other pleasure can the world afford ? 
 
 I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap 
 
 And deck my body in gay ornaments 
 
 And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks." 
 
 Then, as if suddenly remembering and exaggerating 
 his deformity, he exclaims : 
 
 " O miserable thought ! and more unlikely 
 Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns 
 Why love foreswore me in my mother's womb 
 And for I should not deal in her soft laws 
 She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe 
 To shrink mine arm up like a withered shrub 
 
1 66 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 To make an envious mountain on my back 
 Where sits deformity to mock my body 
 
 And am I then a man to be belov'd ? 
 
 O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought ! 
 
 Then since this earth affords no joy to me 
 
 But to command, to check, to o'erbear such 
 
 As are of better person than myself 
 
 I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown." 
 
 This thought he again intimates, after slaying the 
 captive King Henry VI., when he avows no real friend- 
 ship for relatives or any political party, though he had 
 hitherto fought for his brother, Edward IV., who thoroughly 
 trusts and confides in him. He exclaims : 
 
 " I have no brother, I am like no brother. 
 And this word love which greybeards call divine 
 Be resident in men like another 
 And not in me, I am myself alone." 
 
 After the civil war and the complete defeat of the 
 Lancastrians,jealousies arose between the victorious brothers 
 of the House of York. The unfortunate Duke of Clarence 
 was imprisoned by his reigning brother Edward IV., at 
 the secret instigation of Richard, who at the opening of 
 the play bearing his name, again reveals his thoughts and 
 plans as before, but now in a more triumphant tone, owing 
 to the success of his faction. Although apparently sharing 
 in the general exultation of the York party, Richard is 
 soon inspired with envious discontent at beholding his 
 brother's success, and exclaims to himself during the 
 general rejoicings in London : 
 
 " Now is the winter of our discontent 
 Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; 
 
 Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; 
 Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; 
 Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings ; 
 Our dreadful marches to delightful measures." 
 
 After thus comparing the preseiit triumph with the 
 various hardships endured to obtain it, Richard again 
 alludes to his deformity, iieyer absent from his mind, 
 as always preventing his enjoyment, at first with 'sorrowful 
 
KING RICHARD III. 167 
 
 regret, but he gradually works himself up to own his 
 ambitious designs and murderous plots : 
 
 "But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, 
 Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; 
 I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty 
 
 I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion. 
 
 Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, 
 Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time 
 Into this breathing world, 
 
 Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace. 
 Have no delight to pass away the time, 
 Unless to see my shadow in the sun 
 And descant on mine own deformity ; 
 And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover. 
 To entertain these fair well-spoken days, 
 I am determined to prove a villain. 
 And hate the idle pleasures of these days." 
 
 He then reverts to practical plots and conspiracies, 
 his energetic mind divided as it were between dangerous 
 ambition and personal disappointment. He proceeds : 
 
 ' ' Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, 
 By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams. 
 To set my brother Clarence and^the king 
 In deadly hate the one against the other : 
 
 This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up. 
 
 About a prophecy, which say that G 
 
 Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be. 
 
 Dive, thoughts, down to my soul : here Clarence comes." 
 
 His unlucky brother Clarence now enters as a state 
 prisoner guarded, and on his way to the terrible Tower. 
 Gloucester pretends to be friendly, and Clarence, like nearly 
 every one else at present, fully believes him. King 
 Edward has, in fact, imprisoned Clarence, suspecting 
 treason, and partly, as the latter knows, because his name 
 is George, which confirms a strange prophecy about the 
 letter G commencing the name of his fatal enemy. 
 This idea was really true, Richard of Gloucester being 
 really the enemy indicated, but never suspected, for the 
 king in fact distrusts his loyal brother and believes the 
 false one, with an ignorance of their relative characters 
 
i68 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 which would seem impossible if it were not confirmed 
 by history. Gloucester, pretending to pity Clarence, asks 
 why he is a prisoner, Clarence replies because his name 
 is George, and the other exclaims with apparent surprise 
 and sympathy : 
 
 " Alack ! my lord, that fault is none of yours ; 
 He should, for that, commit your godfathers," 
 
 and then tells Clarence, who is ignorant of all the plots 
 around him, that the present queen, Elizabeth, their 
 sister-in-law, her relations, and a certain Jane Shore, a 
 favourite of the king, are the real foes both of Clarence 
 and of himself The former, thoroughly trusting Richard, 
 believes him when he says : 
 
 " Well, your imprbonment shall not be long ; 
 I will deliver you, or else lie for you. 
 Meantime have patience." 
 
 Clarence is then taken to the ¥ower, while Gloucester 
 reveals to himself his plot against him : 
 
 "Go tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return, 
 Simple, plain Clarence !" 
 
 The ease and success with which Gloucester deceives 
 every one for a long time, even those who knew him 
 from infancy, is really astonishing, and would seem im- 
 possible, were it not supported by some though not by 
 all historians. In this play Gloucester's frequent soliloquies 
 alone reveal his true mind. In few if any of Shakespeare's 
 plays are soliloquies so long or so frequent as in this 
 and in the third part of Henry VI., where Gloucester 
 first takes active part, though introduced in the second. 
 This Prince, as he admits, was indeed "himself alone" 
 in secret design, though finally he has to partly trust 
 adherents whom he uses, and destroys with wonderful im- 
 punity. After Clarence is gone to the Tower, Gloucester 
 receives Lord Hastings, a man devoted to the three 
 royal brothers, who announces the king's illness, and 
 when he departs, Richard exclaims to himself, revealing 
 
KING RICHARD III. 169 
 
 his plots and designs against both his brothers, whom he 
 has set against one another, but who alike trust him : 
 
 " He cannot live, I hope ; and must not die 
 Till George be pack'd with post-horse up to heaven. 
 I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence, 
 With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments ; 
 And, if I fail not in my deep intent, 
 Clarence hath not another day to live : 
 Which done, God take King Edward to His mercy. 
 And leave the world for me to bustle in ! 
 
 But yet I run before my horse to market : 
 
 Clarence still breathes ; Edward still lives and reigns : 
 
 When they are gone, then must I count my gains." 
 
 The high almost boisterous spirits of Richard when 
 excited never diminish his craft or make him unguarded. 
 The civil war being now quite over, he is amidst his 
 triumphant partisans admired and respected for his 
 bravery, royal birth, and past services, yet becomes a 
 more dangerous foe than any they had previously encoun- 
 tered. He is at present " himself alone " looking out for 
 ready, unscrupulous adherents, but attached to none, and 
 nearly all around soon become his mere instruments, or his 
 mortal enemies. In the next scene he meets the Lady 
 Anne accompanying the funeral of the late king, Henry 
 VI., her father-in-law, killed when a prisoner by Richard 
 of Gloucester ; she mourns over the unfortunate monarch, 
 slain in so base a manner, exclaiming to those around 
 
 her: 
 
 " Set down, set down your honourable load. 
 Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament 
 The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. 
 
 Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood ! 
 Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost, 
 To hear the lamentations of poor Anne, 
 Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son, 
 Lo ! in these windows that let forth thy life, 
 I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes." 
 
 She then bitterly denounces Richard, as the late king's 
 murderer, though without seeing him, and then addressing 
 the attendants, says : 
 
 "Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load. 
 Taken from Paul's to be interred there." 
 
170 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Richard now appears, and orders the procession to stop. 
 
 The attendants obey, being afraid alike of his power and 
 
 his violence, while Anne, irritated as well as surprised at 
 
 the unexpected appearance of the chief cause of all her 
 
 present misery, exclaims : 
 
 "What black magician conjures up this fiend, 
 Tc) stop devoted charitable deeds ? " 
 
 All her attendant bearers obey him, and the procession 
 stops, while Richard at once changing his tone from stern 
 command to pretended sympathy, addresses Lady Anne, 
 whose weak vanity he doubtless well knew how to deal 
 with. After a " keen encounter of wits," during which she 
 vehemently reproaches him for his crimes, Richard with 
 consummate art meekly asks : 
 
 " Is not the causer of the timeless deaths 
 Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, 
 As blameful as the executioner?" 
 
 Anne replies indignant : 
 
 "Thou art the cause, and most accursed effect." 
 
 And he gently answers : 
 
 " Your beauty was the cause of that effect ; 
 Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep 
 To undertake the death of all the world, 
 So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom." 
 
 Anne, in her passionate answer, cannot quite conceal 
 her vanity, which does not escape her tempter's observa- 
 tion : 
 
 " If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide. 
 These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks." 
 
 He at once catching at her words, exclaims : 
 
 "These eyes could not endure" that beauty's wreck; 
 You should not blemish it if I stood by ; 
 As all the world is cheered by the sun, 
 So I by that; it is my day, my life." 
 
 Anne: 
 
 "Out of my sight ! thou dost infect mine eyes." 
 
 Richard, again catching at her words, replies : 
 "Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 171 
 
 Anne, still furious with him, exclaims : 
 
 "Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!" 
 
 Even these raging words Richard turns to his own 
 purposes, replying : 
 
 " I would they were, that I might die at once ; 
 For now they kill me with a living death. 
 I never sued to friend nor enemy ; 
 My tongue could never leam sweet soothing words ; 
 But now thy beauty is proposed my fee, 
 My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak." 
 
 Anne then looks scornfully at him, makes no immediate 
 reply, and he continues, as if feeling his way more and 
 more how to deceive her : 
 
 " Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made 
 For kissing, lady, not for such contempt." 
 
 Then evidently guessing her perplexed state of mind, 
 and knowing he has nothing to fear from her weak 
 vacillating nature, he exclaims, as if driven to the last 
 extremity of humble entreaty : 
 
 ' ' If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive 
 
 Lo ! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword ; 
 
 Which if thou please to hide in this true breast 
 
 And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, 
 
 I lay it naked to thy deadly stroke, 
 
 And humbly beg the death upon my knee.'' 
 
 He gives her the sword, which she takes, and he 
 reminds her that he slew both her husband and father-in- 
 law, excleiiming : 
 
 "But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on." 
 
 At these words she lets fall the sword, while he, still 
 kneeling, exclaims : 
 
 " Take up the sword again, or take up me." 
 
 To this entreaty, angry, yet hesitating, she replies : 
 
 " Arise, dissembler : though I wish thy death, 
 I will not be thy executioner." 
 
 This scene in minute details could hardly have really 
 happened, though history shows how well it illustrates 
 
172 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 the characters of Richard and Lady Anne. He puts 
 her vain folly to a yet further test, exclaiming: 
 
 " Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it." 
 
 And she replies : 
 
 " I have already." 
 
 This answer might seem embarrassing, but not to 
 Richard observing her closely, and well understanding 
 her weak character, as he calmly rejoins : 
 
 " That was in thy rage : 
 
 Speak it again, and even with the word, 
 
 This hand, which for thy love, did kill thy love, 
 
 Shall for thy love, kill a far truer love : 
 
 To both their deaths shalt thou be accessory." 
 
 Then follows a quick exchange of short sentences, 
 admirably fitted for the stage in which the triumph of 
 extraordinary artifice over personal vanity and weakness 
 is described to perfection. Anne becoming really puzzled 
 between the wonderful art of her tempter, and her know- 
 ledge of his past history, irresolutely exclaims : 
 " I would I knew thy heart." 
 
 He readily replies : 
 
 " 'Tis figured in my tongue." 
 
 Still hesitating, she answers : 
 
 " I fear me both are false." 
 
 and he retorts : 
 
 " Then never man was true.' 
 
 Anne, still perplexed, yet apparently wishing to believe 
 him, exclaims : 
 
 " Well, well, put up your sword." 
 
 and he asks : 
 
 " Say then, my peace is made." 
 
 Anne, still hesitating, replies : 
 
 ' ' That shak thou know hereafter. " 
 
 Again he humbly asks : 
 
 "But shall Hive in hope?" 
 
KING RICHARD III. 173 
 
 To which she replies with rather more sense than 
 before : 
 
 " All men, I hope, live so." 
 
 Encouraged by her softened words, Richard now 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Vouchsafe to wear this ring." 
 
 Anne takes it, saying as if faintly pretending to be 
 still suspicious : 
 
 " To take is not to give." 
 
 Richard, inwardly delighted, then exclaims with 
 assumed grateful thanks : 
 
 " Look ! how this ring encompasseth thy finger, 
 Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ; 
 Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. 
 And if thy poor devoted suppliant may 
 But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, 
 Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever." 
 
 Anne, more and more won over by a singular charm 
 of manner, which Richard certainly possessed, and which 
 deceived many other far stronger minds than hers, for 
 a time graciously, if not favourably, asks : 
 
 "What is it?" ^ 
 
 Richard, in assumed penitent entreaty, replies : 
 
 ' ' That it may please you leave these sad designs 
 To him that hath more cause to be a mourner, 
 And presently repair to Crosby-place ; 
 Where, after I have solemnly interr'd 
 At Chertsey monastery this noble king, 
 And wet his grave with my repentant tears, 
 I will with all expedient duty see you : 
 For divers unknown reasons I beseech you, 
 Grant me this boon." 
 
 Anne, now completely won over, and believing all he 
 
 says, complacently replies : 
 
 " With all my heart ; and much it joys me too 
 To see you are become so penitent." 
 
 He meekly exclaims : 
 
 " Bid me farewell." 
 
174 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 while she, completely deceived, replies in a sort of good- 
 humoured raillery : 
 
 ' ' 'Tis more than you deserve ; 
 But since you teach me how to flatter you, 
 Imagine I have said farewell already." 
 
 She departs with a few attendants, while Gloucester 
 orders the funeral to proceed to White- Friars instead of 
 Chertsey, and to attend his coming. When all are gone 
 away, Richard in one of his many soliloquies gives full 
 vent to his exultation, exclaiming with mingled triumph, 
 amusement, and mockery : 
 
 " Was ever woman in this humour woo'd? 
 Was ever woman in this humour won ? 
 
 What ! I, that kill'd her husband and his father, 
 
 To take her in her heart's extremest hate ; 
 
 With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, 
 
 And I no friends to back my suit withal, 
 
 But the plain devil and dissembling looks. 
 
 And yet to win her, all the world to nothing ! 
 
 Ha! 
 
 Hath she forgot already that brave prince, 
 
 Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months sinCe, 
 
 Stabb'd in my angry mood, at Tewksbury ? 
 
 A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, 
 
 Framed in the prodigality of nature. 
 
 Young, valiant, wise, and no doubt, right royal. 
 
 The spacious world cannot again afford : 
 
 And will she yet abase her eyes on me. 
 
 That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince. 
 
 On me, that halt and am misshapen thus ? 
 I do mistake my person all this while : 
 Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot, 
 Myself to be a marvellous proper man." 
 
 Having once got this idea, or trying to impose upon 
 
 himself, he proceeds : 
 
 " I'll be at charges for a looking-glass 
 And entertain a score or two of tailors. 
 To study fashions to adorn my body : 
 
 But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave. 
 And then return lamenting to my love. 
 Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass. 
 That I may see my shadow as I pass." 
 
 In this play as in Part III. of Henry VI., Richard 
 
KING RICHARD III. 175 
 
 constantly refers to his deformity. Shakespeare evidently 
 believes him completely absorbed and influenced by its 
 recollection, and in this soliloquy his eager exultation at 
 deceiving the Lady Anne, though almost grotesque in its 
 vehemence, is consistent enough with the poet's description 
 of him throughout. Richard hitherto had encountered 
 none who seem to quite understand him. His brothers, 
 Edward IV. and Clarence, though knowing him all his life, 
 are as much mistaken in him as any one else, but this 
 confidence may be well attributed to his proved courage 
 and devotion to the York faction, during the late civil 
 war, which has terminated not long before this play 
 begins. Richard's real character becomes known gradually, 
 by slow degrees, and his powers of deceit would seem 
 exaggerated beyond possibility, were not their success, 
 though brief, confirmed by historical evidence. The next 
 scene after his triumph over the poor, weak Lady Anne's 
 vain mind, introduces the queen, Elizabeth, with her 
 brother. Lord Rivers, and her son. Lord Grey, by a former 
 marriage. The three naturally lament the king's dangerous 
 and mysterious illness, which was by some attributed to 
 poison administered to him by Richard. Yet this idea, 
 though not very improbable, seems never to have been 
 actually proved. The alarmed queen, suspecting Richard 
 to be her enemy, and not knowing how to oppose his 
 machinations, grieves prophetically over the king's illness, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 "If he were dead, what would betide on me?" 
 
 Her son, trying to console, replies : 
 
 " No other harm but loss of such a lord." 
 
 to which remark she makes a short but most pathetic 
 reply, expressing in Shakespeare's best style so much truth 
 and feeling in a few words : 
 
 " The loss of such a lord includes all harm.'' 
 
 Her son, Lord Grey, reminds her of his younger 
 half-brother, heir to the Crown: 
 
 ' ' The heavens have blessed you with a goodly son, 
 To be your comforter when he is gone," 
 
176 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and she apprehensively answers : 
 
 "Ah ! he is young ; and his minority 
 Is put into the trust of Richard Gloucester, 
 A man that loves not me, nor none of you," 
 
 and adds that if the king dies, Gloucester will be the 
 
 Protector of England, owing to her son's minority and the 
 
 imprisonment of Clarence. The Duke of Buckingham and 
 
 Lord Stanley enter, the former an influential nobleman 
 
 devoted to Richard, and apparently anxious to reconcile 
 
 the queen and him. Stanley and Buckingham have just 
 
 left the king's chamber, and the latter tells the queen that 
 
 King Edward is anxious to make peace between Richard 
 
 and her relatives, and for that purpose desires them all to 
 
 come before him. Richard now enters with the queen's 
 
 son Dorset, and Lord Hastings, the latter an ambitious 
 
 courtier, under Richard's influence to some extent, yet 
 
 faithful to the king. Richard, assuming an air of injured 
 
 innocence, accuses the queen, her friends and relatives, of 
 
 setting the king against him, exclaiming, as if he were an 
 
 honest and plain-spoken man^ surrounded by cunning 
 
 plotters : 
 
 " Who are they that complain unto the king. 
 That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not ? 
 By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly 
 That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours. 
 Because I cannot flatter and speak fair. 
 Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog. 
 Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, 
 I must be held a rancorous enemy, 
 Cannot a plain man live and think no harm. 
 But thus his simple truth must be abused 
 By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks ? " 
 
 Young Grey, naturally indignant, yet afraid like all 
 others of this dangerous prince, asks : 
 
 " To whom in all this presence speaks your grace ? " 
 
 But Richard fiercely retorts, addressing his opponents 
 separately, and contemplating their embarrassment while 
 still pretending to be ill-used : 
 
 " To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. 
 When have I injured thee? when done thee wrong? 
 Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction? 
 
KING RICHARD III. 177 
 
 A plague upon you all ! His royal grace 
 
 Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while, 
 
 But you must trouble him with lewd complaints." 
 
 The queen, his unlucky sister-in-law, partly frightened, 
 yet trying to conciliate him, replies explaining why the 
 king sent for them : 
 
 "Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter. 
 The king, of his own royal disposition. 
 
 Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred, 
 That in your outward action shows itself 
 Against my kindred, brothers, and myself. 
 Makes him to send ; that thereby he may gather 
 The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it. " 
 
 Gloucester sarcastically answers : 
 
 " I cannot tell ; the world is grown so bad 
 That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch : 
 Since every Jack became a gentleman. 
 There's many a gentle person made a Jack.'' 
 
 This way of speaking provokes the queen, as Richard 
 probably intended, and she warmly answers : 
 
 "Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester ; 
 You envy my advancement and my friends, 
 God grant we never may have need of you ! " 
 
 Gloucester, a regular proficient in the art of sharp retorts, 
 artfully, throwing the blame of Clarence's disgrace on the 
 queen's party, replies : 
 
 " Meantime, God grants that we have need of you : 
 Our brother is imprison'd by your means. 
 Myself disgraced, and the nobility 
 Held in contempt." 
 
 The queen, shocked and indignant at this accusation, 
 exclaims : 
 
 "By Him that raised me to this careful height. 
 
 I never did incense his majesty 
 
 Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been 
 
 An earnest advocate to plead for him." 
 
 Gloucester then accuses her of causing Lord Hastings' 
 late imprisonment, when her brother, Lord Rivers, ventures 
 
 M 
 
178 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 to speak for her, to whom Gloucester exclaims in a passion, 
 real or pretended : 
 
 " She may do more, sir, than denying that : 
 She may help you to many fair preferments, 
 And then deny her aiding hand therein." 
 
 His charges and reproaches at last rouse the queen 
 into exclaiming with helpless anger : 
 
 " My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne 
 Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs ; 
 By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty 
 Of those gross taunts that oft I have endured, 
 
 Small joy have I in being England's queen. '' 
 
 At this moment Queen Margaret of Anjou, widow of 
 the late Henry VI., enters, and in her appearance at this 
 time in the palace of her triumphant though now divided 
 foes, Shakespeare surely abandons historic truth for the 
 sake of stage effect. In reality Margaret was imprisoned 
 in the Tower of London till ransomed by the King of 
 France, where she returned on her liberation, and never 
 again came to England. In the play, however, she is 
 made to join this family party, and to denounce them all 
 but more especially Richard of Gloucester, whom she 
 understands better than any one else present does, and 
 warns Buckingham, his chief adherent, against him. Her 
 violent reproaches, however, against the whole assembled 
 York faction rouse them from their private quarrels into 
 anger against her, when she exclaims : 
 
 " What ! were you snarling all before I came. 
 Ready to catch each other by the throat. 
 And turn you all your hatred now on me ? 
 
 God, I pray Him, 
 
 That none of you may live your natural age, 
 
 But by some unlook'd accident cut off ! " 
 
 After long and repulsive maledictions on her listening 
 foes in whose power she is all the time, Margaret with- 
 draws, as if quite free to go when and where she liked, 
 and Lord Rivers naturally exclaims : 
 
 " I muse why she's at liberty,'' 
 
 but no explanation is given of a situation only existing 
 
KING RICHARD III. 179 
 
 in Shakespeare's imagination. A certain Sir William 
 Catesby now enters, saying that the invalid king is await- 
 ing their attendance before him. This man, a lawyer, is 
 in both history and the play the most consistently devoted 
 of all Richard's adherents, but he now says nothing more 
 after delivering the royal message, and all go out leaving 
 Richard alone, who again reveals in safe, unheard soliloquy 
 his present plots and plans, rather boasting of his extra- 
 ordinary craft, but probably underrating his associates in 
 calling them " simple gulls " as the future proved : 
 
 " I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. 
 The secret mischiefs that I set abroach 
 I lay unto the grievous charge of others. 
 Clarence, whom I indeed have cast in darkness, 
 I do beweep to many simple gulls ; 
 Namely, to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham ; 
 And say it is the queen and her allies 
 That stir the king against the duke ray brother. 
 Now they believe it ; and withal whet me 
 To be reveng'd on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey." 
 
 In these words he shows his hitherto apparent, though 
 more apparent than real, mastery over the chief nobles 
 about the English court at this period. They would seem 
 for some time as mere puppets in his power, whose various 
 passions, interests, and jealousies he is alternately using 
 for his own purposes. At this time, when the king is 
 dying, and his next brother Clarence imprisoned, Richard 
 during the minority of his two nephews, the king's sons, 
 is rapidly becoming the chief ruler in England, though 
 without the kingly title. The extraordinary success of 
 his machinations is chiefly explained by the utter subjuga- 
 tion of the Lancastrian faction, and the valiant services 
 he had rendered to the York cause, which made him 
 naturally trusted as well as admired by all the chief men 
 of that party. He was therefore for a time never even 
 suspected by the rejoicing York faction, which he is now 
 beginning to divide into separate parties, to promote his 
 own personal ambition. He has no very devoted confidant 
 up to this time, but is generally believed and respected 
 for his great abilities and proved valour. Though begin- 
 
i8o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 ning to be feared by a few, he is not really understood by, 
 any, except perhaps by some of the subdued Lancastrians, 
 who are now alike too weak and too unpopular to be 
 much credited. Richard after this last soliloquy receives 
 two hired assassins, doubtless by appointment, to whom 
 he gives a warrant for admission to the Tower, obtained 
 apparently from the king. Richard urges these ruffians 
 in terrible words not to heed Clarence if he speaks : 
 
 " Be sudden in the execution, 
 
 Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead ; 
 For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps 
 May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him." 
 
 One of them answering for both, replies : 
 
 " Tut, tut ! my lord, we will not stand to prate ; 
 Talkers are no good doers : be assured 
 We go to use our hands and not our tongues." 
 
 Richard believing both are alike, and gratified at the 
 
 ready villainy of this wretch, grimly replies : 
 
 " Your eyes drop millstones, when fools' eyes drop tears ; 
 I like you, lads ; about your business straight ; 
 Go, go, dispatch." 
 
 This saying, that "talkers are no good doers," may 
 sometimes be imputed to Shakespeare as if it was his own 
 opinion, like his supposed censure of unmusical people in 
 The Merchant of Venice. But the allusion to the un- 
 musical persons is made by a sentimental young Italian 
 lover, and this censure on the " talkers '' is only made by 
 an eager murderer longing for the promised reward of 
 his intended crime. In reality, the love of talking and 
 love of music appear in the most different characters. 
 For instance, Cromwell and William III. were utter 
 contrasts, in the wearisome, prolonged talking of the 
 former, and the remarkable silence of the latter. It should 
 perhaps be more carefully observed than is sometimes 
 the case before opinions are ascribed to Shakespeare him- 
 self who and what are the personages to whom he imputes 
 them. The next scene after Richard's murderous in- 
 junctions to his satellites, is in the Tower to which so 
 many noble Englishmen were consigned. The imprisoned 
 
"7 
 KING RICHARD III. i8i *** 
 
 Clarence is talking to Sir Robert Brakenbury, the Lieu- 
 tenant of the Tower, and telling him of his strange dream, 
 that he has awaked from. Clarence, though neither so 
 false nor so cruel as Richard, has yet proved himself both 
 to some extent during the late civil war of the Roses. 
 He says he first dreamed of being drowned when on a 
 voyage with his brother Richard. 
 
 " Methought that Gloucester stumbled ; and, in falling. 
 Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, 
 Into the tumbling billows of the main. 
 
 What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! 
 
 Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 
 A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon ; 
 Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl. 
 Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. 
 All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea." 
 
 Then in the next world he fancies he had met the 
 reproachful ghosts of those he had slain or deceived. The 
 first was that of Lord Warwick, his father-in-law, whom he 
 had joined and deserted during the war, and then that of 
 the noble young Prince Edward, son of Henry VI. and 
 Margaret, whom Clarence and Richard had slain when a 
 prisoner. With these fancies oppressing his distracted 
 mind, Clarence exclaims to Brakenbury : 
 
 " The first that there did greet my stranger soul. 
 Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick ; 
 Who cried aloud, ' What scourge for perjury 
 Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?' 
 And so he vanish'd ! then came wandering by 
 A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 
 
 And he shriek'd out aloud, 
 ' Clarence is come ; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, 
 That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury.' " 
 
 Evidently during the excitement of civil war Clarence 
 had been as relentless and unscrupulous as either his 
 partisans or his opponents, though brave and generous 
 at times. Historical students of most civil wars may 
 reluctantly perceive how seldom its victims deserve the 
 compassionate feelings of men living in more enlightened 
 or peaceful times. Though humane novelists, like Sir 
 
1 82 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Walter Scott, may induce readers to pity or admire his 
 imaginary victims of political or religious wars or per- 
 secutions, few in reality seem to merit such pity from 
 a merely humanitarian standpoint. The rule has been 
 during religious and political contests in England, as well 
 as in all other lands, despite Christian teaching, to destroy 
 opponents, for the sake of self-preservation, even when 
 such opponents were helpless prisoners. 
 
 This relentless policy, as Shakespeare well knew, actu- 
 ated both the English factions of York and Lancaster in the 
 wars of the Roses. It was never a contest between cruelty 
 and comparative humanity, but between two implacable 
 factions belonging to the same Christian denomination, 
 during which the precepts of their common faith enjoining 
 mercy to fallen foes were openly violated by both parties 
 without shame or hesitation. Neither party, in fact, ex- 
 pected to receive the least consideration or mercy from the 
 other, and thus the victims could only regret they were 
 not able to inflict what they themselves had to suffer. 
 The conscience-struck Clarence in this scene apparently 
 thinks more of the king's ingratitude to himself than of 
 his own crimes, committed in his brother's interests, when 
 he exclaims : 
 
 " O Brakenbury ! I have done those things 
 That now bear evidence against my soul, 
 For Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me. 
 
 I'pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me ; 
 My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.' 
 
 Clarence then falls asleep, while Brakenbury is beside 
 him, when the two assassins enter, showing Brakenbury a 
 paper, and he exclaims, though full of distrust : 
 
 " I am, in this, commanded to deliver 
 The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands : 
 I will not reason what is meant hereby, 
 Because I will be guiltless of the meaning. 
 There lies the duke asleep, and there the keys. 
 I'll to the king ; and signify to him 
 That thus I have resign'd to you my charge." 
 
 The two ruffians know they are authorised by royal 
 
KING RICHARD III. 183 
 
 warrant to slay the prisoner, and one of them scornfully 
 says to Brakenbury : 
 
 " You may, sir ; 'tis a point of wisdom," 
 
 and the Lieutenant departs. The assassins, gazing at their 
 sleeping victim, have a strange talk together, one begins to 
 feel remorseful, as unwilling to commit the crime for which 
 they are sent, while the other tries to harden him. 
 First murderer : 
 
 "What! art thou afraid?" 
 
 Second murderer : 
 
 " Not to kill him, having a warrant for it ; but to be damned for killing 
 him, from the which no warrant can defend us." 
 
 First murderer : 
 
 " I'll back to the Duke of Gloucester, and'tell him so." 
 
 The second murderer, alarmed for his own safety at this 
 threat, replies : 
 
 " I pray thee, stay a while." 
 
 He continues to hesitate, but his hardened accomplice 
 
 stifles all reluctance by reminding him of the promised 
 
 reward for their deed. As they are about to strike 
 
 Clarence, he awakes, calling for wine, when startled at the 
 
 sight of them, he asks who they are. 
 
 First murderer : 
 
 " A man, as you are." 
 
 Clarence replies : 
 
 " But not, as I am, royal." 
 
 The wretch retorts, knowing his victim's position : 
 "Nor you, as we are, loyal." 
 
 Clarence exclaims : 
 
 "Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble." 
 
 to which the ruffian replies : 
 
 " My voice is now the king's, my looks mine own." 
 
 Clarence asks if they have come to slay him, which 
 they admit, and he vainly expostulates, while they, 
 pretending to be loyal subjects, charge him with treason 
 
1 84 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 to the king in the late war, which was atoned for and 
 pardoned owing to his subsequent devotion to Edward. 
 They then rather inconsistently reproach Clarence for 
 stabbing the young Prince of Lancaster, son of Henry VI., 
 which certainly was a crime in the present king's behalf, to 
 which the victim replies : 
 
 "Alas ! for whose sake did I that ill deed? 
 For Edward, for my brother, for his sake : 
 He sends you not to murder me for this ; 
 For in that sin he is as deep as I. 
 
 If you do love my brother, hate not me ; 
 
 If you be hired for meed, go back again. 
 And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, 
 Who shall reward you better for my life 
 Than Edward will for tidings of my death." 
 
 The murderer, knowing Richard better than Clarence 
 does, replies : 
 
 "You are deceived, your brother Gloucester hates you." 
 
 Clarence, unable to believe this, answers : 
 
 " Oh, no ! he loves me, and he holds me dear ; 
 Go you to him from me. " 
 
 They grimly retort : 
 
 "Ay, so we will." 
 
 and Clarence proceeds : 
 
 ' ' Tell him, when that our princely father York 
 Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm. 
 And charged us from his soul to love each other 
 He little thought of this divided friendship : 
 Bid Gloucester think on this, and he will weep." 
 
 One of the assassins sarcastically retorts : 
 " Ay, millstones ; as he lesson'd us to weep. 
 
 Clarence, still trusting Gloucester, exclaims : 
 " O ! do not slander him, for he is kind." 
 
 and they with truth rejoin : 
 
 " Kight, 
 As snow in harvest. Come, you deceive yourself : 
 'Tis he that sends us to destroy you here." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 185 
 
 Clarence, still incredulous, exclaims : 
 
 " It cannot be ; for he be wept my fortune, 
 And hugg'd me in his arms, and swore, with sobs. 
 That he would labour my delivery. " 
 
 The most hardened of the ruffians scornfully replies : 
 
 "Why, so he doth, now he delivers you 
 From this earth's thraldom to the joys of heaven.'' 
 
 while the less hardened villain says : 
 
 "Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord." 
 
 and to him Clarence makes a pathetic appeal : 
 
 " Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul, 
 To counsel me to make my peace with God, 
 And art thou yet to your own soul so blind. 
 That you will war with God by murdering me ? 
 
 My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks ; 
 O ! if thine eye be not a flatterer. 
 
 Come thou on my side, 
 
 A begging prince what beggar pities not ? ' 
 
 The man thus addressed apparently remains passive 
 
 or bewildered, while his savage comrade, more devoted to 
 
 Gloucester, stabs Clarence to death, and then exclaims to 
 
 the other : 
 
 " How now ! what mean'st thou, that thou help'st me not? 
 By heaven, the duke shall know how slack thou art." 
 
 The other desperado, evidently shocked at the deed, 
 
 departs exclaiming : 
 
 " I would he knew that I had saved his brother ! 
 Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say ; 
 For I repent me that the duke is slain." 
 
 The other wretch, utterly remorseless, exclaims : 
 " So do not I : go, coward as thou art. 
 
 And when I have my meed, I will away ; 
 For this will out, and here I must not stay.'' 
 
 He also departs, intending to hide the body of 
 Clarence, and with this deed Act I. ends. Act II. intro- 
 duces the invalid king, Edward IV., attended by his 
 queen, her sons, Dorset and Grey, her brother, Lord 
 
i86 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Rivers, and the noblemen, Buckingham and Hastings, 
 with other courtiers in the palace. The king, knowing that 
 many quarrels are increasing among his adherents, and 
 foreseeing his fast approaching end, tries to reconcile 
 them. The queen, despite their mutual attachment, cannot 
 persuade him to distrust his brother, Richard of Gloucester, 
 whom she fears and suspects. Edward now addresses his 
 assembled adherents, hoping to make peace among them, 
 with pathetic solemnity. He knows they have each been 
 sharers of his recent triumph, all of them being Yorkists, 
 and now with deep regret perceives hostility among them. 
 He exclaims in solemn words : 
 
 " You peers, continue this united league : 
 
 And now in peace my soul shall part to heaven, 
 Since I have set my friends at peace on earth. 
 Rivers and Hastings, take each other's hand ; 
 Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love." 
 
 Rivers replies : 
 
 " By heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate ; 
 And with my hand I seal my true heart's love." 
 
 Hastings, in the same spirit, at least apparently, replies : 
 
 " So thrive I, as I truly swear the like ! " 
 
 The king, in words of warning, says : 
 
 "Take heed you dally not before your king ; 
 Lest He that is the supreme ICing of kings 
 Confound your hidden falsehood, and award 
 Either of you to be the other's end." 
 
 Each again promises sincerity, while Edward addresses 
 even the queen in like manner, knowing that she and her 
 relatives are opposed to his brother Richard, who has com- 
 pletely deceived the king, though without alienating him 
 from his wife or her relations. Edward says in sad reproof: 
 
 " Madam, yourself are not exempt in this. 
 Nor you, son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you ; 
 You have been factious one against the other. 
 Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand ; 
 And what you do, do it unfeignedly." 
 
 The queen and all promise obedience to the king's 
 
KING RICHARD III. 187 
 
 wishes, and the ambitious Buckingham says to the queen 
 in prophetic words, considering his future career : 
 
 ' ' Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate 
 On you or yours, but with all duteous love 
 Doth cherish you and yours God punish me 
 With hate in those where I expect most love ! 
 When I have most need to employ a friend. 
 And most assured that he is a friend 
 Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile 
 Be he unto me ! This do I beg of heaven. 
 When I am cold in zeal to you and yours. " 
 
 These solemn words Buckingham utters perhaps with 
 
 perfect sincerity at the time, but they seem to show that 
 
 he is either a man of impulsive, weak character despite his 
 
 ability, or that he is utterly deceived, like so many others, 
 
 by the extraordinary artfulness of his future tempter, 
 
 Richard of Gloucester. King Edward, deeply gratified at 
 
 his language and in his weak state thoroughly believing 
 
 him, exclaims : 
 
 ' ' A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, 
 Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. 
 There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here 
 To make the perfect period of this peace." 
 
 The old saying of " speak of the devil and he appears " 
 
 is now almost verified, for Gloucester himself enters, and 
 
 greets all around with the courteous persuasiveness which 
 
 Shakespeare, the celebrated Sir Thomas More, and the 
 
 historian Hume alike ascribe to him as being as formidable 
 
 in times of peace as his valiant sword undoubtedly was 
 
 in times of warfare. While contemplating the ruin or 
 
 destruction of nearly all around him, Richard exclaims : 
 
 "Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen ; 
 And, princely peers, a happy time of day ! " 
 
 The king, who always trusts him, answers : 
 
 " Brother, we have done deeds of charity ; 
 Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate. 
 Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers." 
 
 Richard replies : 
 
 "A blessed labour, my most sovereign liege. 
 Among this princely heap, if any here. 
 By false intelligence, or wrong surmise, 
 Hold me a foe ; 
 
i88 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 If I unwittingly, or in my rage, 
 
 Have aught committed that is hardly borne 
 
 By any in this presence I desire 
 
 To reconcile me to his friendly peace : 
 
 'Tis death to me to be at enmity ; 
 
 I hate it, and desire all good men's love." 
 
 Then addressing the queen, to whom he is far more 
 polite in the king's presence than before, he says : 
 
 "First, madam, I entreat true peace of you. 
 Which I will purchase with my duteous service." 
 
 He severally addresses Buckingham, Rivers, and Grey 
 in conciliating words, and concludes with consummate art : 
 
 " I do not know that Englishman alive 
 With whom ray soul is any jot at odds 
 More than the infant that is born to-night ; 
 I thank my God for my humility. " 
 
 The queen, like the rest believing all now are at peace, 
 asks the king to pardon the imprisoned Clarence, when 
 Richard, the only one present who knows what has happened, 
 exclaims with assumed indignation : 
 
 " Why, madam, have I offer'd love for this, 
 To be so flouted in this royal presence ? 
 Who knows not that the gentle duke is dead ? " 
 
 iThey all start. 
 
 The king astounded asks : 
 
 " Who knows not he is dead ! Who knows he is ? " 
 
 The queen exclaims : 
 
 " All-seeing heaven, what a world is this ! " 
 
 while the king proceeds : 
 
 " Is Clarence dead? the order was reversed." 
 
 Richard readily answers with all appearance of 
 sympathy : 
 
 " But he, poor soul, by your first order died. 
 And that a winged Mercury did bear ; 
 Some tardy cripple bore the countermand, 
 That came too lag to see him buried." 
 
 At this excited moment Lord Stanley enters eagerly 
 asking the king to pardon a servant of his who had 
 
KING RICHARD III. 189 
 
 just slain a riotous attendant on the Duke of Norfolk, 
 perhaps in some brawl, but no detail is given. Edward, 
 weak, excited, grieved, yet willing in his last moments 
 to forgive any one, makes a speech in which his feelings, 
 duties, and recollections are alike expressed with pathetic 
 force : 
 
 ' ' Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death, 
 And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave ? 
 My brother slew no man, his fault was thought. 
 And yet his punishment was bitter death. 
 Who sued to me for him ? who, in my wrath, 
 Kneel'd at my feet, and bade me be advised ? 
 Who spoke of brotherhood ? who spoke of love ? 
 
 Who told me in the field at Tewksbury, 
 When Oxford had me down, he rescued me 
 And said, ' Dear brother, live, mtd be a king! ' 
 Who told me, when we both lay in the field 
 Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me 
 Even in his garments ; and did give himself. 
 All thin and naked, to the numb cold night ? 
 All this from my remembrance brutish wrath 
 Sinfiilly pluck'd, and not a man of you 
 Had so much grace to put it in my mind." 
 
 Then, as if chiefly addressing Stanley, the broken- 
 hearted king proceeds : 
 
 "But when your carters or your waiting- vassals 
 Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced 
 The precious image of our dear Redeemer, 
 You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon ; 
 And I, unjustly too, must grant it you." 
 
 Then addressing all alike, the sad king concludes : 
 
 " But for my brother not a man would speak. 
 Nor I (ungracious) speak unto myself 
 For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all 
 Have been beholden to him in his life, 
 Yet none of you would once plead for his life. 
 O God ! I fear Thy justice wiil take hold 
 On me and you and mine and yours for this. 
 Come, Hastings, help me to my closet Ah ! poor Clarence." 
 
 The king, queen, and attendzmts depart, leaving 
 Richard alone with Buckingham, his earliest adherent 
 of much importance. Richard, resolved to lay the blame 
 of Clarence's death upon the queen and her relatives, 
 
190 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 says to Buckingham, who trusts him, with prompt, 
 plausible deceit : 
 
 " This is the fruit of rashness. Mark'd you not 
 How that the guilty kindred of the queen 
 Look'd pale when they did hear of Clarence' death ? 
 O ! they did urge it still unto the king : 
 
 But come. Let's in 
 
 To comfort Edward with our company." 
 
 This doubtful intended comfort is not mentioned 
 as the king never appears again, and evidently does 
 not long survive the shock of his brother's execution, 
 announced in such a manner, and amid so much general 
 excitement. The next scene introduces the old Duchess 
 of York, mother of the king, Clarence, and Gloucester, with 
 her little grandchildren, the son and daughter of Clarence. 
 They ask if their father is dead, which she denies, yet 
 apparently suspects he is, as the boy asks : 
 
 " Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast ; 
 And cry, ' Clarence, my unhappy son / ' ? " 
 
 and the girl asks likewise : 
 
 " Why do you look on us, and shake your head. 
 And call us orphans, wretches, castaways. 
 If that our noble father be alive ? " 
 
 She answers, as if giving up Clarence for lost : 
 
 " You mistake me much ; 
 I do lament the sickness of the king, 
 As loth to lose him, not your father's death ; 
 It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost." 
 
 The son answers : 
 
 • ' Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead. 
 The king mine uncle is to blame for this. " 
 
 The old duchess, not wishing to tell them what she 
 either knows or foresees, exclaims : 
 
 " Peace, children, peace ! the king doth love you well : 
 Incapable and shallow innocents. 
 You cannot guess who caused your father's death." 
 
KING RICHARD HI. 191 
 
 The boy readily replies : 
 
 " Grandam, we can ; for my good uncle Gloucester 
 Told me, the king, provoked to it by the queen. 
 Devised impeachments to imprison him ; 
 
 Bade me rely on him as on my father, 
 And he would love me dearly as his child.'' 
 
 The duchess, knowing Gloucester's villainy, though 
 perhaps not aware of this instance till lately, replies : 
 
 " Ah ! that deceit should steal such gentle shape. 
 And with a virtuous vizard hide deep vice. 
 He is my son, ay, and therein my shame." 
 
 Her grandson now asks in evident wonder : 
 
 " Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam ? " 
 
 and she sadly answers : 
 
 "Ay, boy." 
 
 The lad naturally exclaims : 
 
 " I cannot think it," 
 
 being obviously deceived by Gloucester's kindly manner to 
 him, when the poor queen, now a widow, enters, distracted 
 with grief and fear, accompanied by her brother Rivers 
 and her son Dorset. They sincerely lament the king's 
 death, who up to this time had been a constant check 
 to Richard's ambition, and who despite some faults, 
 was personally beloved by many. During their general 
 lamentation, the arch-plotter Gloucester enters, attended 
 by Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, and Ratcliff, all at 
 present devoted to him, though in different degrees, 
 Ratcliff with Catesby being his adherents to the last. 
 Though the duchess and her daughter-in-law, the widowed 
 queen, dread and suspect Richard, they suppress their 
 feelings, while he greets them with apparent friendship. 
 He and Buckingham propose that the young prince or 
 rather king, though not yet termed so, should be brought 
 to London from Ludlow to be crowned. Richard con- 
 solingly addresses the queen, in pathetic words : 
 
 " Sister, have comfort ; all of us have cause 
 To wail the dimming of our shining star ; 
 But none can cure their harms by wailing them." 
 
192 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then on his knee Gloucester salutes his mother, asking 
 her blessing, to which the poor old lady replies with 
 evident distrust : 
 
 " God bless thee ! and put meekness in thy mind, 
 Love, charity, obedience, and true duty. " 
 
 Richard, in the quiet sneering style with which he 
 always addresses or speaks of his mother on the only 
 two occasions they meet in this play, says : 
 
 "Amen ;" 
 
 and then to himself: 
 
 " And make me die a good old man ! 
 That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing ; 
 I marvel why her grace did leave it out." 
 
 Buckingham, probably well instructed by Gloucester, 
 says, but quite in the latter's style, addressing all around : 
 "You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers, 
 
 Though we have spent our harvest of this king. 
 We are to reap the harvest of his son. 
 The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts. 
 But lately splinted, knit, and join'd together. 
 Must gently be preserved, cherished, and kept : 
 Me seemeth good, that, with some little train. 
 Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch'd 
 Hither to London, to be crown'd our king." 
 
 Rivers at first asks with well-founded suspicion why 
 the prince is to have only " some little train " as an escort, 
 but all yield to the friendly assurances of Gloucester and 
 Buckingham, who remain together, after the rest have 
 departed. Then Buckingham, most anxious to promote 
 Richard's views, exclaims : 
 
 " My lord, whoever journeys to the prince, 
 Let not us two be behind ; 
 For by the way I'll sort occasion. 
 As index to the story we late talk'd of, 
 To part the queen's proud kindred from the prince." 
 
 Gloucester, pretending to have every confidence in 
 Buckingham for the sake of encouraging him, replies : 
 
 " My other self, my counsel's consistory, 
 My oracle, my prophet ! My dear cousin, 
 I, as a child, will go by thy direction." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 193 
 
 From Buckingham's allusion to a certain " index to 
 the story " mentioned by Gloucester and himself, some plot 
 against their political foes is evidently indicated, but the 
 idea of assassinating the young princes, though doubtless 
 often in Richard's mind, seems hitherto unknown to 
 Buckingham. The next scene between three London 
 citizens meeting in the streets shows the general appre- 
 hension in England at this dangerous time, especially in 
 the capital. The third citizen asks the others whom he 
 
 joins : 
 
 " Doth the news hold of good King Edward's death ? " 
 
 First citizen : 
 
 " Ay, sir, it is too true ; God help the while ! " 
 Third citizen : 
 
 "Then, masters, look to see a troublous world. " 
 First citizen : 
 
 " No, no ; by God's good grace his son shall reign." 
 
 The third citizen gloomily rejoins : 
 
 ' ' Woe to that land that's governed by a child ! 
 
 For emulation, who shall now be nearest, 
 
 Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not. 
 
 O ! full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester ; 
 
 And the queen's sons and brothers haught and proud." 
 
 First citizen : 
 
 "Come, come, we fear the worst; all will be well." 
 
 The third citizen, who seems to know more of his 
 country's politics and political men, replies : 
 
 " When clouds appear, wise men put on their cloaks ; 
 When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand ; 
 When the sun sets, who doth not look for night ? 
 Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. 
 All may be well ; but, if God sort it so, 
 'Tis more than we deserve, or I expect." 
 
 The second citizen, also much alarmed at England's 
 
 political future, exclaims : 
 
 "Truly, the souls of men are full of dread ; 
 Ye cannot reason almost with a man 
 That looks not heavily and full of fear.'' 
 N 
 
194 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The third citizen, equally despondent at the news 
 of the king's death and Gloucester's probable supremacy, 
 replies : 
 
 " Before the times of diange, still is it so. 
 By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust 
 Ensuing danger ; as by proof we see 
 The water swell before a boist'rous storm. 
 But leave it all to God." 
 
 The next scene is in the palace, where the late king's 
 mother, the Duchess of York, the widowed queen, her 
 youngest son, the Duke of York, and the Archbishop of 
 York are together. Little York, even at an early age, 
 shows signs of rare intelligence, quickness, and ability. 
 He already suspects and dislikes his uncle Gloucester, and 
 with keen shrewdness remembers the latter's contemptuous 
 words to him. He exclaims : 
 
 " Grandam, one ni^ht, as we did sit at supper. 
 My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow 
 More than my brother : ' Ay^ quoth my uncle Gloucester, 
 ' Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace ' : 
 
 Now, by my troth, if I had been remember'd, 
 
 I could have given my uncle's grace a flout. 
 
 That should have nearer touched his growth than he did mine. 
 
 They say my uncle grew so fast 
 That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old ; 
 'Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth. 
 Grandam, this would have been a biting jest." 
 
 His grandmother, apparently wishing this incident to 
 be a secret, surprised at his wit and shrewdness, asks : 
 
 " I pray thee, pretty York, who told thee this?" 
 
 The boy, who probably was told it by his mother, 
 the queen, answers: 
 
 " Grandam, his nurse." 
 
 but his grandmother contradicts him immediately, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 " His nurse I why she was dead ere thou wast born," 
 
 and the lad, perhaps afraid of telling who it was, replies : 
 " If 'twere not she, I cannot tell who told me." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 195 
 
 His mother, wishing to silence him, now scolds him, 
 saying : 
 
 " A parlous boy ; go to, you are too shrewd." 
 
 She evidently accompanies this mild rebuke with a 
 
 stern or displeased look, as the Archbishop interposes, 
 
 saying : 
 
 " Good madam, be not angry with the child," 
 
 to which she replies, evidently vexed at her boy's talka- 
 tiveness : 
 
 " Pitchers have ears." 
 
 Dorset now enters, bringing the terrible news that 
 his uncle and brother, Lords Rivers and Grey, with 
 Sir Thomas Vaughan, are arrested and sent prisoners to 
 Pomfret, by the orders and directions of the Dukes of 
 Gloucester and Buckingham. The queen exclaims, terri- 
 fied at this arrest of her relatives : 
 
 " Ay me ! I see the ruin of my house. 
 The tiger now hath seiz'd the gentle hind ; 
 Insulting tyranny begins to jet 
 Upon the innocent and aweless throne : 
 
 I see, as in a map, the end of all." 
 
 The old duchess exclaims, recalling the stormy scenes 
 
 of her past life, and comparing them with the present 
 
 perils of her divided family : 
 
 " Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, 
 How many of you have mine eyes beheld ! 
 My husband lost his life to get the crown. 
 And often up and down my sons were toss'd. 
 For me to joy and weep their gain and loss : 
 And being seated, and domestic broils 
 Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors. 
 Make war upon themselves ; brother to brother, 
 
 O ! preposterous 
 
 And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen ; 
 
 Or let me die, to look on death no more." 
 
 The queen takes her boy to the sanctuary, and the 
 duchess accompanies them by the advice of the Arch- 
 bishop, who says: 
 
 " My gracious lady, go.'' 
 
196 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then to the, queen : 
 
 " And thither bear your treasure and your goods. 
 For my part, I'll resign unto your grace 
 The seal I keep : and so betide to me 
 As well I tender you and all of yours ! 
 Come ; I'll conduct you to the sanctuary.'' 
 
 They all depart, evidently alarmed at the danger which 
 seems now coming upon England, for since the deaths 
 of the king and Clarence, Richard of Gloucester, with his 
 powerful and hitherto devoted ally Buckingham, are 
 supreme in the kingdom. The next act and scene intro- 
 duce the young Prince of Wales returning to London, 
 accompanied by Gloucester, Buckingham, and Cardinal 
 Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury. The prince never 
 so lively as his younger brother, but grave and thoughtful, 
 laments the absence of his two uncles, both by his father's 
 and his mother's side, Clarence and Lord Rivers, the 
 former now dead, and the latter imprisoned, sadly ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 " I want more uncles here to welcome me." 
 
 Gloucester, in the polished, persuasive language he can 
 always command, though at times speaking with coarse 
 brutality, thus addresses his doomed nephew, whose death 
 he contemplates : 
 
 " Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years 
 Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit : 
 
 Those uncles which you want were dangerous ; 
 
 your grace attended to their sugar'd words, 
 
 But look'd not on the poison of their hearts : 
 
 God keep you from them, and from such false friends.'' 
 
 The prince, who like his little brother seems less 
 deceived by Gloucester than many grown men are, dis- 
 trustfully replies: 
 
 " God keep me from false friends ! but they were none." 
 
 He is most anxious to see his mother and young 
 brother, and, replying to the greeting of the Lord Mayor, 
 says: 
 
 " I thank you, good my lord ; and thank you all 
 I thought my mother and my brother York 
 Would long ere this have met us on the way : 
 Fie ! what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not 
 To tell us whether they will come or no." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 197 
 
 Hastings enters, saying that the queen and York have 
 
 taken sanctuary, and that 
 
 " The tender prince 
 Would fain have come with me to meet your grace, 
 But by his mother was perforce with-held." 
 
 Buckingham, completely Richard's tool for the present 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Fie ! what an indirect and peevish course 
 Is this of hers ! " 
 
 and urges the Cardinal to return with Hastings and force 
 
 the queen to give up her son to them. The Cardinal 
 
 replies in firm protest : 
 
 " My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory 
 Can from his mother win the Duke of York, 
 Anon expect him here ; but if she be obdurate 
 To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid 
 We should infringe the holy privilege 
 Of blessed sanctuary ! not for all this land 
 Would I be guilty of so deep a sin." 
 
 Buckingham, now thinking himself the most powerful 
 man in the kingdom except Gloucester, whom he longs to 
 serve, but whose real designs he does not yet quite 
 understand, impatiently if not rudely rejoins : 
 
 " You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord. 
 Too ceremonious and traditional : 
 
 You break not sanctuary in seizing him. 
 
 The benefit thereof is always granted 
 
 To those whose dealings have deserv'd the place. 
 
 And those who have the wit to claim the place : 
 
 This prince hath neither claim'd it nor deserv'd it 
 
 Then taking him from thence that is not there, 
 You break no privilege nor charter there. 
 Oft have I heard of sanctuary men. 
 But sanctuary children ne'er till now." 
 
 This crafty language from a man so distinguished and 
 hitherto so respected as Buckingham prevails with the 
 cardinal, who has little idea either of his or of Gloucester's 
 designs, and he replies : 
 
 " My lord, you shall o'er-rule my mind for once. 
 Come on. Lord Hastings, will you go with me ? " 
 
 and they depart accordingly, leaving Gloucester and the 
 
198 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 prince together. The former proposes that the Prince 
 should " repose " himself for a day or two in the Tower, 
 which the latter dislikes, asking if Julius Caesar built it, 
 and being told he did, asks: 
 
 " Is it npon record, or else reported 
 Successively from age to age, he built it ? " 
 
 and Buckingham replying that it was upon record, the 
 prince thoughtfully proceeds : 
 
 " But say, my lord, it were not register'd, 
 Methinks the truth should live from age to age, 
 As 'twere retail'd to all posterity. 
 Even to the general all-ending day." 
 
 Buckingham makes no reply, but Richard says to 
 himself, while keenly observing his nephew: 
 
 " So wise, so young, they say, do ne'er live long.'' 
 
 The prince exclaims in beautiful allusion to that great 
 ruler's celebrated " Commentaries," which he had evidently 
 studied and appreciated : 
 
 " That Julius Caesar was a famous man ; 
 With what his valour did enrich his wit. 
 His wit set down to make his valour live : 
 Death makes no conquest of this conqueror, 
 For now he lives in fame, though not in life.'' 
 
 Then full of hope and enterprise, he addresses 
 Buckingham : 
 
 " I'll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham, — 
 An if I live until I be a man, 
 I'll win our ancient right in France again. 
 Or die a soldier, as I liv'd a king," 
 
 Again, in the same dangerous spirit, his uncle says to 
 himself: 
 
 " Short summers lightly have a forward spring." 
 
 Like a dark cloud obscuring a brilliant sunrise, this 
 remorseless prince keenly perceives the early promise of 
 great ability in his nephews, which practically makes him 
 dread them all the more. His feelings towards them are 
 
KING RICHARD III. 199 
 
 not unlike those of Macbeth when hearing of young 
 Fleance's escape, and saying : 
 
 " The worm that's fled 
 Hath nature that in time will venom breed 
 No teeth for the present," 
 
 for young Edward is now fast approaching manhood, 
 while his forward intelligent younger brother York gives 
 every promise of being a courageous man. Richard there- 
 fore dreads their growing older or stronger, as every month 
 of their promising young lives would certainly be an 
 increasing obstacle to his ambitious designs against their 
 royal rights. While Gloucester thus wonders at the young 
 prince's early intelligence and clever remarks, the little 
 Duke of York, accompanied by the Cardinal and Lord 
 Hastings, comes from the place of refuge, the unfortunate 
 queen being unable to detain him there longer. York 
 immediately and naturally answers his brother, now law- 
 fully the king, who asks him how he is: 
 
 " Well, my diead lord ; so must I call you now.'' 
 
 The other sadly replies : 
 
 " Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours : 
 Too late he died tliat might have kept that title, 
 Which by his death hath lost much majesty." 
 
 Richard then greets little York, who answers him with 
 rare intelligence. The boy reminds his uncle of his former 
 words : 
 
 " O ! my lord, 
 You said that idle weeds are fast in growth : 
 The prince my brother hath outgrown me far." 
 
 Gloucester admits it, and York continues : 
 
 " And therefore is he idle ? " 
 
 Gloucester replies : 
 
 " O ! my fair cousin, I must not say so." 
 
 York answers : 
 
 " Then he is more beholden to you than I." 
 
 Even the astute Gloucester is apparently rather puzzled 
 
200 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 at the precocious sense and quickness of his nephew, and 
 replies : 
 
 " He may command me as my sovereign ; 
 But you have power in me as in a kinsman.'' 
 
 York then says : 
 
 " I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger." 
 
 Gloucester, apparently surprised, answers : 
 " My dagger, little cousin? with all my heart." 
 
 The elder prince, as if thinking York too forward, 
 remonstrates, exclaiming : 
 
 "A beggar, brother?" 
 and York replies : 
 
 " Of my kind uncle, that I know will give ; 
 And being but a toy, which is no grief to give." 
 
 Gloucester, assuming a ready good nature which never 
 deceives York, says : 
 
 "A greater gift than that I'll give my cousin," 
 
 and the boy, catching at his words, exclaims : 
 " A greater gift ! O ! that's the sword to it," 
 
 and Gloucester replies : 
 
 "Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough.'' 
 
 York retorts : 
 
 " O ! then, I see, you'll part but with light gifts ; 
 In weightier things you'll say a beggar nay." 
 
 Gloucester, apparently surprised at his forwardness, 
 answers : 
 
 " It is too weighty for your grace to wear,'' 
 
 and York replies : 
 
 " I weigh it lightly, were it heavier," 
 and then Gloucester asks : 
 
 "What ! would you have my weapon, little lord? " 
 
 The lad, nothing abashed, sharply replies : 
 
 " I would, that I might thank you as you call me." 
 
 Gloucester : 
 
 "How?" 
 
KING RICHARD III. 201 
 
 York : 
 
 " LitUe." 
 
 This word, usually not pleasing to spirited bo\s, has 
 apparently escaped Gloucester, who never thought it would 
 be resented, when tlie elder prince, tliinking the otlier too 
 forward, interposes, saying : 
 
 " My Lord of York will still be cross in talk. 
 Uncle, ytjur grace knows how to bear with him." 
 
 York, seizing upon tliese words, hazards a dangerous 
 joke, apparent!)- aimed at his uncle's deformity, and 
 exclaims to both: 
 
 " You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me 
 Unde, my brother mocks both yon and me. 
 Because that I am little, like an ape, 
 He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders."' 
 
 Buckingham, who despite his devotion to Richard, 
 cannot help admiring tlie clex-emess of the little prince, 
 here exclaims to himself: 
 
 ■ ■ With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons ! 
 To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, 
 He prettily and aptly taunts himself : 
 So cunnii^ and so yoimg is wonderful." 
 
 Gloucester makes no answer, but bent on his secret 
 designs again proposes that the princes should go to 
 the Tower for the present, saving that he will ask their 
 mother to meet them there. York sa} s he fears seeing 
 his uncle Clarence's ghost there, while the elder brother, 
 alwaj^s serious if not melancholy, says with obvious 
 
 " I fear no uncles dead." 
 WTien Gloucester promptly exclaims : 
 '• Nor none that live, I hope."' 
 
 To these words the elder prince makes a sad foreboding 
 
 reply: 
 
 "An if they live, I hope I need not fear. 
 But come, my lord ; and «ith a heavy heart, 
 Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower." 
 
 All depart, leaving Richard and Buckingham, who now 
 are b^inning to hold many private conferences together. 
 
202 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Buckingham, much impressed with little York's cleverness, 
 
 has evidently no idea of Richard's murderous designs 
 
 against the princes, and perhaps looks forward to his 
 
 patron ruling England during their imprisonment with 
 
 himself as premier or chief counsellor. When alone with 
 
 Gloucester Buckingham asks : 
 
 " Think you, my lord, this little prating York 
 Was not incensed by his subtle mother 
 To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously ? " 
 
 Richard sharply answers with a brief sketch of what 
 
 every boy might wish to be, though uttered in enmity : 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt. O ! 'tis a parlous boy ; 
 Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable : 
 He's all the mother's, from the top to toe." 
 
 Buckingham, who compared to Richard seems now 
 almost "the simple gull" the latter called him, un- 
 suspiciously answers, evidently having no idea of what is 
 in his companion's mind : 
 
 " Well, let them rest," 
 
 and then consults his fellow-plotter, Catesby, whom he 
 
 calls, about inducing Lord Hastings to join them in the 
 
 plan for making Gloucester ruler of England. Catesby, 
 
 evidently an artful intriguer from first to last, craftily says 
 
 of Hastings, knowing his love for the late king : 
 
 " He for his father's sake so loves the prince. 
 That he will not be won to aught against him." 
 
 Buckingham then asks : 
 
 " What think'st thou then of Stanley ? what will he." 
 
 The cunning Catesby, who seems to know more about 
 the other courtiers than any one else, replies about Stanley : 
 
 " He will do all in all as Hastings doth." 
 
 Gloucester and Buckingham then commission Catesby to 
 "sound" Lord Hastings as to what he may be induced to 
 do. Buckingham says to Catesby : 
 
 " If thou dost find him tractable to us. 
 Encourage him, and show him all our reasons : 
 If he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling. 
 Be thou so too, and so break off your talk, 
 And give us notice of his inclination." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 203 
 
 Richard, infinitely more deceitful and persuasive than 
 the ambitious Buckingham, adds : 
 
 "Tell him, Catesby, 
 His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries 
 To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret-castle ; 
 And bid my friend, for joy of this good news, 
 Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more." 
 
 This Jane Shore, at present under the protection of 
 Lord Hastings, had been mistress of the late king. 
 According to history, she was often using her influence 
 with the latter to accomplish acts of charity and benevo- 
 lence, but she is not introduced in this play. Catesby, a 
 cool, crafty lawyer, now shares the confidence of both 
 Richard and Buckingham alike, and seems practically well 
 worthy of it. By these two dangerous fiery men this 
 artful subordinate is now thoroughly trusted, and 
 apparently well knows how to serve their interests, be- 
 lieving doubtless they will reward him well in time. 
 Buckingham exclaims: 
 
 " Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly," 
 
 To which the other readily answers : 
 
 " My good lords both, with all the heed I can." 
 
 He departs to tempt their present ally, but future 
 victim, Hastings.^ Catesby is throughout the most de- 
 voted and really energetic of Gloucester's adherents, yet he 
 always occupies a subordinate position. Though one of 
 the most unscrupulous of all Richard's instruments, the 
 latter seldom takes private counsel with him, and seems 
 always to use him more as a tool than as an important 
 ally. When Catesby is gone, Buckingham, alone with 
 Richard, asks : 
 
 " Now, my lord, what shall we do if we perceive 
 Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots ? " 
 
 ^ This unfortunate nobleman had a great regard for Catesby, 
 according to Sir Thomas More, and was the more easily deceived by 
 him. " Catesby was of his near secret counsel, and whom he very 
 familiarly used, and in his most weighty matters put no man in so 
 special trust ; Catesby was a man well learned in the laws of this 
 land."— More's " Life of Richard III." 
 
204 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Richard's reply is prompt, decisive, and terrible, perhaps 
 too much so for his less savage associate : 
 
 " Chop off his head, man ; somewhat we will do." 
 
 Then, as if to reconcile him to Hastings' death, 
 Gloucester adds : 
 
 " And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me 
 The earldom of Hereford, and the moveables 
 Whereof the king my brother stood possess'd." 
 
 Buckingham, evidently delighted at this bribe, replies : 
 " I'll claim that promise at your grace's hand," 
 and Richard rejoins with apparent graciousness : 
 "And look to have it yielded with all willingness." 
 
 It does not seem altogether clear what Buckingham 
 
 really wished or contemplated at this dangerous period of 
 
 England's history. He evidently desires to make Richard 
 
 supreme, but has no idea of assassinating the two young 
 
 princes. Yet he must have known that while either of 
 
 them lived, Richard would have been a mere usurper, and 
 
 as such in constant danger of his life, which in fact would 
 
 be forfeited by the existing laws. At present, however, 
 
 he never mentions the imprisoned and endangered princes, 
 
 while actively aiding Richard's efforts to obtain the crown. 
 
 The next scene introduces Lord Hastings at his own 
 
 house, receiving a messenger from his friend, Lord Stanley, 
 
 who, though for some time friendly to Gloucester, now 
 
 begins to fear him, and urges Hastings by this messenger 
 
 to escape with him from London to the north of England. 
 
 He sends word that he has just dreamed that " the boar," 
 
 the ensign of Richard, had "rased off his helm," and 
 
 dreads these new divisions in the York party. Hastings, 
 
 still trusting Richard, rejects Stanley's advice, even calling 
 
 the artful Catesby his " good friend," and adds : 
 
 "Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance : 
 And for his dreams, I wonder he's so simple 
 To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers. 
 To fly the boar before the boar pursues. 
 Were to incense the boar to follow us 
 And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. 
 Go, bid thy master rise and come to me ; 
 And we will both together to the Tower. 
 Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly,'' 
 
KING RICHARD III. 205 
 
 The messenger departs, and Catesby enters, well 
 prepared to tempt the credulous and apparently not 
 over-wise Hastings, who asks him almost confidentially : 
 
 "What news, what news, in this our tottering state?" 
 
 These words clear the ground for the sly Catesby, who 
 promptly replies : 
 
 " It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord ; 
 And I believe will never stand upright 
 Till Richard wear the garland of the realm.'' 
 
 At this idea Hastings is startled, and fires up like 
 a loyal subject, and repeating the lawyer's words, 
 exclaims : 
 
 " How ! wear the garland! dost thou mean the crown ? " 
 
 Catesby calmly answers : 
 
 "Ay, my good lord." 
 
 Hastings then with indignant astonishment exclaims, 
 little suspecting the dangerous man now listening to all 
 his words and prepared to report them : 
 
 " I'll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders 
 Before I'll see the crown so foul misplaced," 
 
 Then thoroughly trusting Catesby, who has the con- 
 fidence of many, he asks : 
 
 " But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?" 
 
 Catesby, seeing he is becoming angry, thinks that the 
 deaths of his foes may soothe, if not win him over, and 
 replies : 
 
 "Ay, on my life ; and hopes to find you forward 
 Upon his party, for the gain thereof ; 
 And therefore he sends you this good news, 
 That this same very day your enemies, 
 The kindred of the queen, must dielat Pomfret." 
 
 Hastings, relieved at this news, yet still scrupulous, 
 replies : 
 
 " Indeed I am no mourner for that news. 
 Because they have been still my enemies ; 
 But that I'll give my voice on Richard's side. 
 To bar my master's heirs in true descent, 
 God knows I will not do it, to the death." 
 
2o6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Catesby, a worthy imitator of his patron Richard on a 
 smaller scale, answers with assumed approval : 
 
 " God keep your lordship in that gracious mind ! " 
 
 Hastings, who though loyal, is still suiificiently vindic- 
 tive, perhaps not without some cause, considering this 
 disturbed period, exclaims exultingly : 
 
 " But 1 shall laugh at this a twelvemonth hence. 
 That they which brought me in my master's hate," 
 
 meaning that of the late king. 
 
 " I live to look upon their tragedy," 
 
 and he says to Catesby, thinking they are both influential 
 with Richard, and can safely punish all enemies or rivals : 
 
 " Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older, 
 I'll send some packing that yet think not on't." 
 
 Catesby, well knowing all whom he is dealing with, 
 now apparently diverts himself by mocking this unsuspect- 
 ing victim, and observes with assumed solemnity : 
 
 " 'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord. 
 When men are unprepared and look not for it." 
 
 Hastings, completely deceived and confident, replies : 
 
 " O monstrous, monstrous ! and so falls it out 
 With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey ; and so 'twill do 
 With some men else, who think themselves as safe 
 As thou and I ; who, as thou know'st, are dear 
 To princely Richard and to Buckingham." 
 
 Catesby, with consummate art, well knowing Hastings' 
 imminent danger, as well as his own safety, quietly replies : 
 "The princes both make high account of you," 
 
 then says aside : 
 
 " For they account his head upon the bridge." 
 
 Hastings confidently says : 
 
 "I know they do, and I have well deserved it.'' 
 
 Stanley now enters, still suspecting Gloucester, while 
 
 Hastings tries to re-assure him, and partly succeeds in 
 
 doing so. Hastings exclaims full of confidence : 
 
 " Think you but that I know our state secure 
 I would be so triumphant as I am." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 207 
 
 Stanley prophetically mentions the queen's relatives 
 now under sentence of death : 
 
 " The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London, 
 Were jocund and supposed their state was sure ; 
 
 But yet you see how soon the day o'ercast. 
 This sudden stab of rancour 1 misdoubt : 
 Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward 
 But come, my lord, what shall we to the Tower ? " 
 
 Hastings replies : 
 
 " I go, but stay, hear you not the news? 
 This day those men you talk of are beheaded." 
 
 Stanley, though friendly with Hastings, does not 
 
 apparently share his enmity, or not to the same extent, 
 
 against the queen's relations, for he exclaims : 
 
 " They, for their truth, might better wear their heads 
 Than some that have accused them wear their hats." 
 
 He and Catesby go before Hastings, who remains 
 behind. Shakespeare describes at peculiar length how this 
 luckless nobleman was utterly deceived by Richard, owing 
 to the latter's pretending to befriend him. Hastings, re- 
 joicing at the executions of his political foes at Richard's 
 instigation, now tells a priest who calls on him to come to 
 him the next Sabbath. He previously meets a pursuivant, 
 a former friend, to whom he says exultingly : 
 
 " 'Tis better with me now 
 Than when I met thee last where now we meet : 
 Then was I going prisoner to the Tower, 
 By the suggestion of the queen's allies ; 
 But now, I tell thee (keep it to thyself) 
 This day those enemies are put to death. 
 And I in better state than e'er I was." 
 
 Buckingham, having seen the priest, then enters, saying 
 sarcastically : 
 
 "What ! talking with a priest, lord chamberlain? 
 Your friends at Pomfret they do need the priest : 
 Your honour hath no shriving work in hand." 
 
 Hastings exclaims : 
 
 " Good faith, and when I met this holy man. 
 Those men you talk of came into my mind. 
 What ! go you toward the Tower, my Lord ? " 
 
2o8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Buckingham : 
 
 "I do, but long, lord, I shall not stay : 
 I shall return before your lordship thence." 
 
 Hastings answers : 
 
 '"Tis like enough, for I stay dinner there." 
 
 Buckingham, already knowing or guessing his refusal 
 to join in Gloucester's plot, says aside : 
 
 "And supper too, although thou know'st it not." 
 
 They depart together, and the next scene is short, 
 
 describing Lord Rivers, the queen's brother. Lord Grey, 
 
 and Sir Thomas Vaughan, led to execution by a guard 
 
 under Sir Richard Ratcliff, a man like Catesby, devoted 
 
 to Richard, and who always remained so.^ This man, with 
 
 Catesby and Lovel, who appears later on, for some time 
 
 formed the terrible trio described in the well-known lines 
 
 in which Richard is the boar or hog : 
 
 "The cat, the rat, and Lovel the dog 
 Rule all England under the hog," 
 
 and the Boar's rule is certainly now fast approaching. 
 His three victims. Rivers, Vaughan, and Grey, bewail their 
 fate, praying that the young king may not yet be a victim 
 also, knowing that he is now surrounded by foes, who wish 
 to deprive him of all power if not of life. These three so- 
 called traitors seem never to have been convicted of any 
 capital offence, but are executed by the prevailing faction 
 as their dangerous enemies. They recall the prophetic 
 words of Queen Margaret, when warning them and others 
 against Richard of Gloucester, who they know is the most 
 powerful man in England ; yet hitherto this extraordinary 
 prince pursues his bloodthirsty course successfully by 
 removing one obstacle after another to his accession to 
 power. It would seem that Buckingham as well as 
 Hastings and others, while aiding Richard in destroying 
 
 ' Sir Thomas More's description of this man quite agrees with 
 Shakespeare's. "A man that had been long secret with him 
 (Richard), having experience of the world and a shrewd wit, short and 
 rude in speech, bold in mischief, as far from pity as from all fear of 
 God."— " History of Richard III." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 209 
 
 their personal enemies, still think his ambition may stop 
 short of absolute power, and that the more authority he 
 has, the more advantage they will reap from it. Of the 
 two, Hastings is more scrupulous than Buckingham, though 
 for a time their objects seem much the same. But 
 Richard, one of the most consummate dissemblers of his 
 time, and in a royal position, well knows there can be no 
 complete supremacy for him, until all rivals for the throne 
 as well as their loyal adherents are removed by death from 
 his path. The success, however, with which he contrives 
 to destroy so many influential opponents, some of them 
 even who were generally respected, would seem incredible 
 were not the chief facts in this eventful play confirmed by 
 historians. Rivers, the queen's brother, just before his 
 execution, pathetically exclaims : 
 
 "Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell lliee this: 
 To-day shalt thou behold a subject die 
 For truth, for duty, and for loyalty." 
 
 Grey, the queen's son, exclaims in the same spirit : 
 
 " God keep the prince from all the pack of you ; " 
 
 and Rivers exclaims : 
 
 "And for my sister and her princely sons, 
 Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood. 
 Which, as Thou know'st, unjustly must be spilt." 
 
 Ratcliff, the eager instrument of Richard, " short and 
 rude in speech," then exclaims : 
 
 " Dispatch ; the limit of your lives is out," 
 
 and presides over their fate. After the executions, without 
 any national protest, of Rivers, Vaughan, and Grey, who 
 were always opponents of Richard since the final defeat 
 of the Lancastrians, the destruction of his scrupulous 
 ally, the Lord Chamberlain Hastings, is his next object 
 This man, though aiding Gloucester against the luck- 
 less trio, Rivers, Vaughan, and Grey, has yet rejected 
 Catesby's temptation to raise Gloucester to the throne 
 This design, which Buckingham apparently favours, though 
 rather inconsistently, Hastings fiercely opposes, and he 
 
 O 
 
2IO SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 is therefore marked out for execution by Richard and 
 Buckingham, the latter's consent to this atrocity being ob- 
 tained by the bribe offered by Gloucester, who well knew 
 his covetous nature, of the earldom of Hereford and certain 
 articles of value. The next scene after the execution of 
 the three, Vaughan, Grey, and Rivers, is in the Tower of 
 London, where the Bishop of Ely, apparently a simple- 
 minded man, ignorant of Richard's plots, Buckingham, 
 Stanley, Catesby, Lovel, and others, are assembled. They 
 are met here to discuss the coming coronation of young 
 Edward V. In this scene Buckingham shows by his 
 duplicity that he is a worthy imitator of Gloucester, while 
 Hastings and the Bishop of Ely are complete dupes for 
 so far, and seem almost as ignorant of the real characters 
 of Richard and of Buckingham as if they were total 
 strangers. In mentioning the coronation, Buckingham 
 artfully asks : 
 
 "Who knows the lord protector's mind herein? 
 Who is most inward with the noble duke?" 
 
 Ely naturally replies : 
 
 "Your grace, we think, should soonest know his mind." 
 
 Buckingham deceitfully answers : 
 
 " We know each other's faces ; for our hearts ; 
 He knows no more of mine than I of yours ; 
 Nor I of his, my lord, than you of mine," 
 
 then addressing the next victim, he says : 
 
 " Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love." 
 
 Hastings, still quite unsuspicious, replies : 
 
 " I thank his grace, I know he loves me well ; 
 But for his purpose in the coronation, 
 I have not sounded him, nor he delivered 
 His gracious pleasure any way therein." 
 
 Gloucester enters greeting all around with the easy cour- 
 tesy which usually imposed upon nearly every one he ad- 
 dressed. He compliments the worthy bishop about some 
 fine strawberries the latter has, and the gratified prelate 
 immediately departs to get some. When he is gone upon 
 
KING RICHARD III. 211 
 
 this peaceful errand, Richard, taking Buckingham aside, says 
 in earnest words : 
 
 " Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, 
 And finds the testy gentleman so hot, 
 As he will lose his head ere give consent 
 His master's child, as worshipfuUy he terms it, 
 Shall lose the royalty of England's throne." 
 
 Buckingham asks him to withdraw, and without 
 another word they go out, and soon the hospitable 
 bishop re-enters, saying : 
 
 "Where is my lord, the Duke of Gloucester? 
 I have sent for these strawberries." 
 
 Hastings, now as ever completely deceived by Richard's 
 manner as well as character, exclaims to his friend 
 Stanley, who is evidently more shrewd and therefore 
 more suspicious : 
 
 " His grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning : 
 There's some conceit or other likes him well, 
 When he doth bid good morrow with such spirit. 
 I think there's ne'er a man in Christendom 
 That can less hide his love or hate than he ; 
 For by his face straight shall you know his heart." 
 
 Stanley distrustfully asks : 
 
 "What of his heart perceive you in his face 
 By any likelihood he showed to-day ? " 
 
 Hastings confidently replies : 
 
 " Marry, that with no man here he is offended. 
 For if he were, he would have shown it in his looks." 
 
 Gloucester would likely have been delighted at these 
 high, unconscious compliments to his deceptive powers, and 
 after their utterance he and Buckingham re-enter, having 
 evidently arranged their fatal plot, and doubtless are 
 supported by armed followers, stationed near this scene, 
 though they are not mentioned. Gloucester now surprises 
 nearly all present except Buckingham by asking, as if 
 suddenly, what certain people deserve who by plots or 
 witchcraft, at this time believed in, have threatened his 
 life or caused his deformity, Hastings immediately, as 
 
212 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 the chief man present, declares that such guilt deserves 
 death and Richard promptly retorts : 
 
 " Then be your eyes the witness of this ill. 
 See how I am bewiteh'd : behold mine arm 
 Is, like a blasted sapling, wither'd up : " 
 
 and then fiercely accuses the unlucky queen allied with 
 Jane Shore : 
 
 "That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.'' 
 
 Hastings, astounded, and quite taken by surprise, 
 begins : 
 
 " If they have done this deed, my noble lord " 
 
 when Richard promptly interrupts, pretending to be enraged 
 at his alleged injuries : 
 
 " If ! thou protector of this damned strumpet, 
 
 Talk'st thou to me of ' ifs ' ? Thou art a traitor : 
 Off with his head ! now, by Saint Paul I swear, 
 I will not dine until I see the same." 
 
 Then evidently directing some special followers, he 
 says: 
 
 " Some see it done 
 The rest, that love me, rise and follow me." 
 
 All go out except the victim, now guarded by Catesby 
 and Lovel, who with Ratcliff now preside sometimes in 
 different places at the executions of Gloucester's foes. The 
 doomed Hastings, knowing escape impossible, bitterly ex- 
 claims like a high-spirited man, remembering disregarded 
 warnings and foreseeing the misery of his country : 
 
 " Woe, woe for England ! not a whit for me ; 
 For I, too fond, might have prevented this. 
 
 Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble. 
 And started when he look'd upon the Tower, 
 As loth to bear me to the slaughter-house. 
 
 ! now I need the priest that spake to me ; 
 
 1 now repent I told the pursuivant. 
 
 As 'twere triumphing, at mine enemies 
 
 How they at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd. 
 
 And I myself secure in grace and favour." 
 
 He then, like the other previous victims though his 
 foes recalls Queen Margaret's words of warning to all the 
 
KING RICHARD III. 213 
 
 divided York faction against their dangerous champion 
 Gloucester, but Catesby, the active instrument of his terrible 
 master, like Ratcliff, has little patience with any victim, 
 and exclaims : 
 
 " Dispatch ; my lord, the duke would be at dinner : 
 Make a short shrift, he longs to see your head." 
 
 Hastings continues his lamentations, when Lovel in- 
 terposes, like Ratcliff, saying : 
 
 " Come, come, dispatch ; 'tis bootless to exclaim." 
 
 Then Hastings, whose eyes are only now fully opened 
 to the wickedness of the artful prince who has caused his 
 ruin, exclaims prophetically : 
 
 " O bloody Richard ! — miserable England ! 
 I prophesy the fearfall'st time to thee 
 That ever wretched age hath looked upon. 
 Come, lead me to the block ; bear him my head : 
 They smile at me who shortly shall be dead." 
 
 This last allusion is likely to Buckingham among 
 others, who is now Richard's chief counsellor, while 
 Catesby, Ratcliff, and Lovel occupy a more subordinate 
 position, eagerly executing their patron's will without 
 apparently holding much private conference with him. 
 The next scene introduces Gloucester and Buckingham 
 preparing like two actors to perform their cunning devices 
 before the Lord Mayor, evidently a simple, unsuspicious 
 man, with whose character they are likely well acquainted 
 by personal knowledge or report. Gloucester, as if training 
 his ambitious but more dull associate for the stage, asks 
 him : 
 
 " Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change thy colour. 
 Murder thy breath in the middle of a word. 
 And then again begin, and stop again. 
 As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror ? " 
 
 Buckingham, apparently knowing more about what are 
 sometimes called stage tricks than many English gentle- 
 men even of the present time, confidently replies : 
 
 " Tut ! I can counterfeit the deep tragedian, 
 Speak, and look back, and pry on every side, 
 Tremble and start at wagging of a straw, 
 
214 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Intending deep suspicion ; ghastly looks 
 Are at my service, like enforced smiles ; 
 And both are ready in their offices 
 To grace my stratagems." 
 
 The Lord Mayor now approaches, conducted by that 
 ready instrument of evil, Catesby, and soon followed by 
 the other satellites, Ratclifif and Level, bearing the head 
 of Hastings. At this sight Gloucester pretends to lament 
 his victim's death before the Lord Mayor, craftily mention- 
 ing among the sins of Hastings his being the protector or 
 friend of Jane Shore. Lovel first exclaims : 
 
 " Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, 
 The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings,'' 
 
 and then Gloucester exclaims in assumed sorrow : 
 
 " So dear I lov'd the man, that I must weep. 
 I took him for the plainest harmless man 
 Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded 
 The history of all her secret thoughts : 
 So smooth he daub'd his vice with show of virtue. 
 That, his apparent open guilt omitted, 
 I mean his conversation with Shore's wife. 
 He lived from all attainder of suspect. " 
 
 Buckingham now comes to the point, exclaiming : 
 
 " Well, well, he was the covert'st shelter'd traitor 
 That ever lived," 
 
 and then accuses Hastings of having plotted his own and 
 Gloucester's assassinations before the astonished Lord 
 Mayoi, who, respecting all three, hardly knows what to 
 think or believe, and exclaims : 
 
 "Had he done so?" 
 
 Gloucester, perceiving his surprise, hastens to convince 
 him: 
 
 " What ! think ye we are Turks or infidels? 
 Or that we would, against the form of law, 
 Proceed thus rashly in the villain's death. 
 But that the extreme peril of the case. 
 The peace of England, and our person's safety, 
 Enforc'd us to this execution?" 
 
KING RICHARD III. 215 
 
 The Mayor, evidently no match for these two dangerous, 
 unscrupulous men, replies completely deceived : 
 
 " Now fair befall you ! he deserv'd his death ; 
 And you, my good lords, both have well proceeded, 
 To warn false traitors from the like attempts," 
 
 and he adds, like a worthy but rather dull man : 
 
 ' ' I never look'd for better at his hands, 
 After he once fell in with Mistress Shore.'' 
 
 Gloucester then entreats the Mayor to excuse or justify 
 the execution of Hastings before the London people, 
 
 " Who haply may 
 Misconstrue us in him, and wail his death," 
 
 and the mystified Lord Mayor replies : 
 
 " Do not doubt, right noble princes both. 
 But I'll acquaint our duteous citizens 
 With all your just proceedings in this case.'' 
 
 The Mayor departs, and Gloucester tells Buckingham to 
 follow him to a meeting at the Guildhall, and there in- 
 sinuate, with all his persuasive powers, that the two 
 imprisoned young princes are illegitimate. Buckingham, 
 who is now apparently ready to do anything against them 
 except to authorise their deaths, at once accepts the 
 commission, and Gloucester adds these remarkable words : 
 
 "Tell them, when that my mother went with child 
 Of that insatiate Edward, noble York 
 My princely father then had wars in France ; 
 And by true computation of the time. 
 Found that the issue was not his begot ; 
 Which well appeared in his lineaments. 
 Being nothing like the noble duke, my father. 
 But touch this sparingly, as 'twere far off ; 
 Because, my lord, you know my mother lives." 
 
 The covetous ambitious Buckingham eagerly replies : 
 
 " Fear not, my lord, I'll play the orator 
 As if the golden fee for which I plead 
 Were for myself," 
 
 and Richard rejoins : 
 
 " If you thrive well, bring them to Bajoiard's castle ; 
 Where you shall find me well accompanied 
 With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops." 
 
2i6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Buckingham departs, fully instructed, and Richard then 
 addresses his more humble followers, Catesby and Lovel, 
 sends the latter to a Rev. Dr Shaw, and the former to a 
 Friar Penker, two churchmen who for a time at least were 
 devoted to his service, telling them both to meet him at 
 Baynard's Castle, and when alone exclaims : 
 
 "Now will I in, to take some privy order. 
 To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight ; 
 And to give notice that no manner of person 
 Have any time recourse unto the princes." 
 
 While this arch plotter is pursuing his schemes for 
 some time with success, the English people are beginning, 
 though slowly, to really understand his dangerous character. 
 Their growing suspicion of a prince, hitherto trusted as well 
 as admired for his extraordinary valour, is partly revealed 
 by a scrivener who in the next scene appears bearing the 
 written charge against Lord Hastings, and who says to 
 himself in a street what he would not have dared express 
 before others : 
 
 " This is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings ; 
 
 Eleven hours I spent to write it o'er, 
 
 For yesternight by Catesby was it brought me. 
 
 And yet within these five hours Hastings liv'd 
 Untainted, unexamin'd, free, at liberty. 
 Here's a good world the while 1 Why, who's so gross 
 That cannot see this palpable device ? 
 
 Bad is the world ; and all will come to naught. 
 When such ill dealing must be seen in thought." 
 
 The next scene is at the appointed place, Baynard's 
 Castle, where Gloucester and Buckingham meet. The latter 
 however, despite his art, has not succeeded as he hoped 
 in so easily deceiving the London citizens, who he avows 
 heard him in profound and evidently distrustful silence. 
 Richard asks how they received the statement about the 
 illegitimacy of the princes. Buckingham replies that after 
 mentioning this charge, and praising Richard's bravery and 
 victories, he vainly urged them to shout : 
 
 " God save Richard, England's royal king ! " 
 
KING RICHARD III. 217 
 
 Gloucester asks : 
 
 "And did they so?" 
 
 when Buckingham is forced to answer : 
 
 " No, so God help me, they spake not a word ; 
 But like dumb statues or breathing stones, 
 Gaz'd on each other, and look'd deadly pale. 
 Which when I saw, I reprehended them, 
 And ask'd the Mayor what meant this wilful silence : 
 His answer was, the people were not wont 
 To be spoke to but by the recorder. 
 Then he was urged to tell my tale again ; 
 
 When he had done, some followers of mine own, 
 
 At lower end of the hall, hurl'd up their caps. 
 
 And some ten voices cried, ' God save King Richard ! ' 
 
 And thus I took the vantage of those few, 
 
 ' Thanks, gentle citizens and friends' quoth I ; 
 
 ' This general applause and cheerful shout 
 
 Argues your wisdom and your Ime to Richard: ' 
 
 And even here brake off and came away." 
 
 Gloucester, usually so calm and self-controlled, loses 
 patience at this news, which evidently surprises him, perhaps 
 ^lightly delaying his plans, and angrily exclaims : 
 
 " What tongueless blocks were they ! would they not speak ? " 
 Buckingham, also disappointed, replies : 
 
 " No, by my troth, my lord." 
 
 The Mayor and some London citizens now approach, 
 and Buckingham then advises Richard to assume some fear 
 or hesitation, trying to make this prince if possible more 
 artful than he is by nature, saying : 
 
 " And look you get a prayer-book in your hand, 
 And stand between two churchmen, good my lord : 
 For on that ground I'll build a holy descant : 
 And be not easily won to our requests ; 
 Play the maid's part, still answer nay, and take it." 
 
 Richard likely amused as well as gratified by his 
 devoted follower trying to imitate his own cunning, 
 
 replies : 
 
 " I go ; and if you plead as well for them 
 As I can say nay to thee for myself, 
 No doubt we bring it to a happy issue." 
 
 He withdraws, and Buckingham then receives the Lord 
 
3i8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Mayor with some London people, while the ever active 
 Catesby pretends to take messages between Gloucester and 
 Buckingham. Catesby then says, as if from Gloucester : 
 
 " He doth entreat your grace, my noble lord, 
 To visit him to-morrow or next day, 
 lie is within, with two right reverend fathers 
 Divinely bent to meditation ; 
 And in no worldly suit would he be moved, 
 To draw him from his holy exercise." 
 
 Buckingham readily replies, with real confidence in the 
 sly go-between : 
 
 " Return, good Catesby, to thy lord again, 
 Tell him, myself, the mayor and citizens 
 
 Are come to have some conference with his grace. " 
 
 Catesby, who well understands both his employers 
 replies : 
 
 " I'll signify so much unto him straight," 
 
 and withdraws, while Buckingham then addressing the 
 Mayor and citizens, exclaims with plausible eloquence : 
 
 " Ah, ha ! my lord, this prince is not an Edward, 
 He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed, 
 But on his knees at meditation ; 
 Not dallying with a brace of courtezans. 
 But meditating with two deep divines ; 
 Not sleeping, to engross his idle body. 
 But praying, to enrich his watchful soul, 
 Happy were England, would this virtuous prince 
 Take on his grace the sovereignty thereof : 
 But sure, I fear, we shall not win him to it." 
 
 The simple duped Mayor anxiously replies : 
 "Marry, God forbid his grace should say us nay." 
 
 Catesby now re-enters with a new invention of deceit, 
 perhaps the joint composition of Richard and himself: 
 Catesby : 
 
 "He wonders to what end you have assembled 
 Such troops of citizens to come to him. 
 His grace not being warn'd thereof before : 
 My lord, he fears you mean no good to him." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 219 
 
 Buckingham, with assumed frankness, replies : 
 
 "Sorry I am my noble cousin should 
 Suspect me that I mean no good to him ; 
 By heaven, we come to him in perfect love ; 
 And so once more return, and tell his grace.'' 
 
 Catesby departs, and Buckingham deceitfully observes 
 
 to the puzzled Lord Mayor : 
 
 '■ When holy and devout religious men 
 Are at their beads, 'tis much to draw them thence ; 
 So sweet is zealous contemplation." 
 
 Richard himself now appears in a gallery above the 
 others, and between two bishops, when the worthy Mayor 
 exclaims : 
 
 "See where he stands between two clergymen." 
 
 and Buckingham promptly rejoins : 
 
 " Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, 
 To stay him from the fall of vanity ; 
 And see, a book of prayer in his hand, 
 True ornament to know a holy man. " 
 
 He then addresses his chief: 
 
 " Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince. 
 Lend favourable ear to our requests, 
 And pardon us the interruption 
 Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal." 
 
 Gloucester meekly asks : 
 
 "What is your grace's pleasure?" 
 
 and Buckingham, as if speaking for the London citizens, 
 
 whose representatives remain silent during this strange 
 
 scene, implores Richard to take the crown. He employs 
 
 noble, high-sounding words, likely suggested to him 
 
 previously by Richard himself: 
 
 " Know then, it is your fault that you resign 
 The supreme seat, the throne majestical, 
 The sceptred office of your ancestors. 
 The lineal glory of your royal house, 
 To the corruption of a blemish'd stock ; 
 
 We heartily solicit 
 
 Your gracious self to take on you the charge 
 And kingly government of this your land ; 
 Not as protector, steward, substitute, 
 
 But as successively from blood to blood, 
 Your right of birth, your empery, your own.' 
 
220 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 At this moment, what Buckingham really wished done 
 with the imprisoned princes it would be hard to say. 
 He certainly never contemplated their assassination, yet 
 did his best to aid their uncle in usurping their rights. 
 Richard now answers him in the style they doubtless 
 agreed upon, deprecating the idea of taking the crown, 
 and, replying at length to Buckingham's speech, ends by 
 thus alluding to his late brother, Edward, and the young 
 princes : 
 
 " There is no need of me ; 
 (And much I need to help you, were there need ;) 
 The royal tree hath left us royal fruit, 
 Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time, 
 Will well become the seat of majesty, 
 And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. 
 On him I lay that you would lay on me. 
 The right and fortune of his happy stars ; 
 Which God defend that I should wring from him !" 
 
 Buckingham replies by mentioning the alleged ille- 
 gitimacy of the princes, exclaiming : 
 
 " You say that Edward is your brother's son : 
 So say we too, but not by Edward's wife ; 
 
 A care-crazed mother to a many sons, 
 A beauty-waning and distressed widow. 
 Even in the afternoon of her best days. 
 Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye. 
 
 More bitterly could I expostulate. 
 Save that, for reverence to some alive, 
 I give a sparing limit to my tongue. 
 Then, good my lord, take to your royal self 
 This proffer'd benefit of dignity." 
 
 The deceived Mayor and the cunning Catesby add 
 their entreaties to Buckingham's, the Mayor exclaiming: 
 
 " Do, good my lord ; your citizens entreat you," 
 
 and Catesby, as if alluding to his own legal knowledge, 
 eagerly adds : 
 
 " O ! make them joyful : grant their lawful suit." 
 
 Richard, a prince of dissemblers, who probably enjoys 
 
KING RICHARD III. 221 
 
 this scene, or thinks it good practice for his powers, meekly 
 
 replies : 
 
 ' ' Alas ! why would you heap those cares on me ? 
 I am unfit for state and majesty : 
 I do beseech you, take it not amiss ; 
 I cannot nor I will not yield to you." 
 
 Then Buckingham, assuming a partly haughty, partly 
 injured tone, replies: 
 
 " If you refuse it, — as in love and zeal. 
 Loth to depose the child, your brother's son ; 
 As well we know your tenderness of heart 
 And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, 
 Which we have noted in you to your kindred, 
 And equally indeed to all estates ; — 
 Yet know, whe'r you accept our suit or no. 
 Your brother's son shall never reign our king ; 
 But we will plant some other in the throne, 
 To the disgrace and downfall of your house : 
 And in this resolution here we leave you. 
 Come, citizens, we will entreat no more." 
 
 Buckingham and the citizens withdraw, or are about 
 to do so, when Catesby, who always seems to know what 
 to say, and is quite in Richard's confidence, persuasively 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Call them again, sweet prince ; accept their suit : 
 If you deny them, all the land will rue it." 
 
 Richard, as if yielding most reluctantly, replies : 
 
 " Will you enforce me to a world of cares ? 
 Call them again : I am not made of stone. 
 But penetrable to your kind entreaties." 
 
 Catesby departs, probably laughing, and rejoicing to 
 himself, as Richard concludes : 
 
 " Albeit against my conscience and my soul." 
 
 Buckingham and the citizens re-enter ; it is not said 
 whether Catesby returns or not, and Richard calmly 
 addresses them : 
 
 " Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men, 
 Since you will buckle fortune on my back. 
 To bear her burden, whe'r I will or no, 
 I must have patience to endure the load : 
 
2 22 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 But if black scandal or foul-fac'd reproach 
 Attend the sequel of your imposition. 
 Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me 
 From all the impure blots and stains thereof ; 
 For God He knows, and you may partly see, 
 How far I am from the desire of this." 
 
 The worthy Mayor exclaims : 
 
 " God bless your grace ! we see it, and will say it." 
 
 Buckingham, at length gratified, saj's to his able 
 patron : 
 
 " Then I salute you with this royal title : 
 Long live King Richard, England's worthy king ! " 
 
 The citizens, either frightened and bewildered, or 
 credulous, exclaim : 
 
 "Amen." 
 
 then Gloucester and Buckingham fix the next day for the 
 coronation, while Richard meekly says to the bishops, 
 who remain silent during all this scene: 
 
 " Come, let us to our holy work again. 
 Farewell, my cousin; farewell, gentle friends." 
 
 This extraordinary scene, in great measure founded 
 on history, ends the third act of this eventful play, and 
 in it the crafty arts of Richard, Buckingham, and Catesby 
 are completely successful. Richard, indeed, hitherto has 
 encountered no " foeman worthy of his steel " in either 
 shrewd intelligence or knowledge of human nature. All 
 about the English court admire or fear him, and though 
 he is now becoming more and more distrusted, yet the 
 people seem too undecided or bewildered to take any 
 decided action to check his ambition. This astute 
 prince, therefore, uniting rare personal valour with extra- 
 ordinary powers of deceit, is up to this time quite un- 
 opposed in obtaining the perilous supremacy to which 
 his ambitious spirit aspired. 
 
 The first scene of the next act is in London before the 
 fatal Tower, where the widowed queen, her mother-in-law, 
 the Duchess of York, with the Lady Anne, Clarence's 
 young daughter, and the Marquis of Dorset, all meet, 
 
KING RICHARD III. 223 
 
 wishing to see the imprisoned young princes. This scene 
 is very pathetic, and though, perhaps, not actually founded 
 on history, probably represents truly the real feelings of 
 the persons introduced. The Lieutenant of the Tower, 
 Sir Robert Brakenbury, always devoted to Richard, 
 though perhaps not privy to all his designs, denies ad- 
 mission, saying these alarming words : 
 
 " The king hath strictly charged the contrary." 
 
 The hapless queen-mother then asks in real terror, and 
 
 fearing the worst : 
 
 " The king! who's that ? " 
 
 Brakenbury, to calm suspicion for the present, replies : 
 " I cry you mercy. I mean the lord protector." 
 
 and the queen exclaims : 
 
 ' ' The Lord protect him from that kingly title ! 
 Hath he set bounds betwixt their love and me ? 
 I am their mother ; who shotdd keep me from them ? " 
 
 The old duchess then tries to speak with some authority, 
 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " I am their father's mother and will see them." 
 
 The Lady Anne then tries to tempt Brakenbury, 
 saying : 
 
 " I'll bear thy blame 
 And take thy office from thee, on my peril." 
 
 Brakenbury, however, probably knowing that it would 
 be as much as his life was worth to give way to any 
 of the three ladies, firmly replies : 
 
 " No, madam, no ; I may not leave it so : 
 I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me." 
 
 Lord Stanley now appears, who, though obeying Richard 
 through fear, is becoming less and less devoted to him. 
 Yet for the present he acts as his messenger, ordering the 
 Lady Anne to repair to Westminster: 
 
 "There to be crowned Richard's royal queen." 
 
 This news terrifies the widowed queen, Elizabeth, who, 
 foreseeing Richard's absolute power, and the danger of her 
 
2 24 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 relatives, entreats her son Dorset to fly from England, and 
 take refuge abroad with the young Earl of Richmond, the 
 rising hope and chief of the subjected Lancastrian party. 
 This young man, the future Henry VII., is now for the first 
 time mentioned in the play, and hitherto has taken no part 
 in the affairs of his country. Stanley, who apparently obeys 
 and distrusts Richard at the same time, quite approves of 
 Dorset's flight to save himself, saying to the queen : 
 
 " Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam." 
 
 and then addressing her son Dorset : 
 
 " Take all the swift advantage of the time ; 
 You shall have letters from me to my son 
 In your behalf, to meet you on the way." 
 
 Evidently the princesses and Stanley all dread what 
 is coming on England, but as yet seem confused as well 
 as terrified at the rapid success of Gloucester's plots and 
 schemes. The three ladies alike bewail the terrible time 
 in vain, but natural lamentations. They ' attribute their 
 woes to Richard, the Lady Anne bitterly regretting in 
 almost frantic words her own forced union with the tyrant, 
 whose winning words would seem now to have lost their 
 influence over her weak mind. The three princesses being 
 forced now to separate, bid each other an affecting farewell. 
 The venerable duchess addresses Dorset, Anne, and Queen 
 Elizabeth severally in solemn words, the more impressive 
 considering who she is, and her present high, dignified, yet 
 virtually powerless position. She first says to Dorset : 
 
 " Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee ! " 
 
 then to the Lady Anne : 
 
 " Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee ! " 
 
 then to the queen : 
 
 " Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee ! 
 I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me ! 
 Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen." 
 
 The queen, still thinking of her unfortunate little sons, 
 
KING RICHARD III. 225 
 
 looks sadly back at the walls of the Tower, addressing them 
 in pathetic beautiful language, which ends this scene : 
 
 " Stay yet ; look back with me unto the Tower. 
 Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes 
 Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls, 
 Rough cradle for such pretty little ones ! 
 Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow 
 For tender princes, use my babies well. 
 So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell." 
 
 The following scene is a thorough change from the 
 pathetic to one of stately triumph and dangerous intrigue. 
 Richard is in a room of state in the palace, crowned, with 
 Buckingham, Catesby, and other adherents around him. 
 In the midst of his triumph, Richard well knows he is in 
 constant danger from the friends of the imprisoned princes, 
 and must always be in danger whilst they live. In fact, 
 during his terrible ascent to power after one obstacle is 
 removed, another arises, and his two nephews are now his 
 chief foes. He would be indeed lawful king were they and 
 the young son of Clarence removed. This latter prince, 
 called Earl of Warwick, had a strange history. His uncle 
 Richard had, to use his own words, to " draw him out of 
 sight " for a time, but seems to have kept him a prisoner, 
 and even in the play terms him foolish, and says he has no 
 fear of him. This unfortunate prince was always a prisoner 
 till executed by Henry VII. for no offence but that of his 
 royal blood. At the present time, however, the imprisoned 
 orphan is of secondary consequence to his royal cousins 
 in the Tower. Richard now hopes, perhaps expects 
 Buckingham, his first and chief adherent, to be a willing 
 instrument in getting rid of these youthful foes. He bids 
 all around to stand apart, and then, acknowledging 
 Buckingham's past services to him, exclaims : 
 
 " Thus high, by thy advice 
 And thy assistance, is King Richard seated." 
 
 So far all is right between them, but now the tempta- 
 tion begins, which might well be expected, considering 
 Richard's dangerous elevation, yet which utterly confounds 
 Buckingham, Richard knows that in the midst of his 
 
 P 
 
226 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 sudden triumph he is surrounded by perils on every side, 
 and therefore proceeds : 
 
 " But shall we wear these honours for a day, 
 Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them ? " 
 
 Buckingham, as |if overjoyed at seeing his patron en- 
 throned, and disregarding future dangers, eagerly replies : 
 " Still live they, and for ever may they last ! " 
 
 Richard then, not unreasonably in a political sense, 
 continues : 
 
 " O ! Buckingham, now do I play the touch. 
 To try if thou be current gold indeed : 
 Young Edward lives : — think now what I would say.'' 
 
 Buckingham, who shows less shrewdness in this 
 conversation than before, replies : 
 
 " Say on, my gracious sovereign.'' 
 
 Richard retorts, probably surprised at his slowness : 
 
 "Why, Buckingham, I say I would be king.'' 
 
 Buckingham, as before, thoroughly satisfied with the 
 triumph of the present moment, replies : 
 
 " Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned liege." 
 
 Richard promptly retorts with another hint : 
 " Ha ! am I king? 'Tis so ; but Edward lives.'' 
 
 Still Buckingham stolidly replies : 
 "True, noble prince," 
 
 and Richard now loses patience, or pretends to do so, 
 fiercely exclaiming in words which cannot be mistaken : 
 
 " O bitter consequence. 
 That Edward still should live ! " 
 
 He perhaps then imitates Buckingham's manner while 
 repeating his words with disdain : 
 
 ' True, noble prince.' 
 
 Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull : — 
 Shall I be plain ? I wish the bastards dead ; 
 And I would have it suddenly perform'd. 
 What say'st thou now? speak suddenly, be brief." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 227 
 
 Buckingham, evidently more shocked or surprised than 
 he should have been, knowing his master's antecedents 
 and the perils of his present position, answers as if timidly : 
 "Your grace may do your pleasure." 
 
 This implied disapproval provokes Richard, and 
 evidently surprises as well as irritates him. While 
 noticing the sudden cold manner of his former eager 
 associate, he exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Tut, tut ! thou art all ice, thy kindness freezeth. 
 Say, have I thy consent that they shall die ? " 
 
 This fearful question shocks Buckingham, who, horrified 
 at the idea, yet still devoted to Richard, replies, with 
 mingled dread and hesitation : 
 
 " Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord, 
 Before I positively speak herein 
 I will resolve your grace immediately," 
 
 and goes out, leaving Richard in evident surprise, anger, 
 and disappointment, while the ever watchful Catesby, 
 knowing him well and observing him closely, says prob- 
 ably to some zealous partisan : 
 
 " The king is angry : see, he gnaws his Up." ' 
 
 Richard, descending from his throne, takes a new 
 resolution, saying to himself: 
 
 " I will converse with iron-witted fools 
 And unrespective boys ; none are for me 
 That look into me with considerate eyes. — 
 High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.' 
 
 He clearly sees that Buckingham's hesitation and 
 withdrawal, though only for a short time, indicate desertion 
 from his cause, and calls a young page up to him. This 
 youth, apparently sharp-witted and intelligent, well knows 
 
 ' Catesby's observation was likely true to nature on this occasion, 
 if Richard's hostile biographer, Sir Thomas More, can be trusted. 
 " And while he did muse upon anything standing he would bite his 
 under lip continually whereby a man might perceive his cruel nature 
 within his wretched body." — " Life of Richard III." 
 
228 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 the characters of some, perhaps the wildest among the 
 courtiers, when Richard asks him : 
 
 " Know'st thou not any whom corrupting gold 
 Would tempt unto a close exploit of death ? " 
 
 The youth evidently not startled at this terrible 
 question, readily replies : 
 
 " I know a discontented gentleman, 
 Whose humble means match not his haughty mind : 
 Gold were as good as twenty orators. 
 And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything." ^ 
 
 Richard asks this dangerous man's name, and hears 
 
 it is Sir James Tyrrel, whom he slightly knows. He at 
 
 once sends the page for him, and when alone, gloomily, 
 
 even menacingly, refers to his former favourite: 
 
 " The deep-revolving witty Buckingham 
 No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels. 
 Hath he so long held out with me untired. 
 And stops he now for breath? well, be it so." 
 
 Lord Stanley, who though obeying Richard is never 
 much attached to him, now enters announcing Dorset's 
 flight to France, where he is staying with Richmond, 
 as he had been directed by his mother, the widowed 
 queen. Richard then tells Catesby, who is always at his 
 service, to report generally that the Lady Anne, his 
 present wife, is ill and likely to soon die. He then rather 
 strangely takes Catesby into his confidence about his 
 niece Clarence's daughter, and her young brother, saying : 
 
 " Inquire me out some mean-bom gentleman, 
 Whom I will marry straight to Clarence' daughter : 
 The boy is foolish, and I fear not him." 
 
 This extraordinary piece of family confidence ap- 
 parently confuses even the astute, hardened Catesby, for 
 he says nothing, and Richard reprovingly exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Look how thou dream'st ! I say ^ain, give out 
 That Anne my wife is sick and like to die : 
 About it ; for it stands me much upon 
 To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me." 
 
 1 " The man had a high heart and sore longed upwards, not rising 
 yet so fast as he had hoped, being hindered and kept under by the 
 means of Sir Richard Ratdiff and Sir William Catesby, which thing 
 this page well had marked and known." — More's " Life of Richard II I." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 229 
 
 Catesby departs with these strange directions, and 
 Richard then contemplates himself marrying the late 
 king's daughter, his niece, after the deaths of her two 
 imprisoned young brothers, adding with a sort of reck- 
 lessness, but without remorse or scruple: 
 
 ' ' I must be married to my brother's daughter, 
 Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass. 
 
 Uncertain way of gain ! But I am in 
 So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin : 
 Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye." 
 
 The page now re-enters, introducing Tyrrel the 
 " discontented gentleman," whom Richard thus addresses : 
 
 ' ' Is thy name Tyrrel ? " 
 Tyrrel : 
 
 "James Tjnrrel, and your most obedient subject." 
 
 Richard, as if taking him at his word, asks earnestly : 
 
 "Art thou, indeed?" 
 
 and the other readily answers : 
 
 " Prove me, my gracious sovereign," 
 
 and Richard then asks : 
 
 ' ' Dar'st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine ? " 
 
 Tyrrel, in a sort of grim humour, replies : 
 
 " Please you ; but I had rather kill two enemies." 
 
 Richard promptly retorts : 
 
 " Why, then thou hast it : two deep enemies. 
 Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep's disturbers. 
 Are they that I would have thee deal upon. 
 Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower." 
 
 The alleged illegitimacy of the two princes, which few 
 people believed in, was eagerly spread by Richard and 
 his adherents at this time. Tyrrel, who, though a gentle- 
 man by birth, is quite as unscrupulous as the lowest 
 ruffian, though not altogether remorseless, eagerly replies 
 as if anxious to show loyalty to the new king: 
 
 " Let me have open means to come to them. 
 And soon I'll rid you from the fear of them." 
 
230 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Richard, all the more pleased at this alacrity after 
 Buckingham's scruples, rejoins : 
 
 ' ' Thou sing'st sweet music. Come hither, Ty rrel : 
 Go, by this token." 
 
 Tyrrel evidently approaches and kneels, and Richard 
 
 proceeds : 
 
 " Rise, and lend thine ear." 
 
 He whispers some unmentioned words to the villain, 
 and then concludes decisively : 
 
 " There is no more but so ; say it is done, 
 And I will love thee, and prefer thee too." 
 
 Tyrrel replies : 
 
 " 'Tis done, my gracious lord." 
 
 Richard, eager to make the most of this ready 
 instrument, asks : 
 
 " Shall we hear from thee, Tyrrel, ere we sleep ? " 
 Tyrrel answers : 
 
 " You shall, my lord," 
 
 and then departs on his murderous mission, while 
 Buckingham now re-enters, apparently still hesitating. 
 Richard, however, has completely resolved to have nothing 
 more to do with him. All his past services, eagerness, 
 and exertions in his cause go for nothing with Richard 
 directly the first sign of scrupulousness appears, and 
 Buckingham has virtually signed his own death warrant 
 when he showed hesitation in doing the usurper's will. 
 Richard, however, having to some extent put Tyrrel in 
 Buckingham's place, by transferring his confidence from 
 the latter to the former, about slaying the princes, evidently 
 amuses his sardonic spirit by trifling with his ambitious 
 favourite, and watching his mortification. In his manner 
 this wonderful dissembler betrays no irritation whatever, 
 and Buckingham therefore begins calmly : 
 
 ' ' My lord, I have consider'd in my mind 
 The late request that you did sound me in. " 
 
KING RICHARD III. 231 
 
 Richard coolly replies, as if he had more important 
 things to think of: 
 
 " Well, let that pass," 
 
 and then mentions Dorset's flight to France, evidently 
 taking vindictive pleasure in keeping his anxious and 
 hitherto most devoted follower in suspense, before 
 altogether breaking with him. The ensuing conversation 
 between these dangerous men, once so firmly united, well 
 displays their respective characters. Richard is now 
 thoroughly resolved on distrusting Buckingham utterly, 
 while the latter is still partially deceived by his former 
 patron, for whom he has done so much, and, like many of 
 Richard's victims, never really knows him till too late. 
 Richard apparently diverts himself by trifling with 
 Buckingham's eager desire for his promised rewards of 
 the earldom of Hereford and some valuables, by which he 
 had been tempted to consent to the execution of Lord 
 Hastings. Thus Richard for some little time keeps him 
 in a fever of anxiety and eagerness, privately resolved on 
 his death, ignoring all his expectations of reward, while 
 making him listen to the news of the day, as well as to 
 old recollections, which have nothing to do with Bucking- 
 ham's claims or interests. Richard calmly begins, as if 
 partly speaking to himself, knowing Buckingham hears, 
 though not addressing him : 
 
 " Dorset is fled to Richmond." 
 
 Buckingham : 
 
 " I hear that news, my lord." 
 
 Richard as if addressing Lord Stanley, continues, while 
 Buckingham has to listen : 
 
 " Stanley, he is your wife's son ; well look to it." 
 
 Buckingham now urges his request with somewhat 
 bold earnestness : 
 
 " My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise, 
 For which your honour and your faith is pawn'd ; 
 The earldom of Hereford and the moveables 
 The which you promised I should possess." 
 
232 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Richard, well knowing how to torment, as well as 
 cajole his former associate, proceeds as if not hearing him : 
 
 " Stanley, look to your wife : if she convey 
 Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it." 
 
 Buckingham, longing for a reply, asks : 
 
 ' ' What says your highness to my just demand ? " 
 
 Richard, instead of answering, refers to old recollec- 
 tions, as if absorbed in them, and unaware of the other's 
 presence : 
 
 "As I remember, Henry the Sixth 
 Did prophesy that Richmond should be king, 
 When Richmond was a little peevish boy. 
 A king ! perhaps, perhaps " 
 
 Buckingham begins : 
 
 "My lord!" 
 
 But Richard interrupts him by exclaiming as if asking 
 a question of himself : 
 
 " How chance the prophet could not at that time 
 Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him ? " 
 
 It may seem strange that Richard should here dignify 
 his victim, the poor timid Henry VI., with the name of 
 prophet. Yet Henry's words recorded by Shakespeare 
 about young Richmond came true, which Richard now 
 seems to apprehend.^ Buckingham, however, taking no 
 interest in the other's recollections, continues : 
 " My lord, your promise for the earldom " 
 
 1 Henry VI. thus predicts of little Richmond to some assembled 
 English nobles, even during the lifetime of his own heroic son 
 Prince Edward, whom his adherents view as his heir. 
 
 ' ' Come hither, England's hope — if secret powers 
 
 [Laying his hand on his head. 
 Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts. 
 This pretty lad will prove our country's bliss. 
 His looks are full of peaceful majesty. 
 His head by nature fram'd to wear a crown. 
 His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself 
 Likely in time to bless a regal throne. 
 Make much of him, my lords, for this is he 
 Must help you more than you are hurt by me." 
 
 —Henry VJ., Part HL, Act IV. 
 
KING RICHARD III. 233 
 
 Richard again interrupts, exclaiming as if absorbed by 
 old memories : 
 
 " Richmond ! When last I was at Exeter, 
 The mayor in courtesy show'd me the castle. 
 And called it Rougemont : at which name I started, 
 Because a bard of Ireland told me once 
 I should not live long after I saw Richmond." 
 
 Whether this fearless Irish bard ever existed, or was 
 Shakespeare's invention, seems unknown, while Bucking- 
 ham, evidently engrossed by his own interests, exclaims : 
 
 " My lord " 
 
 and must have been startled by Richard's again interrupt- 
 ing him, asking : 
 
 " Ay, what's o'clock ? " 
 
 Buckingham, instead of answering the question again, 
 refers to his claims : 
 
 ' ' I am thus bold to put your grace in mind 
 Of what you promis'd me." 
 
 Richard, still evading him, repeats : 
 " Well, but what's o'clock ? " 
 and Buckingham answers : 
 
 " Upon the stroke of ten." 
 
 He is likely about to say more, when Richard, as if 
 enjoying every moment of the other's anxiety, and liking 
 to prolong it, says : 
 
 "WeU, let it strike?" 
 
 Then Buckingham in wonder asks : 
 
 "Why let it strike?" 
 
 and receives this contemptuous answer : 
 
 " Because that, like a Jack, thou keep'st the stroke 
 Between thy begging and my meditation. 
 I am not in the giving vein to-day." 
 
 At this scornful reply Buckingham loses patience, as 
 perhaps his tormentor wished, and he eagerly, if not 
 despairingly, asks : 
 
 "Why, then resolve me whe'r you will or no." 
 
234 SHAKESPEARE STlJDIED 
 
 Then though in few words Richard reveals his im- 
 placability, perhaps accompanied by a look in which 
 Buckingham foresees his fate, which he himself had likely 
 seen turned upon former victims. Richard, without flash- 
 ing forth into rage, yet likely turning on Buckingham a 
 glance of implacable scorn more fatal than any vehemence, 
 briefly replies : 
 
 " Tut, tut, thou troublest me : " 
 
 repeating what are to Buckingham the hopeless words : 
 
 "I am not in the vein," 
 
 and leaves his former adherent alone to his thoughts, which 
 at once assure him of immediate danger to his life. He 
 exclaims, astounded, terrified, and embittered all at once by 
 his terrible tempter : 
 
 " Is it even so ? repays he my true service 
 With such contempt ? made I him king for this ? " 
 
 Then remembering the former fatal results of Richard's 
 scorn and hatred, he adds : 
 
 " O ! let me think on Hastings, and be gone 
 To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on." 
 
 In this extraordinary scene Richard turns against his 
 first adherent and last victim. Buckingham's high position 
 and influence have hitherto made him Richard's able 
 counsellor as well as eager follower. This double position 
 was henceforth chiefly held by Catesby and Ratcliff, the 
 faithful servants or the unscrupulous tools of Richard, as 
 they might with equal justice be termed. Though Richard 
 gratified his disappointment with Buckingham by abandon- 
 ing him, his doing so may not have been altogether good 
 policy, as it drew this powerful man and his friends entirely 
 among Richard's increasing foes, and of course greatly 
 added to the general odium in which he was beginning to 
 be held. Yet Richard's proved valour, amounting to 
 heroism, in the long civil war which had made his brother 
 Edward the Fourth king, together with his great powers of 
 persuasion, and shrewd personal knowledge of the chief 
 men in England at this time, enabled him to command a 
 
KING RICHARD III. 235 
 
 large force of loyal subjects till the end of his terrible 
 career. Thus though Richard by his crimes alienated 
 many of his followers, yet some among them never 
 deserted him. Among these was the unscrupulous Sir 
 James Tyrrel, whose language and conduct in this play do 
 not seem very consistent. He had first eagerly undertaken 
 to slay the princes, never showing reluctance, and com- 
 mitting this hateful crime without scruple. Yet in the 
 scene after Richard's quarrel with Buckingham, Tyrrel 
 enters like another man, talking to himself in sad, pitiful 
 words, and exclaiming with horrified remorse : 
 
 ' ' The tyrannous and bloody deed is done ; 
 The most arch act of pitiful massacre 
 That ever yet this land was guilty of," 
 
 and adding that his subordinate ruffians, Dighton and 
 Forrest 
 
 "Melted with tenderness and mild compassion," 
 
 while pathetically describing the sleeping children almost 
 like a fond parent or sentimental poet. His two murderous 
 attendants according to Tyrrel : 
 
 "Wept like two children in their death's sad story. 
 ' Lo ! thus,' quoth Dighton, ' lay those tender babes : ' 
 ' Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest, 'girdling one another 
 Within their innocent alabaster arms : 
 Their lips like four red roses mi a stalk. 
 Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each other. 
 A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; 
 Which once,' quoth Forrest, ' almost changed my mind; 
 But 0! the devil' — there the villain stopp'd ; 
 When Dighton thus told on : ' We smothered 
 The most replenished sweet work of nature. 
 That from the prime creation ^er she framed.' 
 Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse ; 
 They could not speak ; and so I left them both. 
 To bear this tidings to the bloody king." 
 
 These imaginative if not sensitive ruffians are made to 
 lay special stress on the beauty of their poor little victims, 
 yet had the latter been ever so ugly, or of any age, the 
 guilt of their murder would surely have been the same. 
 But Tyrrel and his subordinates, though quite willing to 
 commit murder for money, seem quite overcome and 
 
236 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 penitent at beholding the innocent or beautiful faces of 
 the sleeping children. Such utter change of feeling in such 
 men would hardly be possible, all circumstances considered, 
 and seems invented rather to gratify sympathetic readers, 
 than to record historic truth. Tyrrel, in the midst of his 
 pathetic soliloquy, is now accosted by his thoroughly 
 practical remorseless master, at sight of whom Tyrrel, 
 hastily suppressing or concealing his feelings, exclaims : 
 " All hail, my sovereign liege." 
 
 while Richard promptly asks : 
 
 " Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news?" 
 
 and Tyrrel, as if perplexed between conscience and loyalty, 
 
 replies : 
 
 " If to have done the thing you gave in charge 
 Beget your happiness, be happy then, 
 For it is done." 
 
 Richard, evidently fearing lest by any chance his 
 young enemies, as he thinks them, may yet be alive, 
 nervously asks : 
 
 " But didst thou see them dead ?" 
 
 Tyrrel replies : 
 
 "I did, my lord." 
 
 Still Richard, not quite satisfied, again asks : 
 " And buried, gentle Tyrrel ?" 
 
 Tyrrel then furnishes an additional particular : 
 
 " The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them ; 
 But how, or in what place, I do not know." 
 
 Richard, as if really relieved from some haunting 
 
 terror, and eager to reward this unscrupulous follower, 
 
 replies : 
 
 " Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after-supper. 
 And thou shalt tell the process of their death. 
 Meantime, but think how I may do thee good. 
 And be inheritor of thy desire." 
 
 Tyrrel departs, and Richard speaking to himself briefly 
 reveals his present position. Though now surrounded 
 by increasing dangers this fierce prince, while in a state 
 
KING RICHARD III. 237 
 
 of constant excitement, finds evident pleasure in it. His 
 brave spirit and implacable nature alike support him 
 for the present, and he exults over the deaths and misery 
 of others, as if he were an actual madman, which towards 
 the close of his terrible career he seems to more and 
 more resemble. He says when there are none to hear 
 him : 
 
 " The son of Clarence have I pent up close ; 
 His daughter meanly I have match'd in marriage ; 
 The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom, 
 And Anne my wife hath bid the world good-night. 
 Now, for I know the Bretagne Richmond aims 
 At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter, 
 And by that knot, looks proudly on the crown. 
 To her go I a jolly thriving wooer. " 
 
 Catesby now enters saying that the Bishop of Ely 
 has fled to Richmond, and that Buckingham is in open 
 revolt at the head of an increasing force in the field. 
 Richard, still fearless and resolute, exclaims : 
 
 " Ely with Richmond troubles me more near 
 Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. 
 
 Go, muster men ; my counsel is my shield ; 
 We must be brief when traitors brave the field." 
 
 The next scene in violation of all history, introduces 
 the injured, vindictive Queen Margaret, who appears before 
 the palace, saying that she has " slyly lurk'd in these 
 confines to watch the waning of her enemies," whereas 
 ^e was really first imprisoned and then sent abroad, 
 whence she never returned. She is in the play, however, 
 now strangely joined by the old Duchess of York, whose 
 husband Margaret had put to death, and the Queen 
 Elizabeth, widow of the late king. These two last named 
 ladies bewail their miseries together, when Margaret 
 comes forward, and sitting down beside them, they all 
 three blame the present king, Richard HI., for all 
 or nearly all their different woes and losses. This un- 
 natural, if not impossible, scene between these princesses 
 is long and wearisome, and seems wholly incompatible 
 with the history of the period. At length Margaret 
 
238 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 withdraws, as if at complete liberty, saying to the others, 
 both widows of her former foes : 
 
 " P'arewell, York's wife, and queen of sad mischance : 
 These English woes shall make me smile in France," 
 
 and to that country she goes, never to return to England, 
 but in the play as a free traveller, in reality as a ransomed 
 prisoner.^ After her departure. King Richard enters 
 meeting his mother and sister-in-law. They both eagerly 
 reproach him for all the murders or executions he has 
 committed or authorised, probably with loud vehemence, 
 as he exclaims : 
 
 " A flourish, trumpets ! strike alarum, drums ! 
 Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women 
 Rail on the Lord's anointed. Strike I say ! " 
 
 He then calmly addresses the two princesses, who are 
 silenced by the noise : 
 
 " Either be patient, and entreat me fair. 
 Or with the clamorous report of war 
 Thus will I drown your exclamations." 
 
 His mother asks him to hear her, and he replies 
 with his former cool sarcasm, but soon as if reminding 
 her of some bygone anger of hers perhaps against himself: 
 
 " Madam, I have a touch of your condition. 
 Which cannot brook the accent of reproof." 
 
 His mother then bitterly and doubtless truly recalls 
 his conduct from childhood to the present time, without, 
 
 ' The banished queen's last days in Burgundy are described by 
 Sir Walter Scott. On a stormy day she receives the young son of the 
 Lancastrian Lord Oxford, mentioned in this play. While despairing 
 of the Lancaster faction reviving in England she throws from her 
 a feather and a red rose she wore. The feather flutters away, while 
 the wind drives back the rose to her. The youth exclaims : "Joy, 
 joy. The tempest brings back the badge of Lancaster to its proper 
 owner." " I accept the omen," said Margaret, " but it concerns 
 yourself, noble youth, and not me. The feather which is borne 
 away to waste and desolation is Margaret's emblem. My eyes 
 will never see the restoration of the House of Lancaster. But you 
 will live to behold it, and to aid to achieve it." — "Anne of Geierstein," 
 chap. XXX. 
 
KING RICHARD III. 239 
 
 however, naming his wonderful valour in the battle-iield, 
 which had gained for him such confidence in England : 
 
 "Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy ; 
 Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild and furious ; 
 Thy prime of manhood daring, bold and venturous ; 
 Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, bloody, treacherous. 
 What comfortable hour canst thou name 
 That ever grac'd me in thy company ? " 
 
 This sad question the wicked son answers in sarcastic 
 mockery : 
 
 "Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour,' that call'd your grace 
 To breakfast once forth of my company." 
 
 Then he coolly adds, without anger, but quite unmoved : 
 
 " If I be so disgracious in your sight. 
 
 Let me march on, and not offend you, madam. 
 
 Strike up the drum." 
 
 The duchess again exclaims : 
 
 "O hear me speak, for I shall never see thee more." 
 
 He replies in a manner that for him is rather soothing : 
 "Come, come, you are too bitter." 
 
 And she then solemnly denounces him for all his 
 crimes, and wishes for the success of his foes against him. 
 Thus the heroic champion of the York party in former 
 days is now freely denounced for becoming its destructive 
 enemy, and many members of that faction are beginning 
 more and more to join or wish success to Richmond, the 
 last representative of the defeated Lancastrians. Richard 
 on this occasion makes no reply to his mother's last words, 
 and is evidently heedless of her, but stops the Queen 
 Elizabeth, who is about to follow her mother-in-law, and 
 they have a long private talk together. Richard's new 
 design is to marry her daughter, sister of the slain princes, 
 the very idea of which she repels with indignant horror at 
 first, and he again, as in his former talk with the Lady Anne, 
 exerts all his extraordinary powers of deceit and per- 
 suasion to bring the injured queen to favour his views. 
 
 ^ The eating hour, according to Stevens and Howard Staunton. 
 
240 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Their conversation seems not only unnatural but repulsive. 
 She for some time argues with him, repelling all his 
 advances, and evidently distrusting everything he says. 
 Yet at length, as if physically as well as mentally weakened 
 by this fearful discussion with a man so powerful, and by 
 the overpowering energy and cunning of her tempter, she 
 exclaims, as if exhausted both in mind and body : 
 
 "Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?" 
 and he replies frankly : 
 
 "Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good." 
 
 Queen Elizabeth replies with a question, as if perplexed 
 or bewildered by what she hears, and all she knows : 
 
 "Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?" 
 when he answers : 
 
 "And be a happy mother by the deed." 
 
 She replies: 
 
 " I go. Write to me very shortly, 
 
 And you shall understand from me her mind." 
 
 Richard, thinking he has quite succeeded, exclaims : 
 " Bear her my true love's kiss ; and so farewell," 
 and after she goes, he exclaims, with some reason : 
 " Relenting fool, and shallow changing woman ! " 
 
 This hateful intrigue, however, was destined to come to 
 nothing, though it was said by some that the queen was in 
 its favour, while her daughter very naturally opposed it, 
 The general indignation against the usurper is now spread- 
 ing fast throughout England, and Richard apparently finds 
 he has too many enemies endangering him to pursue his 
 last love scheme further at present. Every moment of his 
 excited, dangerous, and threatened life is now devoted to 
 plans and precautions. His two most faithful followers, 
 or, more justly speaking, his unscrupulous instruments. 
 Catesby and Ratcliff, now enter, the latter announces that 
 Richmond is coming from France expecting the aid of 
 Buckingham and other malcontents at present in arms. 
 
KING RICHARD III. 241 
 
 Richard, for the first time, seems rather perplexed between 
 all his schemes and perils, and exclaims with his two 
 satellites beside him, whom he chiefly trusts : 
 
 ' ' Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk : 
 Ratcliff, thyself, or Catesby ; where is he ? " 
 
 This ready gentleman, usually at hand, replies : 
 " Here, my good lord," 
 and Richard says : 
 
 " Catesby, fly to the duke." 
 
 Catesby, replies : 
 
 " I will, my lord, with all convenient haste." 
 
 Richard : 
 
 ' ' Ratcliff, come hither. Post to Salisbury : 
 When thou comest thither." 
 
 He stops and turns fiercely on Catesby, exclaiming : 
 
 "Dull, unmindful villain. 
 Why stayst thou here, and go'st not to the duke ? " 
 
 Catesby, who on this occasion is more cool and 
 collected than his excited master, calmly replies by a 
 sensible question : 
 
 "First, mighty liege, tell me your highness' pleasure. 
 What from your grace I shall deliver to him ? " 
 
 Richard remembers himself, and graciously answers : 
 
 " O ! true, good Catesby : bid him levy straight 
 The greatest strength and power he can make, 
 And meet me suddenly at Salisbury." 
 
 Catesby answers promptly : 
 " I go," 
 
 and departs, when Ratcliff naturally asks : 
 
 "What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury? 
 
 Richard, as if forgetting he had first told Ratcliff to go 
 there, exclaims : 
 
 "Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go?" 
 
 Q 
 
a42 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Ratcliff truly answers : 
 
 " Your highness told me I should post before,'' 
 
 and Richard replies, as if confused : 
 
 " My mind is changed," 
 
 and then asks Lord Stanley, who enters, what is the news. 
 This nobleman is evidently frightened, and occupies a 
 singular position in English politics, having married 
 Richmond's mother, though remaining in Richard's 
 service. The latter therefore naturally suspects his 
 fidelity, but resolves to use a man of his position and 
 influence as long as he can do so safely. He watches 
 him, however, closely, and as in the case of Buckingham, 
 seems to take pleasure in observing and increasing his 
 agitation or perplexity. Stanley, answering him about 
 what news, replies in evident hesitation : 
 
 " None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing ; 
 Nor none so bad but well may be reported." 
 
 Richard suspiciously retorts : 
 
 " Heyday, a riddle ! neither good nor bad ? 
 What need'st thou run so many miles about, 
 When thou may'st tell thy tale the nearest way ? 
 Once more, what news?" 
 
 Stanley answers without comment : 
 " Richmond is on the seas." 
 
 At the mention of his young rival's name, the only one 
 of whom Richard would seem to have a prophetic dread, 
 he exclaims in a sudden burst of passion : 
 
 " There let him sink, and be the seas on him ! 
 White-liver'd runagate ! what doth he there ? " 
 
 Stanley, doubtless frightened, can only reply : 
 
 "I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess." 
 Richard sarcastically again asks : 
 
 "Well, as you guess ? " 
 
 Then Stanley has to tell the news, now generally 
 
 known : 
 
 " Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, 
 He makes for England, here to claim the crown-" 
 
KING RICHARD III. 243 
 
 Richard, well knowing that by legal right he claims 
 the throne before Richmond while he has young Warwick 
 in prison, asks Stanley with .haughty defiance, while 
 awaiting his coming reply: 
 
 " Is the chair empty ? is the sword unsway'd ? 
 Is the king dead ? the empire unpossess'd ? 
 What heir of York is there alive but we ? " 
 
 To this query Stanley might have replied : 
 "Your poor young prisoner, Lord Warwick," 
 
 but of course dares to say no such thing, and so Richard 
 proceeds : 
 
 "And who is England's king but great York's heir ? 
 Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas ? " 
 
 Stanley, evidently flinching under the terrible eye now 
 fixed upon him, can only answer : 
 
 " Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess." 
 Richard takes up his words with keen suspicion : 
 
 " Unless for that he comes to be your liege. 
 You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes." 
 
 Then without waiting for reply Richard adds with 
 grim suspicion: 
 
 " Thou wilt revolt and fly to him I fear." 
 
 Stanley, the least loyal of Richard's present adherents, 
 longing to leave him, yet afraid to do so, replies with an 
 eagerness which never deceives the usurper : 
 
 "No, mighty liege ; therefore mistrust me not." 
 Richard then suspiciously asks : 
 
 "Where is thy power then to beat him back ? 
 Where be thy tenants and thy followers ? 
 Are they not now upon the western shore. 
 Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships ? " 
 
 Stanley replies ; 
 
 " No, my good lord, my friends are in the north." 
 
 Richard retorts : 
 
 " Cold friends to me ; what do they in the north 
 When they should serve their Sovereign in the west ? " 
 
244 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Stanley, more and more frightened, pleads in answer : 
 " They have not been commanded, mighty king, 
 Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave, 
 I'll muster up my friends, and meet your grace 
 Where and what time your majesty shall please." 
 
 Richard, who guesses Stanley's secret thoughts, yet 
 
 wishes to have his services to the last, sarcastically replies : 
 
 "Ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond 
 But I'll not trust thee." 
 
 Stanley again vainly protests : 
 
 ' ' Most mighty sovereign. 
 You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful, 
 I never was, nor never will be false." 
 
 This was hitherto true, as Stanley was a firm adherent 
 to the York party, but Richard, while resolved to use his 
 influence, knows how to keep him in his power, and there- 
 fore says with decisive emphasis in words terrible to hear 
 from such a prince. 
 
 " Go then and muster men : but leave behind 
 Your son, George Stanley." 
 
 This order is doubtless heard by some of Richard's 
 followers, eager to enforce obedience, and he proceeds : 
 
 " Look your heart be firm. 
 Or else his head's assurance is but frail. " 
 
 Stanley, dreading this fatal threat, yet knowing that 
 both he and his son are completely in the tyrant's power, 
 can only answer : 
 
 " So deal with him as I prove true to you," 
 
 and departs. Three messengers now arrive in succession 
 with the unwelcome news of a general rising in different 
 parts of England. Richard hears the first two in silence 
 but when the third begins to tell his news, saying : 
 " The army of great Buckingham " 
 
 Richard alarmed and angry, yet never really frightened, 
 interrupts him, and, rather like Cleopatra, strikes the 
 innocent messenger for bringing bad news, exclaiming to 
 all three : 
 
 " Out on ye, owls ! nothing but songs of death ? 
 There, take thou thai, till thou bring better news," 
 
KING RICHARD III. 245 
 
 The struck messenger then explains to his great 
 
 advantage that Buckingham's army has been dispersed by 
 
 recent floods, and the duke himself has : 
 
 " Wander'd away alone, 
 No man knows whither." 
 
 Richard, relieved and grimly joking, replies : 
 
 " I cry thee mercy : 
 There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. '' 
 
 A fourth messenger then comes announcing that Dorset 
 and Sir Thomas Lovel are in arms, but that Richmond has 
 returned from England to France again. This latter in- 
 telligence is untrue, but Richard, partly believing it, ex- 
 claims fiercely : 
 
 " March on, march on, since we are up in arms ; 
 If not to fight with foreign enemies, 
 Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. " 
 
 The zealous Catesby, now Richard's chief confidant, 
 
 enters, exclaiming with delight : 
 
 " My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken ; 
 That is the best news : That the Earl of Richmond 
 Is with a mighty power landed at Milford 
 Is colder news, but yet they must be told." 
 
 Richard, alike impatient and vindictive, promptly 
 
 exclaims at this news : 
 
 " Away towards Salisbury ! while we reason here 
 A royal battle might be won and lost." 
 
 Then recollecting the doomed fallen favourite, he adds 
 
 with suppressed ferocity : 
 
 " Some one take order Buckingham be brought 
 To Salisbury ; the rest march on with me." 
 
 This brief yet fatal order is the only allusion this 
 implacable tyrant makes to his former chief adherent, now 
 his prisoner, and soon to be his victim.^ The next scene, 
 
 ' In some dramatic versions of this famous play, Richard is 
 represented exclaiming : 
 
 " Off with his head, so much for Buckingham." 
 But these words, though much in Richard's style, and perhaps what he 
 really said, are not those of Shakespeare. Mr Charles Dickens makes 
 a most witty allusion to these imputed words when writing on " Private 
 
246 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 though short, is important and explanatory. It is in 
 Stanley's house, where this terrified perplexed nobleman 
 reveals his thoughts to a Sir Christopher Urswick, a priest 
 devoted to the Lancastrian party, and to him Stanley 
 says: 
 
 " Tell Richmond this from me : 
 That in the sty of this most bloody boar 
 My son George Stanley is frank'd up in hold : 
 If I revolt, off goes young George's head ; 
 The fear of that withholds my present aid. 
 So get thee gone ; commend me to thy lord. 
 Tell him the queen hath heartily consented 
 He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter. 
 
 These letters will resolve him of my mind." 
 
 Stanley is among the many Englishmen to whom the 
 character of Richard III. is only beginning to be known. 
 Though living always in England, this prince, owing, 
 presumably, to his extraordinary arts and proved valour 
 combined, had completely deceived his two brothers, as 
 well as most of the distinguished Englishmen of his time. 
 When at length he became partially revealed before the 
 loyal and trustful English nation, he still retained a 
 strong party, who, to the last, were practically devoted 
 to him. His brothers, Edward IV. and Clarence, the 
 noblemen Buckingham, Hastings, and Stanley, were the 
 principal personages who were all more or less mistaken, 
 despite intimate acquaintance, in their estimate of this 
 man, whom they thought they well knew, and for a long 
 time trusted completely. Stanley, longing to join the 
 invading Richmond, dares not yet do so ; but, like many 
 other distinguished Englishmen, is now praying for the 
 invader's triumph, while Richard, easily guessing Stanley's 
 real feelings, holds his son a hostage for his father's 
 fidelity. 
 
 The next scene and fifth act introduces the execu- 
 
 Theatricals," in " Sketches by Boz." " The ' Off with his head ' is sure to 
 bring down the applause, and it is very easy to do. ' Orf with his 
 'ed' (very quick and loud — then slow and sneeringly) — 'So much for 
 Bu-u-u-uckingham ! ' Lay the emphasis on the 'uck,' get yourself 
 gradually into a corner, and work with your right hand, while you're 
 saying it, as if you were feeling your way, and it is sure to do." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 247 
 
 tion of the unfortunate Buckingham. This man, ambitious, 
 covetous, unscrupulous, and nearly as deceitful as Richard, 
 had, at length, showed reluctance to sanction the latter's 
 fearful career of iniquity, and from that moment all his 
 former aid to the tyrant was ignored, and only a traitor's 
 death was before him. Buckingham had eagerly connived 
 at the executions of many of his fellow-Englishmen, who 
 trusted, or at least never suspected him. He had resolutely 
 "held out untired," as Richard admitted, during a long 
 course of political intrigues and consequent state execu- 
 tions, but the tyrant's suggestion to slay the young princes 
 had struck Buckingham with horror, not altogether con- 
 sistent, perhaps, with his former unscrupulousness, and 
 which evidently surprised, as well as mortally offended 
 his tempter himself Buckingham, however, well knew 
 there were no half measures with Richard ; his adherents 
 must obey him in everything, or be treated as foes. 
 Richard's last scornful words : 
 
 " Tut, tut, thou troublest me, I am not in the vein," 
 
 likely accompanied by a glance there was no mistaking, 
 had convinced the hitherto devoted Buckingham that 
 nothing but death awaited him from the implacable king 
 whom he had so obeyed and revered. He then im- 
 mediately joined the revolt, but was soon captured and 
 sentenced to death as a rebel taken in arms against the 
 very king whom he had so eagerly aided to make such. 
 He now makes a last despairing effort to see Richard. 
 Addressing the sheriff leading him to execution, he 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Will not King Richard let me speak with him ? " 
 
 and the sheriff has to reply ; 
 
 " No, my good lord ; therefore be patient." 
 
 It was said, indeed, that on this occasion he had a 
 knife or dagger concealed about his person, meaning to 
 stab the king, had he been allowed to see him. This 
 story is told in Shakespeare's play of Henry VIII. ; yet 
 it seeihs very unlikely that a prisoner in the power of the 
 
248 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 suspicious, crafty Richard could have remained unsearched, 
 or by any chance have concealed dangerous weapons about 
 him. All Richard's captives were probably well examined 
 from head to foot, directly they became such ; yet this 
 statement, never either verified or disproved, had evidently 
 obtained some credence for Shakespeare to bring it promi- 
 nently forward, and it was not impossible, considering the 
 exasperation against Richard at this period. Buckingham 
 at the scaffold remembers Richard's many victims, some 
 of whom had suffered by his aid or connivance, and 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Hastings, and Edward's children, Grey, and Rivers, 
 
 Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, 
 
 Vaughan, and all that have miscarried 
 
 By underhand corrupted foul injustice. 
 
 If that your moody, discontented souls 
 
 Do through the clouds behold this present hour, 
 
 Even for revenge mock my destruction ! " 
 
 His remorseful and somewhat fanciful mind then 
 makes him ask : 
 
 " This is All-Souls' day, fellows, is it not ?" 
 
 The sheriff replies : 
 
 " It is, my lord," 
 
 and Buckingham, conscience-struck, exclaims : 
 
 "Why, then All-Souls' day is my body's doomsday. 
 This is the day which, in King Edward's time, 
 I wish'd might fall on me, when I was found 
 False to his children or his wife's allies ; 
 This, this All-Souls' day to my fearful soul 
 Is the determined respite of my wrongs. 
 That high All-Seer which I dallied with 
 Hath turn'd my feigned prayer on my head. 
 And given in earnest what I begged in jest. 
 Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men 
 To turn their own points on their master's bosom : 
 
 Come, sirs, convey me to the block of shame ; 
 Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame." 
 
 The remaining four scenes of this play alternate 
 between Richmond, young, enterprising, and hopeful, and 
 Richard III., suspicious, and finally conscience-stricken, 
 though never long actually terrified. Shakespeare's 
 
KING RICHARD III. 249 
 
 sympathies are completely with Richmond, the grand- 
 father of Queen Elizabeth, to whom as far as is known 
 the poet was a most loyal subject. Richmond's first 
 address to his followers after landing in England is 
 spirited and encouraging, but indicates nothing of this 
 prince's real character, which was cold and selfish: 
 
 ' ' Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, 
 Bruis'd underneath the yoke of tyranny, 
 Thus far into the bowels of the land 
 Have we march'd on without impediment : 
 And here receive we from our father Stanley 
 Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. " 
 
 He then describes Richard as " the boar," a name often 
 given him by his foes, and Richmond naturally expects 
 he will be more and more joined by Richard's followers, 
 but in this hope he is for some time rather disappointed. 
 Many kings committing far less crimes than those laid 
 to the charge of Richard III. were abandoned by their 
 horrified, alienated subjects. But Richard, strange to say, 
 was by no means so generally detested or cast off as 
 he deserved to be. The triumph of the York faction, of 
 which he had been the hero, had firmly established him 
 in the respect of most Englishmen, and some of the 
 chief nobility obeyed him to the last. This period was 
 no time for popular demonstration of any kind, and the 
 fate of England lay entirely between two rival princes. 
 In Shakespeare's brief sketch of young Richmond, he 
 seems a brave, high-spirited, generous deliverer of England 
 from a cruel tyrant ; but in reality he seems to have 
 been a shrewd, avaricious, unamiable prince, who never 
 was popular, or deserved to be, among the nation he ruled. 
 All that Shakespeare makes him say seems more intended 
 for stage effect than to convey historic truth about him. 
 The chief interest of the play is always in Richard himself, 
 and the next scene after Richmond's first appearance is 
 on the eventful field of Bosworth, where Richard is now 
 attended by the Duke of Norfolk, his son Lord Surrey, 
 and others. Norfolk and Surrey are at present his chief 
 attendants, though he seems always more confidential 
 
2 so SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 with Catesby and Ratcliff. Richard again displays that 
 wonderful energy and intrepid spirit, mingled with suspicion, 
 which always distinguishes him, and exclaims to those 
 around : 
 
 " Here pitch our tents, even here in Bosworth Field. 
 My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad ? " 
 
 Surrey, who probably, like many of Richard's followers, 
 now feels anything but cheerful, evasively answers the 
 trying question : 
 
 " My heart is ten times lighter than my looks," 
 
 and Richard then addresses Surrey's father Norfolk in 
 the same anxious, if not suspicious manner, as if trying 
 to discover their secret thoughts or feelings : 
 
 " Norfolk, we must have knocks ; ha ! must we not?" 
 
 Norfolk, apparently not in the best of spirits, practically 
 replies, with a sort of resignation : 
 
 " We must both give and take, my gracious lord." 
 
 Richard, between tnese two adherents, hitherto not 
 very much in his confidence, apparently tries to keep up 
 their spirits, but in the effort for the first time reveals some 
 apprehension, though never actual fear about the near 
 future. He boldly exclaims to his attendants : 
 " Up with my tent ! here will I lie to-night.'' 
 
 Then an awful thought strikes him, though only for 
 a moment, and he adds as if to himself: 
 
 ' ' But where to-morrow ? " 
 
 Again rousing himself he proceeds : 
 
 " Well, all's one for that. 
 Who hath descried the number of our foe ? " 
 
 Norfolk replies : 
 
 " Six or seven thousand is their utmost power," 
 
 and Richard confidently answers : 
 
 " Why, our battalia trebles that account : 
 Besides, the king's name is a lower of strength," 
 
KING RICHARD III. 251 
 
 and he exclaims with all his wonted energy : 
 
 " Up with my tent there ! Valiant gentlemen, 
 Let us survey the vantage of the field 
 Call for some men of sound direction : 
 Let's want no discipline, make no delay ; 
 For lord's, to-morrow is a busy day." 
 
 In these words the high spirits and constant courage 
 of the hero in the former civil war re-appear, but his 
 position is greatly changed. No longer the daring 
 champion of his father's family and of his brother's cause, 
 he has now become the foe of many among their adherents, 
 united against him with their former enemies of the 
 Lancastrian faction. Yet Richard's indomitable valour 
 and energy hitherto support him in every emergency. The 
 executions of alienated adherents, the alliance of former 
 friends and foes against him alone, the increasing hatred 
 with which he is now viewed throughout England, never 
 depress him, and he seems to regret nothing. He is as 
 before the hero of his cause, never shrinks, never repents, 
 never delays, while pursuing his daring, ferocious designs. 
 He still animates those followers who begin to evince some 
 doubt or apprehension in his service, for Norfolk and Surrey 
 become devoted to him, and their suspected fears or 
 nervousness practically yield before their king's resolute 
 spirit. The next scene introduces Richmond and his 
 followers, also preparing for the coming battle. Richmond 
 exclaims in the poet's beautiful language, which he probably 
 would never have used or perhaps admired : 
 
 " The weary sun hath made a golden set, 
 And by the bright track of his 6ery car. 
 Gives tokens of a goodly day to-morrow." 
 
 He asks where Lord Stanley is quartered, and evidently 
 reckons much on this nobleman's desertion to him, still 
 delayed by his son being a hostage in Richard's power. 
 Richmond concludes this scene, saying: 
 
 " Give me some ink and paper in my tent : 
 I'll draw the form and model of our battle. 
 Limit each leader to his several charge. 
 And part in just proportion our small power.'' 
 
252 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 In the next scene Richard appears with Norfolk, 
 Catesby, and Ratcliff. He begins to feel some bodily if 
 not mental fatigue. Though undaunted as ever, his 
 immense energy is somewhat diminishing, as he himself 
 admits. It may be that the fearful excitement of the 
 present time, the loss of his first useful adherent, Bucking- 
 ham, the sudden appearance of young Richmond in 
 England like an avenging angel, his suspicion of Stanley 
 and others — all these various causes of alarm, regret, and 
 danger are at length beginning to weaken the daring spirit 
 of his certainly heroic nature. In addition to Catesby and 
 Ratcliff, always more his obedient satellites than familiar 
 advisers, Richard is at present attended by new confidants — 
 Norfolk, Surrey, and Northumberland, who though men of 
 the highest rank and influence, seem less intimate with 
 him, and were never so much in his favour as Buckingham. 
 Richard at present trusts Catesby and Ratcliff more than 
 any of these noblemen. He asks Catesby if all his armour 
 is ready in his tent, and being told it is, tells Norfolk to be 
 off to his charge, to 
 
 " Use careful watch ; choose trusty sentinels." 
 and to 
 
 " Stir with the lark " 
 
 the next morning. When Norfolk departs, Richard is. 
 alone with Catesby and Ratcliff, with whom he is always 
 most intimate, and says to the latter : 
 
 ' ' Send out a pursuivant at arms 
 To Stanley's regiment ; bid him bring his power 
 Before sun-rising, lest his son George fall 
 Into the blind cave of eternal night. 
 Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch.'' 
 
 Then to Catesby : 
 
 " Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. 
 Look that my staves be sound and not too heavy. '' 
 
 Catesby says nothing, but Richard, knowing he can 
 thoroughly trust him, then addresses Ratcliff, whom, like 
 Catesby, he can well use as a spy : 
 
 " Saw'st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland ? " 
 
KING RICHARD III. 253 
 
 Ratclifif replies : 
 
 " Thomas, Ihe earl of Surrey, and himself. 
 Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop 
 Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.' 
 
 Richard, relieved at this news from his observant 
 follower, on whom he can thoroughly rely, replies : 
 " So ; I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine." 
 
 Evidently feeling weaker, and quite confidential with 
 his two followers, he admits, what he probably never said 
 before in all his eventful life : 
 
 " I have not that alacrity of spirit. 
 Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have. " 
 
 One of them evidently approaches with the wine, and 
 he adds : 
 
 and then asks 
 Ratcliff : 
 
 " Set it down." 
 
 " Is ink and paper ready ? " 
 
 " It is, my lord." 
 
 Richard rejoins : 
 
 " Bid my guard watch ; leave me.'' 
 
 Then calling him again, he says : 
 
 " Ratcliff, about the mid of night come to my tent 
 And help to arm me." 
 
 and repeats to both : 
 
 " Leave me, I say." 
 
 The king retires into his tent, while Catesby and 
 Ratcliff depart. The next scene brings Stanley in the 
 night-time secretly to Richmond, who warmly greets him. 
 Stanley then tells him how he intends to act, longing to 
 join him at once, but afraid to do so, owing to his son 
 George being in Richard's power. Stanley exclaims : 
 
 " The silent hours steal on. 
 And flaky darkness breaks within the east. 
 In brief, for so the season bids us be. 
 Prepare thy battle early in the morning. 
 
254 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 I, as I may, (that which I would I cannot), 
 With best advantage will deceive the time. 
 And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms : 
 But on thy side I may not be too forward. 
 Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, 
 Be executed in his father's sight. 
 Farewell ; the leisure and the fearful time 
 Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love 
 And ample interchange of sweet discourse. 
 
 Once more, adieu : be valiant and speed well ! " 
 
 He departs, attended by Richmond's officers, who 
 when alone, contemplating the next day's battle upon 
 which the fate of England depends, utters a beautiful 
 prayer, well worthy of Shakespeare, but which Richmond 
 would scarcely have composed, if history is to be trusted, 
 though it may be hoped its sentiments on this occasion 
 may have inspired him : 
 
 " O ! Thou, whose captain I account myself. 
 Look on my forces with a gracious eye : 
 Put in their hands Thy bruising irons of wrath, 
 That they may crush down with a heavy fall 
 The usurping helmets of our adversaries. 
 Make us Thy ministers of chastisement. 
 That we may praise Thee in Thy victory ! 
 To Thee I do commend my watchful soul, 
 Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes : 
 Sleeping and waking, O ! defend me still." [Sleeps. 
 
 The scene reverts to show the contrast to the tent of 
 Richard, who also asleep sees the ghosts of his victims 
 rise before him in succession. They alike reproach him, 
 while hoping for and some predicting his defeat next 
 day ; then, turning to Richmond, they sweeten his repose 
 with good wishes and promises of success. The whole 
 scene is eminently fitted for the stage, where the tents of 
 the two princes can be represented as near together, while 
 the apparitions address them with blessings and maledic- 
 tions alternately. The ghost of the brave young Prince 
 Edward of Lancaster first appears, exclaiming to Richard : 
 
 " Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! 
 Think how thou stabb'dst me in my prime of youth 
 At Tewksbury : despair therefore, and die ! " 
 
KING RICHARD III. 255 
 
 then addressing Richmond : 
 
 " Be cheerful, Richmond ; for the wronged souls 
 Of butcher'd princes fight in thy behalf ; 
 King Henry's issue, Richmond, comforts thee." 
 
 The ghosts of King Henry VI., Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, 
 Hastings, then of the two little princes, and of the Lady 
 Anne, appear in regular order from the dates of their 
 several deaths, all alike pronouncing maledictions on 
 Richard and blessings on Richmond. Last of all arises 
 that of Buckingham, exclaiming emphatically : 
 
 " The first was I that help'd thee to the crown ; 
 The last was I that felt thy tyranny, 
 O ! in the battle think on Buckingham, 
 And die in terror of thy guiltiness. 
 Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death, 
 Fainting despair, despairing, yield thy breath." 
 
 then to Richmond : 
 
 " I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid : 
 But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay'd : 
 God and good angels fight on Richmond's side ; 
 And Richard falls in height of all his pride." 
 
 [ The ghosts vanish, and Richard 
 starts out of his dream. 
 
 Richard's fearless spirit for the first time, though not for 
 long, seems to know what real terror is. The weakening 
 influence of dreams has somewhat the same effect on him 
 as on Lady Macbeth. Like her he can defy all the 
 dangers of reality, and is utterly remorseless, while his 
 imagination is not disturbed. The power of conscience 
 unknown to, or overcome by them both while awake, can 
 yet assail them with new, irresistible force when asleep, 
 or in dreamy oblivion. Richard first thinks himself 
 wounded in battle, and exclaims wildly : 
 
 " Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds !" 
 then utters his first attempt at a prayer : 
 " Have mercy, Jesu ! " 
 
 then wakes thoroughly, and, remembering where he is, 
 
 says: 
 
 " Soft ! I did but dream," 
 
sS6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and immediately reproaches his conscience, which only a 
 dream could awaken, 
 
 "O ! coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me," 
 
 then recalling and examining all his surroundings, proceeds 
 in a gloomy soliloquy, partly terrified and partly confused : 
 
 " The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. 
 Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 
 What ! Do I fear myself ? there's none else by : 
 Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I. 
 
 I am a villain. Yet I lie ; I am not. 
 
 Fool, of thyself speak well ; fool, do not flatter. 
 
 I shall despair. There is no creature loves me." 
 
 Yet at the moment he utters these desperate words, 
 he must know that thousands of brave Englishmen are 
 in arms around him to fight for his cause, but in his gloomy 
 distraction he proceeds : 
 
 ' ' And if I die, no soul shall pity me : 
 
 These words he could scarcely have thought true, as 
 he still retained a number of devoted followers about to 
 risk their lives for him. Richard III., despite all his 
 crimes, real or alleged, had no cause to complain of his 
 subjects, as he was never abandoned by them, like some 
 of his predecessors and successors were, and for far less 
 reason. He ends his terrible soliloquy with a gloomy 
 foreboding : 
 
 " Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd 
 Came to my tent ; and every one did threat 
 To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard." 
 
 The effect of his fearful dream appears when Ratcliff, 
 like Catesby, always alert and ready, enters, announcing 
 that his men are buckling on their armour for the coming 
 battle. Richard in thorough confidence exclaims : 
 
 " O Ratcliff ! I have dream'd a fearful dream. 
 What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all true ! " 
 
 Ratcliff, as firm and resolute as when sternly directing 
 the executions of Richard's prisoners, almost scornfully 
 replies : 
 
 "Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows,'' 
 
KING RICHARD III. 257 
 
 But this advice is easier to give than to follow. The 
 " shadows " now tormenting Richard's mind are no idle 
 fancies without foundation, but terrific reminders not even 
 exaggerated of his criminal deeds at a time when under 
 the influence of sleep his wonted energies are unable to 
 repel them. Yet he tries to again rouse his spirits by 
 comparing his dreamy fancies with realities which his 
 bravery despises, and he exclaims : 
 
 " By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night 
 Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
 Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers 
 Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond. 
 It is not yet near day." 
 
 Then, as if rather encouraged by the firmness of his 
 
 resolute follower, he adds : 
 
 " Come, go with me ; 
 Under our tents I'll play the eaves-dropper, 
 To hear if any mean to shrink from me." 
 
 He departs with Ratcliff, who probably thinks that 
 
 Richard has only been dreaming of desertion among his 
 
 army, while in Richmond's tent, Lord Oxford ^ and others of 
 
 his adherents enter, to whom he says, in complete contrast 
 
 to Richard, that he has enjoyed : 
 
 " The sweetest sleep, and fairest-boding dreams 
 • That ever enter'd in a drowsy head." 
 
 The ghosts of his foe's victims have in fact thoroughly 
 cheered Richmond, and he addresses his officers in spirited 
 words, ending : 
 
 " Remember this, 
 
 The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls. 
 Like high-rear'd bulwarks, stand before our faces ; 
 Richard except, those whom we fight against 
 Had rather have us win than him they follow. 
 For what is he they follow ? truly, gentlemen, 
 A bloody tyrant and a homicide ; 
 
 A base foul stone, made precious by the foil 
 Of England's chair, where he is falsely set ; 
 
 Advance your standards, draw your willing swords." 
 
 ^ This nobleman is probably the same whom Scott introduces in 
 " Anne of Geicrstein." 
 
 R 
 
2S8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 It would seem Richmond was mistaken in apparently 
 expecting Richard's followers to abandon him ; as for 
 a time the battle of Bosworth was fiercely contested 
 and many Englishmen of distinction were killed on both 
 sides ; but after his encouraging words Richmond departs 
 for the field with his men, and Richard attended by Ratcliff 
 and others now appears. The king, always trusting Ratcliff 
 begins to doubt Northumberland, and asks the former : 
 " What said Northumberland as touching Richmond ? " 
 
 Ratcliff answers : 
 
 "That he was never trained up in arms." 
 
 Richard is pleased and asks what Surrey then said. 
 Ratcliff replies that Surrey smiled and exclaimed : 
 
 " The better for our purpose." 
 
 This news from the trusted Ratcliff satisfies Richard, 
 who was evidently suspicious about the loyalty of the two 
 noblemen, and he says as a clock strikes : 
 
 " Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar." 
 
 and asks : 
 
 " Who saw the sun to-day ? " 
 
 Ratcliff: 
 
 "Not I, my lord." 
 
 Richard, beginning to have vague superstitious fears 
 which he is unable to conceal, exclaims : 
 
 " Then he disdains to shine ; for by the book 
 He should have brav'd the east an hour ago : 
 A black day will it be to somebody. " 
 
 He seems to mutter these last words to himself, as he 
 then exclaims : 
 
 "Ratcliff! 
 The sun will not be seen to-day ; 
 The sky doth frown and lour upon our army." 
 
 Then as if yielding more and more to an apprehensive 
 dread quite new to him, exclaims : 
 
 " J would these dewy tears were from the ground," 
 
KING RICHARD III. 259 
 
 Again rousing himself as if ashamed of showing fears 
 before Ratcliff, he says : 
 
 " Not shine to-day ! Why, what is that to me 
 More than to Richmond ? for the self-same heaven 
 That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.' 
 
 These strange apprehensions caused by dark or gloomy 
 weather alone, at such a time of ardent excitement, seem 
 hardly consistent with Richard's intrepid spirit and 
 shrewdness. Their power over him is likely owing 
 partly to the effect of his fearful dreams the night before. 
 His brave spirit seems, however, even now more confused 
 and agitated than really frightened, in the common sense 
 of the word.^ The dread of death or idea of flight never 
 occurs to him ; he has become fanciful if not dreamy, 
 perhaps superstitious, but neither terrified nor remorseful ; 
 and seems indeed to regain more spirit and courage as 
 he recovers from the immediate effect of his terrible dream. 
 Thus when Norfolk enters, saying : 
 
 " Arm, arm, my lord ! the foe vaunts in the field," 
 
 the exciting news instantly arouses Richard, who exclaims 
 with his wonted animation : 
 
 " Come, bustle, bustle ; caparison my horse. 
 Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power. 
 And thus my battle shall be ordered." 
 
 He then arranges the order of his troops how they 
 are to follow him in the field, and seems recovering his 
 former self every moment when Norfolk shows him a 
 scroll he has found in his tent with these ominous words 
 as if urging Norfolk to desert. Richard immediately 
 reads out the words : 
 
 "Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold. 
 For Dickon thy master is bought and sold." 
 
 He sees their meaning at once, exclaiming : 
 
 " A thing devised by the enemy." 
 
 1 " Richard had also a proud and cruel mind, which never went 
 from him to the day of his death, while he had rather suffer by the 
 cruel sword, though all his company did forsake him, than by shameful 
 flight he virould favour his life." — More's " Life of Richard III," 
 
26o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then quitting the subject he says : 
 
 " Go, gentlemen ; every man to his charge,'' 
 
 and evidently reasoning with himself as well as others, 
 
 proceeds, becoming bolder and bolder at the approach of 
 
 battle : 
 
 ' ' Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls ; 
 Conscience is but a word that cowards use, 
 Devised at first to keep the strong in awe : 
 Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. " 
 
 He then scornfully ridicules as well as abuses Richmond's 
 army, saying to his men : 
 
 " Remember whom you are to cope withal ; 
 A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, 
 A scum of Bretagnes and base lackey peasants. 
 
 Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again : 
 
 Hark ! I hear their drum. 
 
 Fight, gentlemen of England ! fight, bold yeomen ! 
 Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head ! 
 Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood ; 
 Amaze the welkin with your broken staves ! " 
 
 Then he asks a messenger : 
 
 "What says Lord Stanley ? will he bring his power?" 
 
 Messenger : 
 
 " My lord, he doth deny to come." 
 
 Richard ferociously exclaims : 
 
 " Off with his son George's head ! " 
 
 when Norfolk, probably willing to save the hostage, says : 
 
 "My lord, the enemy is pass'd the marsh : 
 After the battle let George Stanley die." 
 
 Richard, happily diverted from his savage purpose by 
 
 this news, and roused to fierce energy at hearing of the 
 
 enemy's approach, forgets Stanley, and exclaims, recalling 
 
 the valour of his race : 
 
 " A thousand hearts are great within my bosom : 
 Advance our standards ! set upon our foes ! 
 Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, 
 Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons ! 
 Upon them ! Victory sits on our helms," 
 
KING RICHARD III. 261 
 
 With these inspiriting, confident words he rushes to the 
 battle, and in the next short scene the Duke of Norfolk 
 enters, followed by Catesby, the latter ever faithful to 
 Richard, whom he certainly admires, exclaiming as if 
 fearing Norfolk is not as zealous as himself: 
 
 " Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk ! rescue, rescue ! 
 The king enacts more wonders than a man. 
 Daring an opposite to every danger : 
 His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights, 
 Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death. 
 Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost ! " 
 
 The slain horse is probably white Surrey, whose 
 pretended death by a real horse was often seen on the 
 London stage, but not of late years. Norfolk evidently 
 departs at Catesby's summons, when Richard himself 
 enters on foot, apparently almost desperate, yet fearless as 
 ever. It was said that some of Richmond's followers wore 
 armour like their leader, as if to guard him from the fury 
 of his certainly more martial foe. Thus Richard wildly 
 exclaims to Catesby, who alone seems to hear him : 
 
 " A horse ! a horse ! my kingdom for a horse." 
 
 Catesby, always ready and practical, replies : 
 
 " Withdraw, my lord ; I'll help you to a horse." 
 
 Richard hearing his voice at this awful moment seems 
 to hardly quite recognise his devoted follower. Roused 
 almost to madness, apprehending immediate death, yet 
 never fearing it, he exclaims in resolute desperation not 
 unmingled with savage triumph : 
 
 " Slave ! I have set my life upon a cast. 
 And I will stand the hazard of the die. 
 I think there be six Richmonds in the 
 Five have I slain to-day instead of him. 
 A horse ! a horse ! my kingdom for a horse ! " 
 
 The next and last scene seems well fitted as well as 
 probably intended for theatrical effect, being a thoroughly 
 dramatic end of this exciting eventful play. Though 
 Shakespeare represents the rival princes encountering 
 each other in mortal strife, it seems historically doubtful if 
 they ever came to blows, and the poet therefore presents 
 
262 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 them first as fighting and withdrawing, and then Richmond 
 enters with Stanley and other followers announcing 
 Richard's death. This king, a trained and proved warrior, 
 "in close fight a champion grim," as Scott describes 
 Marmion, would have very likely been beyond Richmond's 
 power to cope with on anything like equal terms. 
 Richard doubtless partly exhausted by his desperate 
 heroism on this terrible day, was evidently slain by more 
 than one of Richmond's followers.^ Sir William, brother 
 to Lord Stanley, bringing a small crown worn by Richard 
 in the battle, presents it to Richmond, exclaiming in 
 exultation : 
 
 " Lo ! here, this long-usurped royalty 
 
 From the dead temples of this bloody wretch 
 Have I pluck'd off to grace thy brows withal : 
 Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it." 
 
 Richmond's adherents now surround their new king, 
 congratulating themselves and him on this decisive victory. 
 Norfolk, Ratcliff, and Brakenbury were among the slain, 
 and some three or four thousand of Richard's men, 
 proving that this tyrant, instead of being generally 
 deserted, as many better kings have been, was obeyed 
 and faithfully followed to the last. While Hume and 
 Sir Thomas More agree with the poet's account of 
 Richard III., the calm, discerning mind of Bacon admits 
 more in his favour, and some recent writers have also 
 somewhat vindicated his character, but the evidence of 
 history on the whole appears certainly more against 
 him than for him.^ Richmond in eloquent words, due 
 
 ' " The intrepid tyrant cast his eye around the field, and descrying 
 his rival at no great distance, he drove against him with fury. He 
 was soon within reach of Richmond himself, who declined not the 
 combat, when Stanley breaking in with his troops surrounded Richard, 
 who, fighting bravely to the last moment, was overwhelmed by 
 numbers and perished." — Hume's " History," chap, xxiii. 
 
 ^ Bacon declares that Richard was a prince "in military virtue 
 approved, jealous of the honour of the English nation, and likewise a 
 good law-maker for the ease and solace of the common people, yet 
 his cruelties in the opinion of all men weighed down his virtues and his 
 merits."—" Life of Henry VII." 
 
KING RICHARD III. 263 
 
 chiefly to Shakespeare, praises and thanks his adherents 
 on the battle-iield of Bosworth, generously exclaiming : 
 
 " Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled 
 That in submission will return to us ; 
 And then, as we have ta'en the sacrament. 
 We will unite the white rose and the red : " 
 
 indicating his approaching marriage with the princess 
 Elizabeth, and the new monarch Henry VII., concludes 
 with noble words of Shakespeare's invention, yet which 
 it may be hoped expressed the real king's meaning : 
 
 " Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction. 
 That long hath frown'd upon their enmity ! 
 O ! now, let Richmond and Elizabeth, 
 The true succeeders of each royal house, 
 By God's fair ordinance conjoin together ; 
 And let their heirs, (God, if Thy will be so), 
 Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace. 
 With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days ! " 
 
 Though Richmond evidently acted with clemency 
 towards his defeated foes, the guilty Catesby, "a great 
 instrument of Richard's crimes," ^ yet the " good Catesby," 
 as his patron Richard calls him, was executed after 
 the battle at Leicester, while the fact of so many 
 men of all ranks being slain fighting for Richard's 
 cause, practically contradicts Richard's gloomy idea in 
 his awful soliloquy that no creature loved him. In 
 reality he was never generally abandoned like his pre- 
 decessors King John and Richard II., or his distant 
 successor James II., who at length had to rely on 
 the Irish against his English and Scottish subjects united 
 to depose him. Richard III. evidently had always some 
 brave adherents, much like Henry VI. and Charles 
 I., who, though finally vanquished, had thousands of 
 devoted loyal subjects to the last.^ It is possible, there- 
 
 1 Hume. 
 
 2 "Yet probably the loyalty of such men as Catesby and Ratcliflf 
 to Richard III. was owing to much the same cause as that of the 
 hangman, Tristan, and his subordinates to Louis XI. of France, 
 who admits : " We have resolved to live or die with your majesty, 
 knowing we shall have as short breath to draw when you are gone as 
 ever fell to the lot of any of our patients." — Scott's " Quentin Durward," 
 chap, xxviii. 
 
264 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 fore, that Shakespeare's sketch of Richard makes him to 
 some extent a worse man than he really was, and this 
 idea is suggested by the strange, inexplicable success 
 with which he is described as deceiving even his most 
 intimate friends and relations as to his real nature and 
 designs. Throughout the greater part of the play this 
 terrible prince mingles freely with his fellow-men of high 
 and low degree, deceiving his two elder brothers as 
 completely as if they had been always total strangers 
 to him. Nearly all the princes, statesmen, and chief 
 men of England he deals with seem mistaken and 
 unsuspicious about him. He wins them over in succes- 
 sion to serve his purposes, and not till he has become 
 king does he seem to convince the English nation of 
 his true character. The grand eloquent words of Henry 
 Vn. after the battle, on the whole, agree with Bacon's 
 calm, prosaic version : 
 
 " The king immediately after the victory caused " Te 
 Deum Laudamus," to be solemnly sung in the presence 
 of the whole army upon the place and was himself with 
 general applause and great cries of joy, in a kind of 
 military election, or recognition, saluted king."^ 
 
 ' "Life of Henry VII." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 
 
 The intermediate reign of Henry VII., never described by 
 Shakespeare, leaves an unexamined space between Richard 
 III.'s reign and that of Henry VIII. when the poet 
 resumes and ends his noble series of dramatic chronicles, 
 as Hallam terms the historical plays. Shakespeare end- 
 ing Richard III., leaves Henry VII. triumphant on 
 Bosworth field, making noble use of the victory, pardoning 
 defeated foes as well as rewarding faithful followers. The 
 poet thus represents him as a welcome, delightful contrast 
 to the terrible tyrant slain before him. Yet it would seem 
 that Shakespeare's slight sketch of Richmond is far more 
 favourable than his subsequent history justifies when 
 Henry VII. His reign witnessed more than one rebellion 
 against his evidently unpopular rule, and the execution of 
 Sir William Stanley, the zealous adherent who had 
 crowned him, for subsequent revolt, seems a most remark- 
 able proof of the terrible changes in men's minds during 
 civil wars or rebellions, and of the strange ingratitude of 
 which rulers are capable even when not by nature par- 
 ticularly cruel. Henry VII. never showed the murderous 
 spirit of King John, or the ferocity of Richard HI., but 
 usually cold, selfish, and crafty when he thought himself in 
 danger, he was utterly implacable. The execution of 
 Stanley, once a most loyal subject, for joining a revolt 
 against a king whose life he was said to have saved, Bacon 
 relates in his calm, peculiar style : 
 
 "The condition of mortal men is not capable of a 
 greater benefit than the king received at the hands of 
 
 265 
 
a66 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Stanley, being, like the benefits of Christ, at once to save 
 and crown." 1 
 
 While Hume thoughtfully, if not sarcastically, writes 
 on this extraordinary case : 
 
 " Princes are often apt to regard great services as a 
 ground of jealousy. And as Stanley was one of the most 
 opulent subjects in the kingdom, the prospects of so rich 
 a forfeiture was deemed no small motive for Henry's pro- 
 ceedings to extremities against him."^ 
 
 The fate of Stanley, the revolts of Warbeck and Simnel, 
 the execution of the unfortunate young Lord Warwick, 
 besides other important events in Henry VII. 's reign, 
 would have made it a most interesting subject for Shake- 
 speare, but for some unknown reason he ignored it, and 
 passes from the death of Richard III. to the reign of 
 Henry VIII. This prince, the only surviving son of Henry 
 VII., ascended the English throne in the midst of profound 
 peace, undisturbed, unchecked, and troubled by no opponent 
 or rival. Yet few, if any, English reigns were more 
 saddened by state executions, chiefly among the nobility, 
 while with the lower classes, this almost despotic king 
 was actually a popular sovereign. In the solemn Prologue 
 to this play, which some think written by Shakespeare's 
 great contemporary Ben Jonson,^ yet which is much in 
 Shakespeare's style, readers are prepared for its contents, 
 without either blame or praise being attributed to any of 
 its personages. It is certainly full of compassion for all the 
 distinguished and unfortunate victims of Henry's extraor- 
 dinary reign. 
 
 " Think ye see 
 The very persons of our noble story 
 As they were living, think you see them great 
 And followed with the general throng and sweat 
 Of thousand friends ; then in a moment see 
 How soon this mightiness meets misery ! " 
 
 Bacon describes the beginning of Henry's reign as " one 
 of the fairest mornings of a kingdom that hath been known 
 in this land." This magnificent and stately play, however, 
 
 1 " Life of Henry VII." '' " History of England," vol. iii. 
 
 ' See note, Howard Staunton's edition. 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 267 
 
 begins several years after the king's accession, and its first 
 scene is in London, at the palace, where some English 
 nobles describe their late stay in France, where king 
 Francis I. had received Henry on a state visit. 
 
 Their gorgeous meeting, called the Field of the Cloth of 
 Gold, was partly arranged or brought about by Cardinal 
 Wolsey, at this time high in favour with both kings, 
 trusted by Henry and complimented by Francis. The 
 description of the English and French meeting on most 
 friendly terms, after centuries of national enmity, the Duke 
 of Norfolk relates in Shakespeare's grand words, which 
 may well, however, convey his own ideas or recollections. 
 Norfolk, a relative of Richard's adherent slain at Bosworth, 
 now says to the Duke of Buckingham, son of Richard's 
 victim, and who was prevented by illness from visiting 
 France : 
 
 " Then you lost 
 The view of earthly glory : men might say, 
 Till this time pomp was single, but nojc married 
 To one above itself. Each following day 
 Became the next day's master, till the last 
 Made former wonders its. To-day the French 
 All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, 
 Shone down the English ; and to-morrow they 
 Made Britain India : every man that stood 
 Show'd like a mine. . . . 
 
 The two kings. 
 Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, 
 As presence did present them : him in eye, 
 Still him in praise : and, being present both, 
 'Twas said they saw but one : . . . 
 
 All was royal ; 
 To the disposing of it nought rebell'd, 
 Order gave each thing view ; the office did 
 Distinctly his full function. . . . 
 
 All this was order'd by the good discretion 
 Of the right reverend Cardinal of York." 
 
 At mention of the cardinal, his opponent in the king's 
 
 favour, Buckingham, always more impetuous and fiery 
 
 than his artful, plotting father, irritably exclaims : 
 
 " The devil speed him ! no man's pie is freed 
 From his ambitious finger. What had he 
 To do in these fierce vanities?" 
 
268 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The jealous enmity between the cardinal and Bucking- 
 ham is well known to Norfolk, who, siding with the latter, 
 now makes an admirably descriptive reply. Though he, 
 like many of the English nobility, dislikes or envies the 
 lowly-born, ambitious, arrogant cardinal, yet Norfolk has 
 sense enough to acknowledge his great qualities, evidently 
 remembering that he himself, and Buckingham, owe more 
 of their greatness to ancestry than to themselves. He 
 therefore answers : 
 
 " Surely, sir, 
 
 There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends ; 
 
 For, — being not propp'd by ancestry, whose grace 
 
 Chalks successors their way, nor call'd upon 
 
 For high feats done to the crown ; neither allied 
 
 To eminent assistants ; but, spider-like, 
 
 Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note. 
 
 The force of his own merit makes his way ; 
 
 A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys 
 
 A place next to the king." 
 
 The other courtiers have not the patience, sense, or 
 inclination to appreciate the merits of the formidable 
 cardinal, complaining that the cost of this gorgeous cele- 
 bration in France had weighed heavily on some of the 
 English gentry, and Buckingham adds : 
 
 " O ! many 
 Have broke their backs with laying manors on 'em 
 For this great journey. What did this vanity 
 But minister communication of 
 A most poor issue ? " 
 
 Norfolk, assenting, replies : 
 
 ' ' Grievingly I think. 
 The peace between the French and us not values 
 The cost that did conclude it." 
 
 Buckingham, still moodily thinking of the cardinal, 
 
 observes : 
 
 " Why all this business 
 Our reverend cardinal carried." 
 
 Norfolk, apparently more calm and observant than the 
 
 others, then warns the imprudent Buckingham : 
 
 "The state takes notice of the private difference 
 Betwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you, 
 And take it from a heart that wishes towards you 
 Honour and plenteous safety, that you read 
 
KING HENRY VIII. t6g 
 
 The cardinal's malice and his potency 
 Together ; to consider further that 
 What his high hatred would effect wants not 
 A minister in his power. You know his nature, 
 That he's revengeful ; and I know his sword 
 Hath a sharp edge ; it's long, and 't may be said, 
 It reaches far ; and where 't will not extend, 
 Thither he darts it." 
 
 As swords are not worn by cardinals, these mysterious 
 
 words must mean that Wolsey will use his influence over 
 
 the king with fatal effect against Buckingham. Norfolk 
 
 concludes, seeing Wolsey approaching: 
 
 " Bosom up my counsel. 
 You'll find it wholesome. I^ ! where comes that rock 
 That I advise your shunning." 
 
 These words announce Wolsey's entrance, and he and 
 
 Buckingham look at one another with mutual disdain, 
 
 and hardly-concealed animosity. Wolsey speaks first, 
 
 addressing his secretary, accompanying him : 
 
 " The Duke of Buckingham's surveyor, ha? 
 Where's his examination ? " 
 
 First secretary : 
 
 " Here, so please you." 
 
 Wolsey : 
 
 " Is he in person ready ? " 
 
 The secretary says he is, and Wolsey then utters 
 these threatening words, which Buckingham either hears 
 or suspects : 
 
 " Well, we shall then know more ; and Buckingham 
 Shall lessen this big look." 
 
 Wolsey walks out leaving the assembled courtiers, 
 
 while Buckingham's fiery temper, roused by Wolsey's 
 
 parting look and manner, makes him exclaim, alluding 
 
 to Wolsey's humble origin : 
 
 " This butcher's cur is venom-mouth'd, and I 
 Have not the power to muzzle him ; " 
 
 and Norfolk, friendly to Buckingham and knowing his 
 imprudence, asks : 
 
 " What ! are you chafd ? 
 
 Ask God for temperance ; that's the appliance only 
 
 Which your disease requires," 
 
270 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Buckingham passionately exclaims : 
 
 ' ' I read in's looks 
 Matter against me ; and his eye revil'd 
 Me, as his abject object : at this instant 
 He bores me with some trick ; he's gone to the king ; 
 I'll follow and outstare him." 
 
 Norfolk, alarmed and anxious for his friend's safety 
 replies : 
 
 " Stay, my lord. 
 And let your reason with your choler question 
 What 'tis you go about. . . . 
 
 Not a man in England 
 Can advise me like you : be to yourself 
 As you would to your firiend." 
 
 Buckingham, too angry to listen to reason, exclaims : 
 
 " I'll to the king; 
 And from a mouth of honour quite cry down 
 This Ipswich fellow's insolence, or proclaim 
 There's difiference in no persons." 
 
 His wiser friend again cautions him : 
 
 " Be advis'd ; 
 Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot 
 That it do singe yourself . . . 
 
 I say again, there is no English soul 
 More stronger to direct you than yourself, 
 If with the sap of reason you would quench. 
 Or but allay the fire of passion." 
 
 Buckingham, as if touched by this compliment to his 
 usual good sense, replies : 
 
 " Sir, 
 I am thankful to you, and I'll go along 
 By your prescription ; " 
 
 and proceeds to charge Wolsey with various political 
 intrigues with France and Germany, which he thinks 
 amount to something like treason against the king, when 
 interrupted by the entrance of the king's officers bearing 
 a warrant for his immediate arrest on the fearful charge 
 of high treason. Buckingham suspecting treachery, and 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 271 
 
 likely knowing his own imprudent habits of talking, gives 
 up hope at once, and exclaims to Norfolk : 
 
 " Lo you, my lord, 
 The net has fall'n upon me ! I shall perish 
 Under device and practice . . 
 
 It will help me nothing 
 To plead mine innocence .... 
 
 I obey." 
 
 He is then arrested with Lord Abergavenny, and when 
 he hears that other arrests are to follow, exclaims : 
 
 " My surveyor is false ; the o'er great cardinal 
 Hath show'd him gold. My life is spann'd already ; 
 I am the shadow of poor Buckingham. 
 
 .... my lord, farewell." 
 
 They are taken to the Tower, and the next scene 
 introduces the king thanking Wolsey for his able discovery 
 of Buckingham's alleged plot against both his crown and 
 life. Buckingham's surveyor seems the chief witness 
 against him in this mysterious affair.'^ 
 
 Throughout this play Shakespeare is certainly more 
 
 favourable to the king than most historians are. The 
 
 poet apparently thinks Buckingham innocent, and that 
 
 Henry is set against him by the cardinal. The king 
 
 therefore thus thanks Wolsey : 
 
 " My life itself, and the best heart of it, 
 Thanks you for this great care : I stood i' the level 
 Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks 
 To you that choked it. Let be called before us 
 That gentleman of Buckingham's ; in person 
 I'll hear him his confessions justify ; 
 And point by point the treasons of his master 
 He shall again relate." 
 
 1 " He (Buckingham) seems to have been a man full of levity and 
 rash projects and entertained a converse with a friar, who encouraged 
 him in the notion of his mounting the throne of England. He had not 
 even abstained from threats against the king's life. As Buckingham's 
 crimes seem to proceed more from indiscretion than deliberate malice, 
 the people who loved him expected that the king would grant him 
 a pardon, and imputed their disappointment to the animosity and 
 revenge of the cardinal. The king's own jealousy, however, was alone 
 sufificient to render him implacable,"— Hume's " History," chap, xxviii. 
 
272 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Henry, with the cardinal and some noblenien, take 
 their seats, when Queen Katharine of Aragon is announced 
 and enters. This Spanish princess, widow of the king's 
 brother, Prince Arthur, is older than Henry, and is re- 
 presented in this play as a noble and interesting character. 
 Shakespeare describes her, and afterwards Anne Boleyn, 
 her young rival, in a way that would have gratified both 
 these ladies, though whether they and their friends would 
 have quite sanctioned each other's description may be 
 doubted. They are each made so attractive and interest- 
 ing by the poet, that it would be difficult to say which 
 of them Shakespeare really prefers. 
 
 When Katharine enters, she first pleads with the king 
 for a remission of taxation, about to be levied throughout 
 the kingdom, for the imposition of which the cardinal 
 was generally blamed, though whether justly or not may 
 be a matter of opinion, considering the imperious obstinacy 
 of the king. Shakespeare, however, represents Henry as 
 ignorant and indignant about this proposed taxation, but 
 history, according to some sources, represents him as re- 
 sponsible for it as Wolsey.^ Katharine, aided by Norfolk, 
 protests against the new taxation on behalf of the king's 
 subjects. Their discontent is vividly described by Norfolk 
 in appealing to the king : 
 
 " Upon these taxations, 
 The clothiers all, not able to maintain 
 The many to them 'longing, have put off 
 The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who, 
 
 ' " Henry determined to fill his treasury by imposition upon his own 
 subjects, and he followed, as is believed, the counsel of Wolsey. But 
 he soon found that he had presumed too far on the passive submission 
 of his subjects. These arbitrary impositions being imputed, though 
 on what grounds is unknown, to the counsels of the cardinal increased 
 the general odium under which he laboured." — Hume's "History," 
 chap. xxix. 
 
 "Buried indeed as both Henry and his minister (Wolsey) were in 
 schemes of distant ambition, the sudden and general resistance of 
 England woke them to an uneasy consciousness that their dream of 
 uncontrolled authority was yet to find hindrances in the temper of 
 the people they ruled." — Green's " History of the English People," 
 Book v., chap, iii, 
 
ICING HENRY VIIL 273 
 
 Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger 
 And lack of other means, in desperate manner 
 Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar. 
 And danger serves among them." 
 
 Henry, in real or assumed surprise, asks : 
 
 " Taxation ! 
 Wherein ? and what taxation ? My lord cardinal. 
 You that are blamed for it alike with us, 
 Know you of this taxation ? " 
 
 Wolsey protests he knows no more about it than others, 
 
 when Katharine, who likes him not, exclaims with 
 
 suppressed indignation : 
 
 " No, my lord. 
 You know no more than others ; but you frame 
 Things that are known alike ; which are not wholesome 
 To those which would not know them, and yet must 
 Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions, 
 Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are 
 Most pestilent to the hearing ; and to bear 'em. 
 The back is sacrifice to the load. They say 
 They are devised by you, or else you suffer 
 Too hard an exclamation." 
 
 Henry exclaims, as if ignorant and wishing to be 
 informed : 
 
 "Still exaction ! 
 The nature of it ? In what kind, let's know 
 Is this exaction ? " 
 
 Katharine, afraid to provoke the violent king, yet 
 anxious he should know, meekly answers : 
 
 " I am much too venturous 
 In tempting of your patience ; but am bolden'd 
 Under your promised pardon. The subjects' grief 
 Comes through commissions, which compel from each 
 The sixth part of his substance, to be levied 
 Without delay ; . . . I would your highness 
 Would give it quick consideration, for 
 There is no primer business. " 
 
 Henry, as if he had never heard of this taxing 
 before, exclaims indignantly : 
 
 " By my life 
 This is against our pleasure." 
 
 Wolsey then evidently feels he must defend himself from 
 
 S 
 
2 74 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 the accusation against him, and says, with calmness, 
 perhaps craft, yet likely with some truth: 
 
 " And Tor mc 
 I have no further gone in this than by 
 A single voice, and that not pass'd me but 
 By learned approbation of the judges. If I am 
 Traduc'd by ignorant tongues, which neither know 
 My faculties nor person, yet will be 
 The chronicles of my doing, let me Say 
 'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake 
 That virtue must go through. We must not stint 
 Our necessary actions, in the fear 
 To cope malicious censurcrs j . . . 
 
 If wc shall stand still, 
 In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at. 
 We shall take root here where we sit, or sit 
 State-statues only." 
 
 Henry then says with that apparent open frankness, 
 which usually convinced or satisfied his hearers : 
 
 " Things done well, 
 And with a care, exempt themselves from fear ; 
 Things done without example, in their issue 
 Are to be feared." 
 
 He inquires, as if in complete ignorance : 
 
 " Have you a precedent 
 Of this commission? I believe, not any,'' 
 
 and then, like a lover of constitutional freedom, continues : 
 
 " We must not rend our subjects from our laws. 
 And stick them in our will. . . . 
 
 To every county 
 Where this is questioned send our letters, with 
 Free pardon to each man that has denied 
 The force of this commission. Pray look to it, 
 I put it to your care." ' 
 
 1 " Henry, proud and self-willed as he was, shrank not without 
 reason from a conflict with the roused spirit of the nation. His 
 conduct on this occasion well illustrates the whole policy of his House. 
 The temper of the princes of that line was hot and their spirit high ; 
 but they understood the character of the nation which they governed, 
 and never once, like some of their predecessors and some of their 
 successors, carried obstinacy to a fatal point. The discretion of the 
 Tudors was such that their power, though it was often resisted, was 
 never subverted." — Macaulay's " History of England," chap. i. 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 275 
 
 Shakespeare now imputes conduct to Wolsey which 
 may be true, but seems not proved. He privately says 
 to the secretary : 
 
 " Let there be letters writ to every shire, 
 Of the king's grace and pardon. The grieved commons 
 Hardly conceive of me ; let it be noised 
 That through our intercession this revolvement 
 And pardon comes." 
 
 x\ccording to historic probability, Henry knew as 
 much of this taxation as Wolsey did, but the latter feared 
 to say so. Henrj^- evidently well understood the Englishmen 
 of his time, and all the important measures of his ministers 
 were probably approved of by him before they ever became 
 law.^ It was this extraordinary monarch's good fortune 
 to be always popular throughout his reign, the blame of 
 his worst acts being generally attributed to his unfortunate 
 ministers, while he himself, usually joyous and frank in 
 manner, enjoyed a reputation for noble generosity which 
 many students of history cannot believe that he fully 
 deserved. 
 
 After this discussion about England's taxation, 
 Katharine next pleads with the king for Buckingham 
 but with less success. His surveyor enters and Katharine 
 addressing Henry says : 
 
 ' ' I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham 
 Is run in your displeasure. " 
 
 The king replying, praises the unfortunate duke's high 
 qualities in noble language, but keeps his fate a secret in 
 his own mind. 
 
 " It grieves many : 
 The gentleman is learn'd, and a most rare speaker, 
 To nature none more bound ; his training such 
 That he may furnish and instruct great teachers, 
 And never seek for aid out of himself. . . . 
 
 ' " He understood well that foul ways are not always passable. 
 None of his predecessors understood the temper of Parliaments better 
 than himself, or that prevailed himself more dexterously of them." 
 Lord Herbert of Cherbur/s " Life of Henry VIII.," p. 571. 
 
2 76 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 This man so complete, 
 Who was enroU'd 'mongst wonders, and when we. 
 Almost with ravish'd listening, could not find 
 Mis hour of speech a minute ; he, my lady, 
 Hath into monstrous habits put the graces 
 That once were his. 
 
 Sit by us ; you shall hear — 
 (This was his gentleman in trust) — of him 
 Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount 
 The fore-recited practices ; whereof 
 We cannot feel too little, hear too much." 
 
 Wolsey, perhaps seeing that the surveyor when thus 
 appealed to feels uneasy in such a presence, gives him 
 words of encouragement : 
 
 ' ' Stand forth ; and with bold spirit relate what you, 
 Most like a careful subject, have collected 
 Out of the Duke of Buckingham." 
 
 King Henry graciously adds : 
 
 "Speak freely." 
 
 The man thus emboldened proceeds with the charges 
 against his unfortunate employer : 
 
 " First, it was usual with him, every day 
 It would infect his speech, that if the king 
 Should without issue die, lie'd carry it so 
 To make the sceptre his ; these very words 
 I've heard him utter to his son-in-law, 
 Lord Aberginy, to whom by oath he menaced 
 Revenge upon the cardinal." 
 
 Here Wolsey, always on the watch against his many 
 foes, appeals to Henry : 
 
 " Please your highness, note 
 This dangerous conception in this point. 
 Not friended by his wish, to your high person 
 His will is most malignant ; and it stretches 
 Beyond you, to your friends. " 
 
 Katharine, distrusting Wolsey, but unable to weaken 
 his influence with the king, makes an appeal to the former : 
 
 " My learn'd lord cardinal, 
 Deliver all with charity." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 277 
 
 Henry, as if impatient, asks tlie surveyor : 
 
 " Speak on : 
 How grounded he his title to the crown 
 Upon our fail ? to this point hast thou heard him 
 At any time speak aught ? " 
 
 and the surveyor replies that Buckingham was under 
 the influence of his confessor, a Chartreux friar, named 
 Hopkins, 
 
 "Who fed him every minute 
 With words of sovereignty. " 
 
 This perhaps too willing witness then relates at length 
 some apparently treasonable words uttered by the duke to 
 himself, when the queen, as if examining his appearance, 
 and suspecting enmity to his former employer, exclaims : 
 
 " If I know you well, 
 You were the duke's surveyor, and lost your oflfice 
 On the complaint o' the tenants ; take good heed 
 You charge not in your spleen a noble person 
 And spoil your nobler soul. I say, take heed ; 
 Yes, heartily beseech you." 
 
 The king, as if irritated at her remarks, or anxious not 
 to have the surveyor interrupted, checks her by saying : 
 
 " Let him on," 
 and to the surveyor : 
 
 "Go forward." 
 
 The man, reassured by the evident favour of the king 
 and Wolsey, confidently proceeds : 
 
 " On my soul, I'll speak but truth, 
 I told my lord the duke, by the devil's illusions 
 The monk might be deceived ; and that 'twas dangerous for him 
 To ruminate on this so far, until 
 It forg'd him some design, which, being believed. 
 It was much like to do. He answer'd ' Tush! 
 It can do me no damage ; ' adding further, 
 That had the king in his last sickness fail'd, 
 The cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads 
 Should have gone off. " 
 
 Henry, startled and enraged, exclaims : 
 
 " Ha ! what, so rank ? Ah ha ! 
 There's mischief in this man. Canst thou say further ? " 
 
2 78 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and the witness, evidently trying to remember all he can 
 
 proceeds : 
 
 "Being at Greenwich, 
 After your highness had reproved the duke 
 About Sir William Blomer,— " 
 
 The king interrupts : 
 
 " I remember 
 Of such a time : being my sworn servant. 
 The duke retain'd him his. But on ; what hence ? " 
 
 The witness continues, quoting from a very retentive 
 memory the unfortunate Buckingham's words : 
 
 " ' If^ quoth he, ' I for this had been committed. 
 As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play'd 
 The paat my father vieant to act upon 
 The usurper Richard, who, being at Salisbury, 
 Made suit to come in 's presence ; which if granted. 
 As he made semblance of his duty, wotild 
 Have put his knife into him.'" 
 
 Henry, now thoroughly convinced of Buckingham's 
 guilt, exclaims, as if astounded : 
 
 "A giant traitor !" 
 
 and Wolsey seizes this moment to calmly ask the queen 
 in words of respectful warning or remonstrance: 
 
 " Now, madam, may his highness live in freedom, 
 And this man out of prison ? " 
 
 Katharine, still believing in Buckingham's innocence of 
 any criminal intent, but unable to deny his words, can only 
 exclaim in distressed perplexity : 
 
 ' ' God mend all ! " 
 
 The king evidently observing closely the surveyor's 
 look or manner, asks : 
 
 ' ' There's something more would out of thee ; what sayest ? " 
 
 and the man concludes his dangerous recollections, word 
 by word : 
 
 " After ' the duke his father,' with ' the knife,' 
 He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger 
 Another spread on 's breast, mounting his eyes. 
 He did discharge a horrible oath ; whose tenour 
 Was, were he evil used, he would outgo 
 His father by as much as a performance 
 Does an irresolute purpose." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 279 
 
 These recorded words seal Buckingham's fate, and 
 Henry, in roused, implacable wrath, for which there 
 certainly seemed some reason, exclaims: 
 
 ' ' There's his period ; 
 To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach'd ; 
 Call him to present trial : if he may 
 Find mercy in the law, 'tis his ; if none 
 Let him not seek 't of us ; by day and night ! 
 He's traitor to the height.'' 
 
 In this remarkable scene, partly founded on history, 
 Henry and Katharine are each rendered pleasing and 
 magnanimous, while the surveyor would seem a crafty, 
 if not malicious witness against his former employer and 
 Wolsey, an ambitious intriguer, taking advantage of 
 Buckingham's dangerous words to cause his ruin by them. 
 The historic facts represent Buckingham as a most 
 imprudent man, yet hardly capable of contemplating the 
 king's assassination ; although his impetuous temper and 
 vague threats would certainly justify both king and cardinal 
 in suspecting him of dangerous treason. The queen, 
 though sincerely believing in Buckingham's innocence, 
 cannot disprove his dangerous language, so carefully 
 brought against him by the united care or craft of 
 Wolsey and the surveyor. She can only appeal to the 
 justice of Heaven and says no more for him, while the 
 unfortunate duke is taken a prisoner to the Tower. 
 
 The next scene is in the palace, lively, gay, and 
 glittering. The Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sands are 
 together partly diverted, partly offended at the Frenchified 
 manner and talk of some young courtiers, their friends 
 and relatives lately returned from the splendid meeting 
 called the Field of the Cloth of Gold in France. Some 
 of the English gentry appear prejudiced, old-fashioned, and 
 exclusively national in their ideas, resenting imitation or 
 even much approval of the French as the ancestral foes 
 of England for many centuries. The Lord Chamberlain 
 in pettish anger observes : 
 
 " As far as I can see, all the good our English 
 Have got by the late voyage is but merely 
 A fit or two o' the face." 
 
28o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Lord Sands, who evidently knows and cares more 
 about horses than foreign fashions, exclaims, alluding to 
 the affected looks and gestures of some young courtiers 
 imitating the French : 
 
 ' ' They have all new legs, and lame ones : one would take it. 
 That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin 
 Or springhalt reign'd among 'em," 
 
 and the Chamberlain agreeing, rejoins : 
 
 ' ' Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too, 
 That, sure, they've worn out Christendom." 
 
 Another courtier. Sir Thomas Lovell, enters, mention- 
 ing the new proclamation. 
 
 " That's clapp'd upon the court-gate," 
 
 for: 
 
 " The reformation of our travell'd gallants. 
 That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors," 
 
 and the Chamberlain, who has probably never been in 
 France, rejoins : 
 
 " I'm glad 'tis there ; now I would pray our monsieurs 
 To think an English courtier may be wise, 
 And never see the Louvre." 
 
 From these words he had probably heard great praises 
 of that noble picture-gallery which at this period was 
 comparatively little known to Englishmen. Lovell con- 
 tinues, ridiculing the Frenchified courtiers : 
 
 " They must either, 
 (For so run the conditions,) leave those remnants 
 Of fool and feather that they got in France, 
 With all their honourable points of ignorance 
 Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks ; 
 Abusing better men than they can be. 
 Out of a foreign wisdom : . . . 
 
 Or pack to their old playfellows." 
 
 Chamberlain : 
 
 "What a loss our ladies 
 Will have of these trim vanities ! " 
 
 Lovell : 
 
 " Ay, marry. 
 There will be woe indeed, lords : 
 A French song and a fiddle has no fellow." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 281 
 
 Lord Sands, evidently a rustic gentleman, exclaims : 
 
 ' ' The devil fiddle 'em ! I am glad they're going, 
 For, sure, there's no converting of 'em : now 
 An honest countiy lord, as I am, beaten 
 A long time out of play, may bring his plain song 
 And have an hour of hearing." 
 
 Amid this light talk which rather enlivens the play, 
 
 the mysterious intrigues of this eventful time pursue their 
 
 dangerous course. The assembled courtiers are now about 
 
 to attend a splendid reception, held by Cardinal Wolsey. 
 
 The nobles cannot help admiring his genius and dreading 
 
 his power while they try to conceal their growing jealousy 
 
 or distrust of him. The Chamberlain, asking Lovell if he 
 
 is going to the cardinal's entertainment, and hearing that 
 
 he is, says he is also going, and anticipating its attractions, 
 
 says : 
 
 ' ' This night he makes a supper, and a great one, 
 To many lords and ladies ; there will be 
 The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you. " 
 
 Lovell, like the rest, seems to admire yet fear the 
 cardinal, but evidently wishes to be on the best possible 
 terms with him, and therefore exclaims : 
 
 " That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed, 
 A hand as fruitfiil as the land that feeds us ; 
 His dews fall everywhere." 
 
 The Lord Chamberlain replies : 
 
 " No doubt he's noble ; 
 He had a black mouth that said other of him." 
 
 They depart for the cardinal's abode at York Place, 
 where many guests, including the lady Anne Boleyn, 
 enter and are welcomed by Sir Henry Guildford assisting 
 the cardinal in the duties of reception. He addresses the 
 guests of both sexes in Wolsey's absence in courteous and 
 most pleasing words : 
 
 ' ' Ladies, a general welcome from his grace 
 Salutes ye all ; this night he dedicates 
 To fair content and you. None here, he hopes. 
 In all this noble bevy, has brought with her 
 One care abroad ; he would have all as merry 
 As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome 
 Can make good people." 
 
282 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 This beautiful address is followed by the entrance of 
 the Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and Sir Thomas 
 Lovell, to the first of whom Guildford says : 
 
 " O, my lord ! you're tardy : 
 The very thought of this fair company 
 Clapp'd wings to me." 
 
 and the Chamberlain, apparently older, regretfully replies : 
 
 "You are young, Sir Harry Guildford," 
 
 and then, becoming as lively as the other, addresses the 
 
 guests : 
 
 ' ' Sweet ladies, will it please you sit ? Sir Harry, 
 Place you that side, I'll take the charge of this ; 
 His grace is entering. Nay, you must not freeze ; 
 Two women placed together makes cold weather : 
 My Lord Sands, you are one will keep 'em waking ; 
 Pray, sit between these ladies." 
 
 Lord Sands then sits down beside Anne Boleyn, 
 saying to her in joking pleasantry : 
 
 " If I had chance to talk a little wild, forgive me ; 
 I had it from my father," 
 
 when she sarcastically asks : 
 
 " Was he mad, sir ? " 
 
 to which he replies : 
 
 " O ! very mad, exceeding mad ; in love too : 
 But he would bite none ; just as I do now. 
 He would kiss you twenty with a breath," 
 
 and he kisses her, as the Chamberlain exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Well said, my lord. 
 
 So now you're fairly seated. Gentlemen, 
 The penance lies on you if these fair ladies 
 Pass away frowning," 
 
 and Sands merrily says : 
 
 " For my little cure, 
 Let me alone.'' 
 
 The cardinal now enters, welcoming all his guests and 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " You're welcome, my fair guests ; that noble lady, 
 Or gentleman, that is not freely merry. 
 Is not my friend : this is to confirm my welcome ; 
 And to you all, good health." [Drinks- 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 283 
 
 After some gay talk a servant announces : ' 
 
 " A noble troop of strangers — 
 And hither make as great ambassadors from foreign princes," 
 
 when Wolsey, guessing or probably knowing who they 
 are, asks the Chamberlain to introduce them, adding : 
 
 " You can speak the French tongue : 
 And, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em 
 Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty 
 Shall shine at full upon them." 
 
 The Chamberlain goes to meet the new-comers, and 
 Wolsey then addresses his guests : 
 
 " You have now a broken banquet ; but we'll mend it. 
 A good digestion to you all ; and once more 
 I shower a welcome on ye — welcome all." 
 
 Then enters the king, with attendants, all disguised 
 as shepherds, and pretending to speak no English. The 
 Chamberlain keeping up this mystery, says of the new 
 guests : 
 
 ' ' That, having heard by fame 
 Of this so noble and so fair assembly 
 This night to meet here, they could do no less. 
 Out of the great respect they bear to beauty. 
 But leave their flocks ; and under your fair conduct, 
 Crave leave to view the ladies, and entreat 
 An hour of revels with 'em. " 
 
 Wolsey, with courteous hospitality, replies : 
 
 " Say, lord chamberlain. 
 They have done my poor house grace ; for which I pay 'em 
 A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures." 
 
 A dance now begins, and the disguised king, selecting 
 Anne Boleyn for his partner, exclaims in ill-omened 
 admiration : 
 
 " The fairest hand I ever touch'd ! O beauty ! 
 Till now I never knew thee." 
 
 Then ensue music and dancing, when Wolsey, thinking 
 it time to recognise the king, sends word through the 
 Chamberlain to the masquers that there is one amongst 
 them more worthy of the highest place than himself. 
 
284 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The new guests own there is, and Wolsey, probably soon 
 recognising the king's stately form, addresses him, saying : 
 
 " By all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I'll make 
 My royal choice." 
 
 Henry, in high good humour and evidently pleased 
 with all around him, exclaims while unmasking: 
 
 " Ye have found him, cardinal. 
 You hold a fair assembly ; you do well, lord : 
 You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, cardinal, 
 I should judge now unhappily." 
 
 Wolsey gratified, yet perhaps rather uneasy, replies : 
 
 " I am glad 
 Your grace is grown so pleasant." 
 
 and then Henry asks the Chamberlain who his partner is, 
 and hearing her name, exclaims in his usual hearty way, 
 partly revealing his feelings, yet watchful all the time : 
 " By heaven, she is a dainty one,'' 
 
 then addressing her : 
 
 ' ' Sweetheart, 
 I were unmannerly to take you out. 
 And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen, 
 Let it go round." 
 
 Wolsey quietly observes : 
 
 " Your grace, 
 I fear, with dancing is a little heated." 
 
 Henry merrily rejoins : 
 
 " I fear, too much," 
 
 and Wolsey, who watches the king all the time, says : 
 
 "There's fresher air, my lord. 
 In the next chamber." 
 
 Henry, thoroughly master of the joyous situation, 
 
 feared or respected by all present, exclaims as if really 
 
 giving orders : 
 
 " Lead in your ladies, every one. Sweet partner, 
 I must not yet forsake you. Let's be merry : 
 Good my lord cardinal, I have half-a-dozen healths 
 To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure 
 To lead 'em once again ; and then let's dream 
 Who's best in favour. Let the music knock it." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 285 
 
 This last command was doubtless promptly obeyed, 
 and amidst the crash of musical instruments, the charm of 
 splendid dresses and rich jewellery adorning the beautiful 
 assemblage, the lovely scene closes, fraught indeed with 
 future danger which probably none anticipated during that 
 brief reign of delight and enchantment. 
 
 The first scene of the next act, full of tragic solemnity, 
 is a grand and warning contrast to the brilliant pleasures 
 of its predecessor. This play is indeed composed of strik- 
 ing contrasts, brilliant festivities, merriment, and stately 
 pleasures being remarkably mingled with the fatal intrigues 
 of a dangerous Court, political enmities, and implacable 
 hatreds. In these contrasts it may somewhat recall Scott's 
 historical novel of " Kenilworth," where amid gorgeous 
 entertainment and gay festivities, the tragic tale of the 
 unfortunate heroine renders the novel one of the most 
 pathetic of its great author's works. This play is both 
 brightened and saddened in rather a similar manner. In 
 it, despite state executions, the grief of a deserted queen, 
 and the ruin of a broken - hearted favourite, the gay 
 splendour of the English Court, and the many rejoicings 
 in London during popular festivities, make this extra- 
 ordinary play gay and melancholy in alternate representa- 
 tions. Thus, soon after the brilliant reception at Cardinal 
 Wolsey's and the first happy meeting of Henry and Anne 
 Boleyn, there follows the sad execution of the unfortunate 
 Buckingham. This nobleman seems condemned chiefly 
 for his imprudent words, as no real proof of treason was 
 ever established against him. 
 
 His language, however, uttered in moments of excite- 
 ment, was certainly dangerous, if not menacing, and there 
 is little doubt that Henry, the cardinal, and some others, 
 believed he may have meant all he said. Yet his execution 
 was generally regretted, especially by the London people, 
 with whom he was always a favourite. 
 
 This first scene of the second act is in a London street, 
 where some citizens meet the day of Buckingham's execu- 
 tion, deploring the terrible event they have assembled to 
 witness in public. In the opinion of many, if not most, of 
 
286 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 these Londoners, the duke's trial had been unfairly carried 
 
 on, and unjust advantage taken of him by his foes in high 
 
 places. It is evident not only that popular opinion was in 
 
 his favour, but that Shakespeare, despite his respect for the 
 
 king, inclines to make his readers consider Buckingham a 
 
 victim unjustly executed. 
 
 The first citizen, describing the odious trial he had just 
 
 witnessed, says to the other : 
 
 " The great duke 
 Came to the bar ; where to his accusations 
 He pleaded still not guilty, and alleged 
 Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. 
 The king's attorney on the contrary 
 Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions 
 Of divers witnesses ; which the duke desired 
 To have brought, vivS. voce, to his face : 
 At which appear'd against him hb surveyor ; 
 Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor ; and John Car, 
 Confessor to him ; with that devil-monk, 
 Hopkins, that made this mischief. . . . 
 
 All these accus'd him strongly ; which he fain 
 Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not 
 And so his peers, upon this evidence, 
 Have found him guilty of high treason.'' 
 
 It is evident these citizens, though loyal to the king, yet 
 believe in Buckingham's innocence, and the citizen con- 
 cludes : 
 
 " Much 
 He spoke, and learnedly, for life ; but all 
 Was either pitied in him or forgotten." 
 
 This same speaker, apparently an intelligent Londoner, 
 
 proceeds to blame Wolsey, who perhaps was censured for 
 
 many things about which the popular king was equally 
 
 responsible, had the truth been fully known : 
 
 " Whoever the king favours. 
 The cardinal instantly will find employment 
 And far enough from court too." 
 
 The second citizen rejoins, confirming the general dis- 
 like to Wolsey : 
 
 "All the commons 
 Hate him perniciously, and o' my conscience. 
 Wish him ten fathoms deep : this duke as much 
 They love and dote on ; call him bounteous Buckingham, 
 The mirror of all courtesy ; — " 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 287 
 
 The luckless duke approaches, guarded on his way to 
 execution, and the first citizen exclaims at this sight : 
 
 " Stay there, sir, 
 And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of." 
 
 The other replies : 
 
 " Let's stand close, and behold him." 
 
 The fatal procession appears, the victim largely attended 
 by friends and sympathisers. They pause, and Bucking- 
 ham calmly addresses the crowd around him. At this 
 moment he evidently recalls his own imprudent words, 
 shows no consciousness of guilt, but attributes his death 
 to the persecuting malice of his many foes : 
 
 " All good people, 
 You that thus far have come to pity me, 
 Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. 
 I have this day received a traitor's judgment. 
 And by that name must die : yet, heaven bear witness. 
 And if I have a conscience, let it sink me. 
 Even as the axe fells, if I be not faithful ! " 
 
 In these noble words consciousness of no evil plot 
 or design is evident, but in the following admission, 
 the dangerous violence of his former language, enough 
 to mislead either friends or foes, is freely confessed. 
 
 ' ' The law I bear no malice for my death, 
 It has done upon the premises but justice ; 
 But those that sought it I could wish more Christians 
 Be what they will, I heartily foi^ve 'em." 
 
 Then with that extraordinary devotion to the king 
 usually shown by his victims of both sexes, old and 
 young, he proceeds, asking all persons to accompany 
 him to the scaffold : 
 
 " Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; 
 And as the long divorce of steel falls on me, 
 Make of your prayers one secret sacrifice. 
 And lift my soul to heaven. 
 
 Commend me to his grace ; 
 And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him 
 You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers 
 Yet are the king's ; and, till my soul forsake. 
 
288 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Shall cry for blessings on him : may he live 
 Longer than I have time to tell his years ! 
 Ever beloved and loving may his rule be ! 
 And when old time shall lead him to his end, 
 Goodness and he fill up one monument ! " 
 
 Buckingham never mentions his chief friend, or chief 
 foe, Queen Katharine or Wolsey, but reverts to his 
 father's fate in Richard III.'s time, when he was betrayed 
 by his servant, like himself now sworn against by his 
 surveyor. His last words are certainly like those of an 
 innocent man and deeply affect his pitying hearers, who 
 now discuss the rumour of a coming, separation between 
 the king and Katharine, yet none expresses a word of 
 anger against Henry for Buckingham's execution, the 
 blame of which was apparently for some time at least 
 laid almost entirely to the charge of Wolsey. In fact 
 this popular king's occasional kind acts or gracious words 
 procured for him general affection and loyalty, while all 
 his cruelties and even attempted illegalities were laid 
 to the charge of his ministers. Henry, certainly an astute 
 politician, while fiercely tyrannising over the English 
 nobility, cautiously conciliated and gratified the lower 
 classes of his subjects, as has been ably observed by 
 recent historians.^ 
 
 The next scene introduces the Lord Chamberlain, 
 vexed, frightened and helpless, hearing that his fine 
 pair of horses have been appropriated by the all-powerful 
 Wolsey for his own service. He reads a letter, probably 
 from his land steward, or master of the horse, curtly 
 describing this high-handed proceeding : 
 
 "They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the north. 
 When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my lord cardinal's, by 
 commission and main power, took 'em from me ; with this reason ; his 
 master would be served before a subject, if not before the king ; which 
 stopped our mouths, sir." 
 
 ■" "Henry VIII. encountered no opposition when he wished to 
 send Buckingham and Surrey, Anne Boleyn and Lady Salisbury, 
 to the scaffold. But when without the consent of Parliament he 
 demanded of his subjects a contribution amounting to one-sixth 
 of their goods, he soon found it necessary to retract." — Macaulay's 
 " History of England," chap. i. 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 289 
 
 At this news the Chamberlain exclaims in apprehen- 
 sive fear, shared at this time by many of the English 
 gentry : 
 
 ' ' I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them : 
 He will have all, I think." 
 
 Wolsey's influence was now so great that all classes, 
 and more especially the nobility, his chief rivals, were 
 afraid of him. His rare talents and many noble qualities 
 were naturally not much appreciated, or perhaps under- 
 stood, by courtiers and statesmen, always dreading his 
 ambition and influence over the king. 
 
 The Duke of Norfolk and Lord Suffolk join the Cham- 
 berlain and discuss the coming separation of the king and 
 queen, for which also Wolsey is generally blamed, probably 
 more than he deserved, considering the imperious and 
 selfish nature of his almost despotic master. Norfolk 
 deplores the approaching royal divorce in rather pathetic 
 words, likely expressing the feelings of many Englishmen 
 at this time, while Suffolk ventures to make a sarcastic 
 reply to the Chamberlain's idea of what causes the king's 
 sadness this day : The Chamberlain says : 
 
 " It seems the marriage with his brother's wife 
 Has crept too near his conscience." 
 
 and Suffolk, perhaps in a whisper, replies 
 
 Has c 
 
 and Norfolk proceeds 
 
 " No ; his conscience 
 Has crept too near another lady." 
 
 ' ' 'Tis so ; 
 This is the cardinal's doing, the king-cardinal : 
 
 He dives into the king's soul, and there scatters 
 Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, 
 Fears, and despairs ; and all these for his marriage : 
 And out of all these to restore the king, 
 He counsels a divorce ; a loss of her. 
 That like a jewel has hung twenty years 
 About his neck, yet never lost her lustre ; 
 Of her, that loves him with that excellence 
 That angels love good men with ; even of her, 
 That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls. 
 Will bless the king : " 
 
 T 
 
290 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The Chamberlain, angry with Wolsey, and loving 
 
 or fearing the king, exclaims, perhaps rather unfairly: 
 
 " Heaven will one day open 
 The king's eyes, that so long have slept upon 
 This bold bad man." 
 
 and Suffolk adds : 
 
 " And free us from his slavery." 
 
 Norfolk continues, quite agreeing with the others in 
 
 their opinion of king and cardinal : 
 
 " We had need pray, 
 And heartily, for our deliverance. 
 Or this imperious man will work us all 
 From princes into pages." 
 
 Wolsey seems to have no friend now among the 
 English nobility. He has incurred the dislike of Queen 
 Katharine and her friends, by assisting Henry to obtain 
 a divorce, while Anne Boleyn, the queen's young 
 Protestant rival, though her maid of honour, is also 
 opposed to Wolsey, and anxious to further the Protestant 
 party in England. During these public and private 
 intrigues, troubles and dangers, all, however, within the 
 kingdom of England itself, Henry preserved his sole 
 authority among the people generally, while obeyed 
 though dreaded by the nobility over whom he reigned with 
 almost the despotism of a Turkish Sultan in former times. 
 , Cardinals Wolsey and Campeius, the latter sent from 
 Rome, are at this time discussing with Henry the coming 
 divorce from Katharine. This design Wolsey was said 
 to have aided and approved of, but he is completely dis- 
 appointed at perceiving the king's rather sudden passion 
 for Anne Boleyn. The king at this time Shakespeare 
 represents as moody, sad, anxious, and when Norfolk 
 ventures to approach the room where he is, and sees 
 Henry looking gloomy, he says, probably to Suffolk or to 
 
 himself: 
 
 " Pray God, he be not angry." 
 
 Henry, thinking himself intruded upon, asks irritably : 
 
 " Who's there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves 
 Into my private meditations ! 
 Who am I? ha?" 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 291 
 
 Norfolk, evidently frightened like all the other 
 courtiers, humbly answers this angry question with the 
 meekness of a timid slave : 
 
 " A gracious king that pardons all offences 
 italice ne'er meant : our breach of duty this way 
 Is business of estate ; in which we come 
 To know your royal pleasure." 
 
 The imperious sovereign partly appeased, yet deter- 
 mined to keep all the nobles in fear of him, sternly replies : 
 
 ' • Ye are too bold. 
 Go to ; I'll make ye know j-our times of business : 
 Is this an hour for temporal afiairs, ha ? " 
 
 The nobles literally cower before him, while, when 
 addressing the lower classes or their representatives, 
 Henry could seem graciousness itself, but tlie nobility 
 knew they were almost completely in his power, a fact 
 of which the king was equally aware. 
 
 Wolsey and the Italian cardinal, Campeius or 
 Campeggio, now enter, and Henry courteously addresses 
 them, as he wishes to obtain their joint aid in the coming 
 divorce case, while Norfolk and Suffolk in tliis scene^ 
 probably representing the English nobility, observe with 
 apprehension the singular intrigues now proceeding 
 between their king and these two Churchmen. Henry 
 exclaims in welcome words: 
 
 " O I my Wolsey, 
 The quiet of my wounded conscience ; 
 Thon art a cure fit for a king," 
 
 then addressing the foreigner, Campeius, Henry says : 
 
 "You're welcome, 
 Most learned, reverend sir, into our kingdom : 
 Use us, and it" 
 
 Then to Wolsey : 
 
 " My good lord, have great care 
 I be not found a talker." 
 
 Henry either is, or pretends to be, in low spirits at 
 present while contemplating the divorce, and Wolsey, now 
 more in his confidence than any one, then hints his wish 
 
292 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 for the two nobles to retire, and leave the king with him 
 and Cardinal Campeius: 
 
 ' ' I would your grace would give us but an hour 
 Of private conference. " 
 
 Henry addresses Norfolk and Suffolk with stern 
 
 brevity : 
 
 " We are busy ; go." 
 
 They at once retire, murmuring to each other com- 
 plaints and sarcasms which they dare not utter aloud : 
 Norfolk : 
 
 ' ' This priest has no pride in him ! " 
 
 Suffolk : 
 
 ' ' Not to speak of : 
 I would not be so sick though for his place ; 
 But this cannot continue." 
 
 Norfolk : 
 
 "If it do, 
 I'll venture one have-at-him. " 
 
 They sullenly depart, and Wolsey addresses Henry, 
 quietly encouraging him in his designs with that eloquent, 
 pleasing style of which he was a master, and which was, 
 indeed, a delightful contrast to the homely, sometimes 
 coarse and rough language prevalent even among the 
 higher classes at this time: 
 
 "Your grace has given a precedent of wisdom 
 Above all princes, in committing freely 
 Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. 
 Who can be angry now ? what envy reach you ? " 
 
 then alluding to Spanish sympathy for Katharine of 
 
 Aragon : 
 
 " The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, 
 Must now confess, if they have any goodness, 
 The trial just and noble. All the clerks, 
 I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms 
 Have their free voices : Rome, the nurse of judgment, 
 Invited by your noble self, hath sent 
 One general tongue unto us, this good man. 
 This just and learned priest. Cardinal Campeius, 
 Whom once more I present unto your highness," 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 293 
 
 Henry, whose object it is to have both cardinals in 
 his favour, courteously rejoins : 
 
 " And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome, 
 And thank the holy conclave for their loves ; 
 They have sent me such a man I would have wish'd for." 
 
 Campeius replies : 
 
 " To your highness' hand 
 I tender my commission ; by whose virtue, 
 The court of Rome commanding, you, my lord 
 Cardinal of York, are join'd with me, their servant, 
 In the unpartial judging of this business." 
 
 Henry, answering courteously, sends for and praises 
 his new secretary, Bishop Gardiner, recommended him by 
 Wolsey, and who is quite in the cardinal's interests. 
 
 While Henry is now conversing apart with Gardiner, 
 Campeius, knowing Wolsey has many enemies, tells him 
 about a Doctor Pace, whose situation Gardiner now fills, 
 and who died of grief at losing it, adding it was said that 
 Wolsey was jealous of him. It seems surprising that this 
 Italian prelate should know so much about English feel- 
 ings and politics, but Wolsey haughtily replies, praising 
 
 Gardiner : 
 
 "That good fellow, 
 If I command him, follows my appointment : 
 I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother, 
 We live not to be grip'd by meaner persons. " 
 
 Wolsey is now full of ambitious projects ; he was, in 
 
 every sense a warm friend and a bitter enemy, and his 
 
 extraordinary character has been accordingly represented 
 
 in very different lights. Henry, who has been composing, 
 
 or dictating, a letter to the hapless queen, despatches 
 
 Gardiner with it to her, and then addresses the two 
 
 cardinals in studied words, certainly of Shakespeare's 
 
 composing, and which seem a strange mixture of 
 
 determination and real or pretended regret about 
 
 abandoning the queen. He thus fixes the place for the 
 
 extraordinary trial : 
 
 " The most convenient place that I can think of 
 For such receipt of learning is Black-Friars ; 
 There ye shall meet about this weighty business. 
 My Wolsey, see it furnished." 
 
294 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 After these practical directions for accomplishing his 
 purpose Henry alludes to his moral scruples with apparent 
 sincerity : 
 
 " O my lord ! 
 Would it not grieve an able man to leave 
 So sweet a bedfellow ? But conscience, conscience ! 
 O ! 'tis a tender place, and I must leave her. " 
 
 In the next scene Shakespeare introduces Anne Boleyn, 
 talking to a shrewd old court lady, in an antechamber of 
 the queen's apartments. Anne in this conversation pre- 
 tends to dread the chance of her becoming queen, and 
 yet to secretly desire that distinction. Her feelings are 
 curiously revealed in this talk with her worldly old 
 companion, who playfully rallies her on her probable 
 change of fortune. Anne, after pitying, or pretending to 
 pity, the poor queen, exclaims with doubtful truth : 
 
 " By my troth and maidenhead, 
 I would not be a queen." 
 
 Her old companion quickly retorts, as if she knew her 
 well: 
 
 ' ' Beshrew me, I would. . . . 
 And so would you, 
 For all this spice of your hypocrisy. 
 You, that have so fair parts of woman on you. 
 Have too a woman's heart ; which ever yet 
 Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty : . . . 
 
 You would not be a queen ? " 
 
 Anne protests : 
 
 " No, not for all the riches under heaven.'' 
 
 The old lady wittily retorts : 
 
 " 'Tis strange : a three-pence bow'd would hire me. 
 Old as I am, to queen it. . . . 
 
 I would not be a young count in your way. 
 For more than blushing comes to : " 
 
 Anne replies, as if overcome by her incredulity : 
 
 " How you do talk ! 
 I swear again, I would not be a queen 
 For all the world." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 295 
 
 The old lady knows better, and merrily contradicts 
 her: 
 
 " In faith for little England 
 You'd venture an emballing : I myself 
 Would for Carnarvonshire, although there 'long'd 
 No more to the crown but that." 
 
 At this moment the Lord Chamberlain enters, coming 
 from the king, and politely asks what they are talking of, 
 when Anne readily replies that they were pitying the poor 
 queen in her coming troubles. The Chamberlain rejoins 
 with the king's compliments to Anne, saying : 
 
 "The King's majesty 
 Commends his good opinion of you to you, and 
 Does purpose honour to you no less flowing 
 Than Marchioness of Pembroke ; to which title 
 A thousand pounds a year, annual support, 
 Out of his grace he adds." 
 
 Anne answers in humble gratitude : 
 
 " Beseech your lordship 
 Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience 
 As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness, 
 Whose health and royalty I pray for." 
 
 The Chamberlain then retires praising Anne to him- 
 self with an impHed compliment to Queen Elizabeth : 
 
 ' ' Beauty and honour in her are so mingled 
 That they have caught the king : and who knows yet 
 But from this lady may proceed a gem 
 To lighten all this isle ? " 
 
 When he is gone the old lady, while congratulating 
 Anne, half comically deplores her own fortunes at the 
 court, exclaiming : 
 
 " I have been begging sixteen years in court, 
 Am yet a courtier beggarly. 
 
 And you, O fate ! 
 A very fresh-fish here, fie, fie, fie upon 
 This compell'd fortune ! have your mouth fiU'd up 
 Before you open it." 
 
296 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Anne is, or pretends to be, astonished at her new favour, 
 and exclaims : 
 
 " This is strange to me," 
 
 and her wily old companion jokingly asks : 
 " How tastes it? is it bitter?" 
 
 then reminding Anne of her words before the Chamberlain's 
 visit, exclaims : 
 
 " There was a lady once, ('tis an old story,) 
 That would not be a queen, that would she not, 
 For all the mud in Egypt : have you heard it ? " 
 
 Anne, unable to deny her words, amused, yet uneasy, 
 replies : 
 
 " Come, you are pleasant," 
 and the old courtier eagerly rejoins : 
 
 "With your theme I could 
 O'ermount the lark." 
 
 and reminds Anne of her good fortune. 
 
 "The Marchioness of Pembroke ! 
 A thousand pounds a year for pure respect ! 
 No other obligation ! By my life 
 That promises more thousands : honour's train 
 Is longer than his foreskirt, 
 
 Say, 
 Are you not stronger than you were ? ' 
 
 Anne, really impressed at what has happened, though 
 likely pretending more regret than she feels, replies 
 gravely, if not sadly : 
 
 "Good lady. 
 Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy. 
 And leave me out on 't. Would I had no being. 
 If this salute my blood a jot : it faints me 
 To think what follows." 
 
 It is hard to say whether Shakespeare means that 
 Anne is only pretending fear, or is really overcome, by 
 her tempting, yet dangerous position at this time. Yet 
 her concluding words reveal some artifice, perhaps ex- 
 cusable enough in her extraordinary circumstances, being 
 at once a maid of honour and also the rival of her royal 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 297 
 
 mistress. She exclaims, as if a sudden recollection flashed 
 
 upon her ambitious or excited mind : 
 
 ' ' The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful 
 In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver 
 What here you have heard to her." 
 
 This idea being almost an insult to the old court 
 lady's common-sense, she answers it in a question of 
 five monosyllables, yet sufficiently expressive, which ends 
 this scene : 
 
 " What do you think me ? " 
 
 There is really more important meaning in this little 
 scene than may appear at first sight. It shows the under- 
 current of secret intrigues in the palace during this event- 
 ful time, when the attempt to divorce Queen Katharine 
 was foiled by the Papacy. Yet the Pope's refusal to 
 sanction the royal divorce seems at first to have been 
 uncertain or hesitating, until the increase of Protestantism 
 in England gave the more influence to Anne Boleyn and 
 her friends, which was dreaded by the Roman Court. 
 Her willingness to become queen is in reality evident, 
 though partly denied in this scene, which is followed by 
 the grand assembly in the hall in Black-Friars, where 
 the king, queen, Wolsey, and Campeius, with some of 
 the chief prelates and nobles in England, are met together. 
 
 Katharine at first appeals with her usual dignity, 
 
 though soon with roused indignation, to Henry, alleging 
 
 that their marriage was lawful, and entreating delay in 
 
 the law proceedings till she is further advised by her 
 
 friends in Spain. Wolsey, anxious to please the king, 
 
 wishes the trial at once proceeded with, when Katharine 
 
 turns on him indignantly, exclaiming : 
 
 " I do believe. 
 Induced by potent circumstances, that 
 You are mine enemy : and make my challenge 
 You shall not be my judge ; for it is you 
 Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me. 
 Which God's dew quench ! therefore I say again, 
 I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul 
 Refuse you for my judge ; whom yet once more 
 I hold my most malicious foe, and think not 
 At all a friend to truth." 
 
298 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Wolsey, in calm and eloquent words, endeavours to 
 refute this charge of the indignant queen, appealing to 
 the king to deny it: 
 
 "I ilo profcHH 
 Vou speak, not like yourself; who ever yet 
 Have sluod to charity, and dinplaycd the effect* 
 Of disijosilion fjenlle, and of wi»dom 
 (J'frto|)|)ing woman's power. Madam, you do me wrong ; 
 
 Vou charge mo 
 That I have Mown this coul : I do deny it. 
 Till: king is present ; if it be known lo him 
 That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, 
 And worthily, my falsehood ; yea, as much 
 As you have done my truth. 
 
 Therefori: in him 
 It lies to cure me; and the cun- is, to 
 Remove these thoughts from you : the which before 
 His highness shall speak in, I do beseech 
 You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking 
 And to say sfi no more." 
 
 Henry remains silent, though hearing' them both and 
 well knowing the truth of the case. But Katharine, fearing 
 the king and the cardinal are united, and that English 
 legislation through their influence will surely be against 
 her, resolves to lay her ca.se before that tribunal, to which, 
 hitherto, England and most other Christian countries 
 finally appealed, us if to a [jower between heaven and 
 earth. She exclaims, while reproaching Wolsey, probably 
 more than he deserved, as if wishing to ignore Henry's 
 feelings against her: 
 
 " My lord, my lord, 
 I am a simple woman, much loo weak 
 To oppose your cunning . . . 
 Vi;u have by fortune and his highness' favours. 
 Citne slightly o'er low sli-ps, and now are mounted 
 Whiri; powers are your retainers and your words 
 Domestics to you, serve your will »» 't please 
 Yourself pronounce their office. I niusi tell you. 
 You tender more your jjersfjn's honi>ur than 
 Your high profession spiritual ; that again 
 1 do refu»e you for my judge ; and here 
 Before you all, appeal unto the po(<e, 
 'lo bring my whole cause 'fore hiji holiness. 
 And to be judge! by him." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 299 
 
 This bold declaration delivered at such a moment, and 
 in such a presence, is received in silence, and Katharine 
 curtseying to the king is about to retire, when Cardinal 
 Campeius, evidently allied with Wolsey, exclaims : 
 
 " The queen is obstinate, 
 Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and 
 Disdainful to be tried by 't : 'tis not well, 
 She's going away." 
 
 Then Henry, breaking silence for the first time, imperi- 
 ously exclaims : 
 
 "Call her again.'' 
 
 The crier, as in duty bound, then formally says : 
 " Katharine Queen of England, come into the court," 
 
 and her gentleman usher, Griffith, says to her : 
 " ]Madam, you are call'd Ixick." 
 
 when she, with proud fearlessness replies : 
 
 • ' What need you note it ? pray you, keep your way ; 
 When you are call'd return. Now the Lord help ! 
 They vex me past my patience. Pray you, pass on : 
 I will not tarry ; no, nor ever more 
 Upon this business my appearance make 
 In any of their courts." 
 
 The Queen is likely emboldened at this tr}ing crisis in 
 her life, by the general surprise, if not alarm, aroused among 
 all present by her spirited appeal to the Pope, whose 
 authority up to this time is acknowledged, at least out- 
 wardly, by the king and court. She departs, and Henry 
 then makes a short speech in her praise, attributing many 
 virtues to her, while steadily concealing his determination 
 to separate legally or other\vise from her, and to marry 
 Anne Boleyn. Wolsey now thinks it time when Katharine 
 is gone to obtain from the king a complete vindication 
 from her charge of his having " blown this coal " between 
 the royal pair. This vindication the cardinal wishes 
 publicly declared by Henry before all the assembled 
 prelates, courtiers, and statesmen. The words attributed 
 to these able men in this scene well indicate their differing 
 characters. Despite many great and, certainly in the 
 cardinal, noble qualities, they are both crafty to a great 
 degree, each able to conceal his design and to impress the 
 
300 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 people with very different ideas of his real feelings from 
 
 what they really are. An important distinction between 
 
 them is, that while Wolsey is polished, persuasive, and 
 
 plausible, Henry usually assumes an appearance of frank 
 
 cordiality and plain if not blunt sincerity. Henry's 
 
 apparent frankness and open-hearted style of speaking 
 
 evidently greatly aided him in preserving not only power 
 
 but popularity during his successful yet terrible reign over 
 
 a Christian and civilised nation. Thus Wolsey excuses 
 
 himself by asking the king in polished winning language, 
 
 which may well deceive all but the poor queen herself 
 
 and a few friends who are in the secret : 
 
 " Most gracious sir, 
 In humblest manner I require your highness, 
 That it shall please you to declare, in hearing 
 Of all these ears, for where I am robb'd and bound 
 There must I be unloosed, although not there 
 At once and fully satisfied, whether ever I 
 Did broach this business to your highness, or 
 Laid any scruple in your way, which might 
 Induce you to the question on 't ? or ever 
 Have to you, but with thanks to God for such 
 A royal lady, spake one the least word that might 
 Be to the prejudice of her present state. 
 Or touch of her good person ? " 
 
 Then Henry, with that assumed frankness, perhaps 
 more successful in an English king than the most refined 
 language, replies a^ if caring only for the plain truth : 
 
 " My lord cardinal, 
 I do excuse you ; yea, upon mine honour, 
 I free you from 't. You are not to be taught 
 That you have many enemies, that know not 
 Why they are so, but, like to village curs. 
 Bark when their fellows do : by some of these 
 The queen is put in anger. You're excused : " 
 
 Then seeing Wolsey not satisfied, he adds : 
 
 " But will you be more justified? you ever 
 Have wish'd the sleeping of this business ; never desired 
 It to be stirr'd ; but oft have hinder'd, oft, 
 The passages made towards it. On my honour, 
 I speak my good lord cardinal to this point. 
 And thus far clear him." 
 
 While the king and Wolsey thus speak before the 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 301 
 
 assembled listening courtiers and prelates, they probably 
 know that were Katharine present, she would either con- 
 tradict or greatly disprove their statements. Their words, 
 however, fall undisputed on the ears of their respectful, if 
 not timid, audience, and Henry, gliding from one subject 
 to another, though always with the same end in view, 
 formally addresses all around, the prelates especially 
 expressing doubts as to whether his marriage with his 
 brother's widow was ever strictly valid. He now believes, 
 or pretends to believe, that it was not, and that therefore. 
 Heaven displeased, had denied his having a son and heir, 
 and proceeds : 
 
 " Hence I took a thought 
 This was a judgement on me : that my kingdom. 
 Well worthy the best heir o' the world, should not 
 Be gladded in't by me. Then follows that 
 I weigh'd the danger which my realms stood in 
 By this my issue's fail ; and that gave to me 
 Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in 
 The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer 
 Towards this remedy, whereupon we are 
 Now present here together ; " 
 
 In addition to the voice of conscience, the attractions 
 of the young beauty, Anne Boleyn, are now influencing 
 Henry's mind and stirring his passions, which, though 
 terrible indeed, when they could be indulged with safety, 
 seemed usually, if not always, under the control of what 
 he knew to be his real interests. He now appeals to the 
 Bishop of Lincoln, who, like all other subjects, is more or 
 less afraid of him, if he had not recommended this con- 
 sultation, to which the bishop assents, and then Henry 
 appeals to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who makes no 
 reply, while Henry, praising Katharine for many virtues, 
 
 practically adds : 
 
 " Therefore, go on ; 
 For no dislike i' the world against the person 
 Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points 
 Of my alleged reasons drive this forward. 
 Prove but our marri^e lawful, by my life 
 And kingly dignity, we are contented 
 To wear our mortal state to come with her, 
 Katharine our queen, before the primest creature 
 That's paragon'd o' the world." 
 
3°* SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then the Italian cardinal, Campeius, who naturally 
 knows and respects the Pope's power perhaps more than 
 any one present, exclaims : 
 
 " So please your highness, 
 The queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness 
 That we adjourn this court till further day : 
 Meanwhile must be an earnest motion 
 Made to the queen, to call back her appeal 
 She intends unto his holiness." 
 
 All now rise to depart, while Henry's long suppressed 
 impatience finds vent in a burst of passion, partly concealed, 
 yet likely to some extent shown by a raised voice or 
 irritated manner. He exclaims to himself : 
 
 " I may perceive 
 These cardinals trifle with me : I abhor 
 This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. 
 My learn'd dnd well-belov'd servant, Cranmer, 
 Prithee, return : with thy approach, I know, 
 My comfort comes along." 
 
 This wilful king shows in these few words how com- 
 pletely he uses all those around him for his own purposes, 
 and chiefly values them in strict proportion to their 
 personal obedience. Then speaking aloud, he only suffers 
 himself to exclaim in few but decisive words : 
 
 " Break up the court : 
 I say, set on.'' 
 
 In his defiance of papal authority, there seems no really 
 Protestant feelings, nor indeed any religious sentiment 
 as yet. invoked. Historic facts prove that the craft or the 
 mingled self-control and violence of Henry deceived 
 people far more than did the intrigues of Wolsey. The 
 Italian saying of preserving an open manner, or countenance, 
 while keeping the heart locked, seems to have been the 
 successful policy of Henry during his reign. The 
 unfortunate cardinal, despite his high position, learning, 
 industry, and munificence, seems to have been always 
 more or less suspected of deceit, and the more polished 
 his language, the more he was often distrusted. But 
 Henry, " bluff King Hal," as he was often called, well knew 
 how to please the English people, and understood them 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 303 
 
 thoroughly. In the midst of his apparent candour and 
 openness, he accomplished his own voluptuous as well as 
 arbitrary designs with a success which, considering the 
 atrocity of many of his acts, would seem incredible were 
 it not proved by historic testimony. In fact, the king 
 inspired general confidence, and thus triumphed in every 
 collision with his statesmen or chief advisers, when they 
 attempted to in any way control or restrain him. 
 
 Henry's present opposition to the Papacy, rather like 
 that of King John, arose chiefly from the Pope's refusing 
 in each case to sanction personal inclination, likes, or 
 dislikes. Cranmer, Henry knows, is friendly to Anne 
 Boleyn, and as a Protestant, hostile alike to Queen 
 Katharine and to the cardinal. At this time, while 
 Protestantism is increasing in England, Henry seems to 
 stand between the conflicting churches undecided, till the 
 opposition of the Pope to his arbitrary desires tempted 
 him to favour the Protestant party, and to have some idea 
 of heading them.^ The arrival of this celebrated prelate 
 and " the comfort " the king expected with it, refer to the 
 coming marriage of Henry to Anne Boleyn, before whose 
 short-lived influence the power of the great Cardinal 
 Wolsey is now tottering to its final downfall. 
 
 Act III. describes Katharine in her palace, visited by 
 the Cardinals Wolsey and Campeius, who offer advice 
 about her leaving her cause entirely to the king. The 
 queen, distrusting both, at first rejects their counsel 
 indignantly, and tells them that nearly all her friends are in 
 Spain, her own country, and that she can count on few, if 
 
 ' The remarkable positions of Henry and Cranmer at this time 
 are thus described iby Macaulay : " Cranmer was at once a divine 
 and a courtier. In his character of divine he was perfectly ready to 
 go as far in the way of change as any Swiss or Scottish reformer. 
 He was in every way qualified to arrange the terms of coalition 
 between the religious and the worldly enemies of popery. What 
 Henry and his favourite counsellor meant at one time by the 
 supremacy, was certainly nothing less than the whole power of the 
 keys. The King was to be the Pope of his kingdom. According to 
 this system, as expounded by Cranmer, the King was the spiritual as 
 wellasthe temporal chief of the nation." — " History of England," chap. i. 
 
304 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 any, in England. Wolsey first addresses her with com- 
 pliments in Latin, which she interrupts, exclaiming: 
 " O ! good my lord, no Latin ; 
 
 A strange tongue makes ray cause more strange, suspicious, 
 Pray, speak in English." 
 
 Campeius at length says : 
 
 " Put your main cause into the king's protection ; 
 He's loving and most gracious ; 'twill be much 
 Both for your honour better and your cause : 
 For if the trial of the law o'eitake ye, 
 You'll part away disgrac'd.' 
 
 Wolsey, in complete agreement with Campeius, says : 
 
 "He tells you rightly," 
 and she retorts now in anger : 
 
 " Ye tell me what ye wish for both ; my ruin 
 Is this your Christian counsel ? out upon ye ! 
 Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a judge 
 That no king can corrupt." 
 
 They vainly try to re-assure her as to their friendly 
 motives, yet for some time she reproaches them in roused 
 excitement : 
 
 "Woe upon'ye 
 
 And all such false professors ! 
 Would you have me. 
 
 Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me ? 
 
 I am old, my lords. 
 And all the fellowship I hold now with him 
 Is only my obedience." 
 
 After more lamentation Wolsey calmly says : 
 " Madam, you wander from the good we aim at." 
 
 Katharine, still proud and distrustful, replies : 
 
 " My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty 
 To give up willingly that noble title 
 Your master wed me to : nothing but death 
 Shall e'er divorce my dignities." 
 
 Wolsey exclaims : 
 
 "Pray hear me," 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 305 
 
 but the poor queen goes on lamenting : 
 
 " Would I had never trod this English earth, 
 Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! " 
 
 then yielding evidently to her fears for her attendants 
 in case of her virtual dethronement, she exclaims : 
 "What will become of me now, wretched lady? 
 
 Alas ! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes ? 
 Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity. 
 No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me : 
 Almost no grave allow'd me. Like the lily. 
 That once was mistress of the field and flourish'd, 
 I'll hang my head and perish." 
 
 Then Wolsey, exerting all his rare powers of persua- 
 sion, assures the queen of his and Campeius' friendship to 
 her. In this assurance he may to some extent be sincere, 
 as both cardinals alike dread the idea of Anne Boleyn's 
 marriage with the king, but are, of course, unable to oppose, 
 or even to delay it. Wolsey therefore says in insinuating 
 language, perhaps knowing that the king may at any 
 moment shake off his influence, and already beginning to 
 be uneasy about the state of public affairs : 
 
 " If your grace 
 Could but be brought to know our ends are honest. 
 You'd feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady, 
 Upon what cause, wrong you ? alas ! our places. 
 The way of our profession is against it : 
 We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em. 
 For goodness' sake, consider what you do ; 
 How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly 
 Grow from the king's acquaintance by this carriage. 
 The hearts of princes kiss obedience. 
 So much they love it ; but to stubborn spirits 
 They swell, and grow as terrible as storms. 
 I know you have a gentle, noble temper, 
 A soul as even as a calm : pray think us 
 Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants. " 
 
 Campeius, guided by or agreed with Wolsey, adds : 
 
 "Madam, you'll find it so 
 
 The king loves you : 
 Beware you lose it not ; for us, if you please 
 To trust us in your business, we are ready 
 To use our utmost studies in your service. " 
 U 
 
3o6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Katharine, apparently saddened and weakened by this 
 scene, hardly knowing what to believe, or who her real 
 friends are in England, aware also that the cardinals 
 may be right enough in trying to restrain the imperious 
 king, mildly replies : 
 
 " Do what you will, my lords ; and pray forgive me 
 If I have used myself unmannerly. 
 Pray do my service to his majesty : 
 He has my heart yet : and shall have my prayers 
 While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, 
 Bestow your counsels on me : she now begs 
 That little thought, when she set footing here. 
 She should have bought her dignities so dear." 
 
 This scene is almost literally taken from history ,i and 
 seems to show that the broken-hearted queen is failing 
 both in health and spirits under the heavy trials of her 
 strange position. At this time Wolsey's objects or wishes 
 may be hard to explain. His influence with the king 
 had hitherto been almost unbounded, his chances of becom- 
 ing Pope were perhaps never so great as he thought them, 
 yet he seemed inspired by over-weening confidence for 
 some time. But the sudden rise of Anne Bojeyn in 
 Henry's favour completely confounds his hopes and 
 designs. Despite the noble character of Queen Katharine 
 and the many great qualities of Cardinal Wolsey, they 
 were both more or less in the power of that extraordinary 
 despot, whose skill in restraining his desires when opposed 
 to his interests, and whose shameless indulgence of them 
 whenever they could be indulged with safety, made him 
 practically the most successful of all the English kings. 
 In piety, learning, and generosity, the queen and the 
 cardinal indeed towered high above this terrible sovereign, 
 yet they, as well as Buckingham and many other dis- 
 tinguished subjects, became Henry's victims in succession, 
 either executed, ruined, or heart-broken. Yet the king 
 surviving them for many years, enjoyed his reign, gratifying 
 his passions with little opposition. Unlike the sullen King 
 John or the restless Richard HI., Henry VHI. showed to 
 
 1 See Howard Staunton's Notes. 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 307 
 
 all except his helpless victims a courtesy, frankness, and 
 good nature which made him welcome and applauded 
 whenever he appeared in public. 
 
 Shakespeare's sketch of this monarch, written in the 
 reign of his daughter, Queen Elizabeth, and comprising 
 only a short period of his rule, is, however, far more 
 favourable than the statements of most historians. Yet 
 the poet does impartial justice to Henry's victims, and 
 his rare calmness of judgment makes this play perhaps 
 the most remarkable of all the historical ones. 
 
 After Katharine agrees to consult the two cardinals, 
 being evidently distressed and deeply dejected, the scene 
 changes to an antechamber in the Palace, where some of 
 the chief noblemen of the court, who all detest or dread 
 Wolsey, are now expecting with evident joy the latter's 
 loss of favour with the king. Norfolk, Surrey, Suffolk, and 
 the Lord Chamberlain are agreed like one man in disliking 
 and fearing the cardinal. This distinguished prelate 
 turning aside from his sacred profession had certainly dis- 
 played some of the highest qualities of a statesman. None 
 about the English court equalled him in his immense 
 energy, ability, love of learning, and generosity to those he 
 favoured. He was now in the position of a statesman 
 prelate, enjoying the king's chief confidence in temporal 
 affairs, while secretly hoping and trying to obtain the 
 Papacy. He had no influential relatives ; on the con- 
 trary, he was of humble origin, distrusted and opposed by 
 the powerful English aristocracy, mostly united in resenting 
 his intrusion, as they thought it, on their exclusive domain, 
 in managing public affairs. Yet Wolsey, while enjoying 
 Henry's favour, defied all such foes completely. The 
 greatness of his mind, his learning, and his genius made 
 him naturally despise and overcome many opponents who, 
 relying chiefly on ancestral fame for preserving hereditary 
 influence, were often utterly unlike their departed relations 
 whose titles and fortunes they inherited. Wolsey, while 
 Henry's chief minister, hoped to obtain the Popedom, and 
 some thought he had a good chance of success. Had he 
 obtained this position, it would necessarily have placed him 
 
3o8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 above the king in influence, while the latter remained in 
 the Catholic Church. But Henry's religious belief was to 
 al] appearance very subservient to his personal inclinations. 
 To do him justice, he was certainly at this time placed in a 
 very difficult position, between his divided English Protes- 
 tant and Catholic subjects, who were now represented in 
 great measure by the rival prelates, Wolsey and Cranmer. 
 The influence of Anne and her friends was in favour of 
 Cranmer and opposed to Wolsey. It is certain, therefore, 
 that whatever conscience or right feeling belonged to 
 Henry, was appealed to by these able Churchmen in favour 
 of the rival interests of their respective faiths. Thus 
 Wolsey, though in apparent power, became more and more 
 surrounded by spies longing for his downfall, and through 
 their discovering private correspondence between him and 
 friends in Rome, Wolsey's secrets became known to Henry. 
 The nobles guessing, or knowing, this fact, now eagerly 
 anticipate Wolsey's fall, and suspect that the king's wrath 
 will soon be aroused against his former favourite. The 
 Lord Chamberlain, who apparently knows less of the news, 
 or is perhaps more timid than the others, replies to Norfolk, 
 who with Suffolk and Surrey urge him to join in a league 
 against the cardinal : 
 
 " My lords, you speak your pleasures. 
 What he deserves of you and me I know ; 
 
 If you cannot 
 Bar his access to the king, never attempt 
 Anything on him, for he hath a witchcraft 
 Over the king in 's tongue." 
 
 Norfolk, who knows the latest news, rather triumphantly 
 
 replies : 
 
 " O ! fear him not ; 
 His spell in that is out : the king hath found 
 Matter against him that for ever mars 
 The honey of his language." 
 
 Surrey, overjoyed like the rest at the idea of Wolsey's 
 disgrace, exclaims with somewhat spiteful eagerness, for 
 which he may indeed have some cause : 
 
 " Sir, 
 I should be glad to hear such neWs as this 
 Once every hour." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 309 
 
 Norfolk proceeds, with bitter gratification : 
 
 " Believe it, this is true : , 
 In the divorce his contrary proceedings 
 Are all unfolded ; wherein he appears 
 As I would wish mine enemy." 
 
 Lord Suffolk, who like Norfolk knows more than Surrey, 
 continues : 
 
 ' ' The cardinal's letters to the pope miscarried, 
 And came to the eye o' the king ; wherein was read, 
 How that the cardinal did entreat his holiness 
 To stay the judgement o' the divorce ; for if 
 It did take place, ' I do,' quoth he, ' perceive 
 My Idng is tangled in affection to 
 A creature of the queen's, Lady Anne Boleyn.' " 
 
 The Lord Chamberlain now reveals more which he has 
 hitherto apparently thought best to conceal from the other 
 courtiers, and informs them that Henry is already married 
 to Anne. All the nobles are pleased, and rejoice at the 
 news. It seems strange in the case of Norfolk, being 
 the chief Roman Catholic nobleman in England, to rejoice 
 at this marriage. Either his gratification is attributed 
 to him by the poet without warrant, or, if historically 
 true, can only be explained by his dread or hatred of 
 Wolsey at this time overcoming every other feeling. 
 Suffolk supplies yet more news : 
 
 " Cardinal Campeius 
 Is stol'n away to Rome ; hath ta'en no leave ; 
 Has left the cause of the king unhandled ; and 
 Is posted, as the agent of our cardinal, 
 To second all his plot. I do assure you 
 The king cried Ha ! at this." 
 
 Henry's raised voice and angry looks are doubtless well 
 known to all around him, and often the cause of real terror, 
 but now these courtiers are delighted to think that his 
 fierce temper is roused against their foe, and the Chamber- 
 lain replies : 
 
 " Now, God incense him. 
 And let him cry Ha ! louder." 
 
 Suffolk then announces the return of Cranmer, who has 
 apparently consulted learned foreign authorities about the 
 
3IO SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 legality of the king's divorce, adding that Anne's coronation 
 approaches, and that : 
 
 " Katharine no more 
 Shall be called queen, but princess dowager, 
 And widow to Prince Arthur." 
 
 Norfolk observes : 
 
 " This same Cranmer's 
 A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain 
 In the king's business." 
 
 Suffolk assents, with the practical remark : 
 
 " He has ; and we shall see him 
 For it an archbishop." 
 
 At this moment Wolsey enters with his faithful 
 secretary, Thomas Cromwell. The cardinal, perplexed 
 and alarmed, shows uneasiness despite his usual self-control ; 
 the unfriendly eyes of the courtiers examine him narrowly, 
 while Norfolk exclaims to the others : 
 
 "Observe, observe ; he's moody.'' 
 
 Wolsey asks Cromwell : 
 
 ' ' The packet, Cromwell, 
 Gave't you the king?" 
 
 Cromwell : 
 
 " To his own hand, in's bedchamber." 
 
 Wolsey : 
 
 " Look'd he o' the inside of the paper ? " 
 
 Cromwell, accustomed, like all others probably about 
 the court, to watch the king closely, replies : 
 
 " Presently 
 He did unseal them ; and the first he view'd 
 He did it with a serious mind ; a heed 
 Was in his countenance. You he bade 
 Attend him here this morning." 
 
 Wolsey tells Cromwell to leave him for a while, and 
 then without noticing, perhaps hardly seeing the courtiers, 
 reveals in a remarkable soliloquy some of his hopes, fears, 
 and plans. He still thinks he has power over the king, 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 311 
 
 and as yet does not know Anne Boleyn's present position, 
 though he apprehends its future probability. 
 
 Wolsey, full of plans how to control or influence the 
 king, exclaims to himself : 
 
 " It shall be to the Duchess of Alen9on, 
 The French king's sister ; he shall marry her. 
 Anne Bole}^! ! No, I'll no Anne Boleyns for him ; 
 There's more in't than fair visage. Bolejm ; 
 No, we'll no Boleyns. Speedily I wish 
 To hear from Rome." 
 
 Then remembering and wondering at Anne's new title, he 
 exclaims : 
 
 " The Marchioness of Pembroke ! " 
 
 He stops, and Norfolk with the others watching the 
 movements of his agitated countenance, make various 
 comments : 
 
 Norfolk ; 
 Suffolk : 
 
 Surrey : 
 
 ' He's discontented.'' 
 
 " May be he hears the king 
 Does whet his anger to him." 
 
 " Sharp enough, 
 Lord, for thy justice ! " 
 
 Wolsey proceeds in disdainful alarm and surprised at 
 the king's new proceedings : 
 
 " The late queen's gentlewoman, a knight's daughter. 
 To be her mistress' mistress ! the queen's queen ; 
 This candle bums not clear : 'tis I must snuff it ; 
 Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous 
 And well-deserving ? yet I know her for 
 A spleeny Lutheran ; and not wholesome to 
 Our cause, that she should lie i' the bosom of 
 Our hard-ruled king." 
 
 For the first time Wolsey apprehends that the religious 
 element will now influence Henry, adding : 
 
 " Again, there is sprung up 
 An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer ; one 
 Hath crawled into the favour of the king, 
 And is his oracle." 
 
312 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 He pauses, and the nobles, with delight at his evident 
 distraction of mind, observe : 
 
 Norfolk : 
 
 " He is vex'd at something.'' 
 
 Suffolk : 
 
 " I would 't were something that would fret the string 
 The master-cord on 's heart ! " 
 
 The king now enters, attended by Sir Thomas Lovell, 
 and reading some papers. He exclaims, as if much sur- 
 prised, without noticing any one, and evidently referring to 
 the papers in his hands : 
 
 " What piles of wealth hath he accumulated 
 To his own portion ! and what expense by the hour 
 Seems to flow from him ! How i' the name of thrift, 
 Does he rake this together ? " 
 
 Then seeing the courtiers, he asks ; 
 
 " Now, my lords. 
 Saw you the cardinal ? " 
 
 Hitherto Henry had not perceived Wolsey, though near 
 him, being occupied in reading the papers he has. Norfolk 
 eagerly answers the king, describing the cardinal's apparent 
 perplexed state of mind with a hostile exactness evidently 
 meant to arouse still further Henry's mistrust or suspicion. 
 
 ' ' My lord, we have 
 Stood here observing him ; some strange commotion 
 Is in his brain : he bites his lip and starts ; 
 Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, 
 Then lays his finger on his temple ; straight 
 Springs out into fast gait ; then stops again, 
 Strikes his breast hard ; and anon he casts 
 His eye against the moon : in most strange postures 
 We have seen him set himself." 
 
 Henry listens in confirmed suspicion, and to the delight 
 of the assembled courtiers reveals his sudden displeasure 
 with Wolsey, attributing it to the cardinal being too rich in 
 worldly luxuries, but in reality deeply offended at his 
 secret intrigues with Rome and opposition to his marriage 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 313 
 
 with Anne. After hearing Norfolk's description of 
 Wolsey's agitation, he calmly observes : 
 
 "It may well be, 
 There is a mutiny in's mind. This morning 
 Papers of state he sent me to peruse, 
 As I required ; and wot you what I found 
 There, on my conscience, put unwittingly ? 
 Forsooth an inventory, thus importing ;- 
 The several parcels of his plate, his treasure. 
 Rich stuffs and ornaments of household, which 
 I find at such proud rate that it outspeaks 
 Possession of a subject." 
 
 The courtiers are overjoyed at Henry's sudden anger 
 with the fallen favourite, and Norfolk exclaims in delighted 
 surprise and quite representing the others : 
 
 " It's heaven's will ; 
 Some spirit put this paper in the packet 
 To bless your eye withal. " 
 
 Henry, now completely master of the situation, resolves 
 
 to taunt or reproach Wolsey before publicly degrading him. 
 
 He utters a few words intended for the courtiers alone, 
 
 which they doubtless reported to their friends as proofs of 
 
 Henry's right feeling and desire to keep every one in his 
 
 proper place : 
 
 " If we did think 
 His contemplation were above the earth. 
 And fix'd on spiritual object, he should still 
 Dwell in his musings ; but I am afraid 
 His thinkings are below the moon, not worth 
 His serious considering." 
 
 As Wolsey remains wrapped in thought, never noticing 
 Henry, the latter whispers to his attendant, Lovell, to 
 inform the cardinal of his presence. Wolsey, evidently 
 startled, first exclaims : 
 
 " Heaven forgive me ! " 
 
 then addressing the king with accustomed humility : 
 
 " Ever God bless your highness ! " 
 
 In the ensuing scene the assumed calmness, yet sup- 
 pressed anger of Henry, and the nervous, but polished. 
 
3H SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 even pathetic language of the cardinal, reveal their true 
 
 characters in a remarkable manner. The king, with 
 
 keen sarcasm, by apparent allusion to Wolsey's wealth, 
 
 introduces the words " stuff" and " inventory," while 
 
 watching their effect and concealing the real cause of his 
 
 anger till quite the end of this extraordinary conversation. 
 
 Henry at first pretends to excuse Wolsey for his unusual 
 
 absence of mind : 
 
 " Good my lord, 
 You are full of heavenly stuflf, and bear the inventory 
 Of your best graces in your mind, the which 
 You were now running o'er : you have scarce time 
 To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span 
 To keep your earthly audit ; sure, in that 
 I deem you an ill husband, and am glad 
 To have you therein my companion." 
 
 These words, as intended, take Wolsey completely by 
 surprise ; he perhaps never before perceived such a power 
 of sarcasm in the apparently open-minded, frank monarch, 
 yet on the spur of the moment he makes a becoming, 
 expressive reply : 
 
 "Sir, 
 For holy offices I have a time ; a time 
 To think upon the part of business which 
 I bear i' the state ; and nature does require 
 Her times of preservation, which perforce 
 I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal. 
 Must give my tendance to." 
 
 Henry, still keeping the all-important papers in his 
 hands and listening calmly to Wolsey's humble words, 
 remarks with assumed politeness : 
 
 " You have said well." 
 
 The cardinal, trying to regain his usual astuteness, 
 
 replies : 
 
 ' ' And ever may your highness yoke together. 
 As I will lend you cause, my doing well 
 With my well saying ! " 
 
 The king knows he has Wolsey in his power, though 
 to a limited extent, as he could hardly have executed him 
 as safely as if he had not been a Churchman. He therefore 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 315 
 
 resolves to torment him with reproaches or sarcasm, with- 
 out as yet revealing the cause of his displeasure. 
 
 " 'Tis well said again ; 
 And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well : 
 And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you ; 
 He said he did, and with his deed did crown 
 His word upon you : since I had my office 
 I have kept you next my heart ; have not alone 
 Employ'd you where high profits might come home, 
 But pared my present havings, to bestow 
 My bounties upon you." 
 
 Wolsey, still not knowing that Henry has his private 
 papers in possession, is evidently confounded at these 
 words, and at the king's unusual calmness of manner, like 
 a lull before the storm, and wonderingly asks himself: 
 
 "What should this mean?" 
 while Surrey says aside to the other courtiers a few words 
 which doubtless represented the wish of nearly all the 
 English nobility : 
 
 " The Lord increase this business ! " 
 
 Henry proceeds in deliberate reproach, though in the 
 
 guise of a practical question : 
 
 " Have I not made you 
 The prime man of the state ? I pray you tell me 
 If what I now pronounce you have found true ; 
 And if you may confess it, say withal 
 If you are bound to us or no. What say you ? " 
 
 This direct question suddenly asked by his terrible 
 
 king, evidently confuses the cardinal, who now, quite on 
 
 his defence, gratefully replies: 
 
 ' ' My sovereign, I confess your royal graces, 
 Shower'd on me daily, have been more than could 
 My studied purposes requite ; which went 
 Beyond all man's endeavours ; my endeavours 
 Have ever come too short of my desires. 
 Yet filed with my abilities. Mine own ends 
 Have been mine so, that evermore they pointed 
 To the good of your most sacred person and 
 The profit of the state. For your great graces 
 Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I 
 Can nothing render but allegiant thanks, 
 My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty, 
 Which ever has and ever shall be grovring. 
 Till death, that winter, kill it." 
 
3i6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 This eloquent, even pathetic, answer Henry hears with 
 concealed contempt. He has in his hand all the time, 
 unknown to Wolsey, the latter's secret correspondence with 
 friends in Rome, but defers mentioning it till he has heard 
 the cardinal plead more in justification, to which he, as if 
 partly amusing himself, makes sarcastic replies, restraining 
 his terrific anger with that rare power of self-control which 
 always tempted Henry to indulge it when safe to do so, 
 but never otherwise. He coolly answers the agitated 
 cardinal : 
 
 ' ' Fairly answer'd ; 
 A loyal and obedient subject is 
 Therein illustrated ; the honour of it 
 Does pay the act of it, as, i' the contrary, 
 The foulness is the punishment. " 
 
 Then he resumes his trying, or rather tormenting, remarks, 
 
 intimating anger without expressing it : 
 
 ' ' I presume 
 That as my hand has open'd bounty to you, 
 My heart dropp'd love, my power rain'd honour more 
 On you than any ; so your hand and heart, 
 Your brain, and every function of your power, 
 Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty, 
 As 'twere in love's particular, be more 
 To me, your friend, than any. " 
 
 Wolsey, perceiving how enraged Henry really is, and 
 
 as yet not knowing why, becomes more agitated, and 
 
 eagerly protests in self-defence: 
 
 " I do profess 
 That for your highness' good I ever labour'd 
 More than mine own ; 
 
 Though all the world should crack their duty to you 
 And tlirow it from their soul ; though perils did 
 Abound as thick as thought could make 'em, and 
 Appear in forms more horrid, yet my duty, 
 As doth a rock against the chiding flood. 
 Should the approach of this wild river break. 
 And stand unshaken yours." 
 
 Henry sarcastically replies, appealing to the delighted 
 courtiers, who well know how he is tormenting the un- 
 fortunate cardinal : 
 
 " 'Tis nobly spoken. 
 Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast. 
 For you have seen him open't." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 31.7 
 
 Then addressing Wolsey with the same assumed calm- 
 ness till the last sentence, when the pent-up fire of his 
 wrath flashes forth after handing him two papers : 
 
 "Read o'er this ; 
 And after, this ; and then to brealcfast with 
 What appetite you have." 
 
 Henry's stern, even ferocious, glance at saying these 
 last words evidently terrifies Wolsey, who exclaims as the 
 king departs frowning upon him, and attended by the 
 courtiers : 
 
 "What should this mean ? 
 What sudden anger 's this ? how have I reap'd it ? 
 He parted frowning from me, as if ruin 
 Leap'd from his eyes :" 
 
 then a grand, yet terrible, comparison occurs to him : 
 
 " So looks the chafed lion 
 Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him ; 
 Then makes him nothing." 
 
 The fierce look in the king's eyes naturally startles 
 Wolsey, who has doubtless seen it before directed against 
 other objects of his dangerous and often fatal wrath. But 
 he soon rouses himself from fanciful thoughts, and exclaims 
 in utter perplexity : 
 
 " I must read this paper ; 
 I fear, the story of his anger. ' Tis so : 
 This paper has undone me ! 'Tis the account 
 Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together 
 For mine own ends ; indeed, to gain the popedom 
 And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence ! 
 Fit for a fool to fall by : what cross devil 
 Made me put this main secret in the packet 
 I sent the king .' Is there no way to cure this ? 
 
 I know 't will stir him strongly ; yet I know 
 A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune 
 Will bring me off again." 
 
 He looks at the next letter, as the king had directed, 
 
 without reading loud the full contents, which are never told. 
 
 Shakespeare probably knew rumours about them, but 
 
3i8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 their actual purport was never published to the English 
 nation, and Wolsey proceeds to examine the second paper : 
 
 • ' What's this ? ' To the Pope ! ' 
 The letter, as I live, with all the business 
 I writ to 's holiness." 
 
 From this moment Wolsey loses all hope of regaining 
 Henry's favour. The Papacy has hitherto been the only 
 foreign authority which had the least control over the king 
 and Wolsey's thoughtful mind, well knowing his king's 
 character and present position, shrinks from the con- 
 templation of the future, as he exclaims from his heart : 
 
 " Nay then, farewell ! 
 I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness 
 And from that full meridian of my glory 
 I haste now to my setting : I shall fall 
 Like a bright exhalation in the evening 
 And no man see me more." 
 
 The courtiers now re-enter, all delighted at Wolsey's 
 disgrace, and in every way inclined to add insult to injury. 
 Norfolk delivers the king's message to render up the great 
 seal immediately to them, and to confine himself to his 
 friend Gardiner's, the bishop of Winchester's, abode, Asher 
 House, till he hears further. 
 
 Wolsey, trying to recover his former spirit to answer his 
 
 foes, exclaims proudly : 
 
 "Stay: 
 Where's your commission, lords ? words cannot carry 
 Authority so weighty." 
 
 He then yielding to impotent anger reproaches them 
 for their envy to himself, refusing to give up the great seal 
 but to the king in person. At this bold declaration Surrey 
 angrily exclaims : 
 
 " Thou art a proud traitor, priest," 
 
 when, perhaps with truth, Wolsey retorts : 
 
 " Proud lord, thou liest : 
 Within these forty hours Surrey durst better 
 Have burnt that tongue than said so." 
 
 Surrey then warmly reproaches him for being the 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 319 
 
 cause of Buckingham's execution, and of other vindictive 
 acts. 
 
 In justice to these lords who now join in reproaching 
 Wolsey, they evidently believed that he was the real cause 
 of Henry's cruelties. This idea was firmly fixed in the 
 minds of most at this time, and it was not till after the 
 cardinal had disappeared from political life that many 
 began to suspect that Henry himself was far more 
 tyrannical than they at first believed. 
 
 Wolsey tries at first to vindicate himself plausibly, if 
 not truthfully, in the case of Buckingham, and replies : 
 
 " The duke by law 
 Found his deserts : how innocent I was 
 From any private malice in his end 
 His noble jury and foul cause can witness." 
 
 Norfolk, Surrey, and Suffolk then all three reproach the 
 
 unfortunate cardinal, who, though ably defending himself, 
 
 can hardly avoid showing his grief and depression, when 
 
 the Lord Chamberlain in a nobler spirit remonstrates, 
 
 saying : 
 
 " Press not a falling man too far ; 'tis virtue ; 
 His faults lie open to the laws ; let them, 
 Not you, correct him." 
 
 This interposition shortens the aggravating scene, and 
 with a few more angry words they leave Wolsey, Norfolk 
 exclaiming as a last taunt : 
 
 " So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal." 
 
 and Wolsey, when alone, exclaims : 
 
 " So farewell to the little good you bear me." 
 
 He then relapses into a sad soliloquy ; and evidently 
 despairing of regaining the king's favour, can only see 
 ruin before him, and rather vaguely begins to despise those 
 ambitious hopes and feelings which had diverted his great 
 mind from its original religious bias or intention. As if 
 recalling earlier days he exclaims, after bewailing his fall : 
 
 " Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : 
 I feel my heart new open'd. O ! how wretched 
 Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours. 
 
320 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
 That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin. 
 More pangs and fears than wars and women have ; 
 And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 Never to hope again." 
 
 Wolsey thus recalls the king's engaging frankness and 
 cordial manner, while contemplating the utter ruin and 
 misery in the same tyrant's power to inflict at his 
 capricious inclination. While thus thinking his attached 
 secretary, Cromwell, enters, and to him Wolsey unburderts 
 his mind freely, placing thorough confidence in him. 
 Cromwell, utterly confounded at what he has heard of 
 his patron's sudden disgrace, exclaims : 
 " I have no power to speak, sir," 
 
 and Wolsey replies with assumed calmness : 
 
 " What ! amazed 
 At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder 
 A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep, 
 I am fall'n indeed." 
 
 The other in sympathy asks : 
 
 " How does your grace?" 
 
 and Wolsey replies in a manner the other probably little 
 expected, but which proved both the greatness of his 
 mind and the peculiarity of his own personal history. 
 He was a man whose natural inclinations had first re- 
 commended the clerical profession, but had been tempted 
 by the deep interest and attractions of public life to 
 become practically the chief statesman of his country ; 
 and now in sudden political disgrace, his powerful mind 
 falls back on the consoling resources of his original 
 calling. He therefore, without showing the least anger 
 against vindictive, triumphant foes, calmly answers 
 Cromwell : 
 
 " Why, well ; 
 Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
 I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
 A peace above all earthly dignities, 
 A still and quiet conscience." 
 
 He says much to the same effect, yet in his changing 
 state of mind, his subsequent words occasionally reveal 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 321 
 
 a suppressed excitement, though quite free from personal 
 animosity to any one. He hears from Cromwell that the 
 celebrated Sir Thomas More is appointed Lord Chancellor 
 in his place, and exclaims : 
 
 " That's somewhat sudden ; 
 But he's a learned man. May he continue 
 Long in his highness' favour, and do justice 
 For truth's sake and his conscience ; that his bones, 
 When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings. 
 May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em ! " 
 
 This beautiful allusion to a Lord Chancellor's protect- 
 ing helpless orphans is most impressive, yet whether 
 Wolsey was capable of uttering so noble a sentiment, 
 or whether it is alone due to Shakespeare, can hardly 
 be known. 
 
 Cromwell, continuing his news, says that Cranmer is 
 now Archbishop of Canterbury. Wolsey, foreseeing the 
 encouragement this appointment must be to the Protestant 
 party increasing in power, exclaims with deep meaning : 
 " That's news indeed." 
 
 Lastly, Cromwell tells the cardinal that Anne Boleyn, 
 being privately married to Henry, is now acknowledged 
 queen, and her coronation is approaching. This news 
 fairly overcomes Wolsey, as the realisation of his appre- 
 hensions. He now perceives what perhaps he had never 
 before quite realised to himself, that her influence over 
 Henry had in great measure, if not chiefly, caused his 
 disgrace. He exclaims with impressive earnestness : 
 
 " There was the weight that pulled me down. O Cromwell ! 
 The king has gone beyond me : all my glories 
 In that one woman I have lost for ever. 
 No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours. 
 Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
 Upon my smiles." 
 
 Wolsey now sees how completely Anne Boleyn and 
 her friends have superseded him in the king's regard, 
 if not confidence, and that they will now acquire the chief 
 power in the kingdom. Wolsey's last wish, therefore, is 
 to provide for those who were faithful to him, and he 
 
 X 
 
32 2 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 advises Cromwell to at once leave him, as he is a poor 
 fallen man, unworthy to be his lord and master. Wolsey, 
 like everybody else about the English court, constantly 
 manifests his love and respect for the king even in the 
 midst of his disgrace and sorrow. He exclaims to 
 Cromwell : 
 
 " Seek the king ; 
 That sun, I pray, may never set ! I have told him 
 What and how true thou art ; he will advance thee : 
 
 (I know his noble nature) not to let 
 Thy hopeful service perish too. " 
 
 It is not very easy to see at this time what Henry's 
 nobleness is, yet he seems evidently credited with that 
 sublime quality. In matters of fact he seems a wilful, 
 imperious, despotic king, a mixture of craft and violence, 
 surrounded not only by obedient but admiring subjects. 
 When they are irritated at his frequent acts of tyranny, 
 they show discontent, but seem soon conciliated and 
 recalled to contented loyalty by the cajoling power of 
 their fortunate ruler, who certainly proved that he 
 thoroughly understood and knew how to manage the 
 English nation of his time. 
 
 Thomas Cromwell, a faithful man, while hearing the 
 king's praise, declares that though Henry may have his 
 future service, his prayers will always be for Wolsey. 
 The cardinal, generally abandoned and humbled, expect- 
 ing nothing but disgrace and insult, melts at these words 
 of attachment, and exclaims, evidently from his heart : 
 
 " Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
 In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 
 Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
 Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
 And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be. 
 And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
 Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, 
 Say, V^folsey, that once trod the ways of glory. 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it, 
 Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 323 
 
 Cromwell, 'I charge thee, fling away ambition. 
 
 Be just and fear not. 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
 Thy God's and truth's : then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell ! 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; 
 And " 
 
 Here he breaks off, apparently overcome by the effects 
 of his recent excitement, and then feebly proceeds : 
 
 " Prithee, lead me in ; 
 There take an inventory of all I have. 
 To the last penny ; 'tis the king's my robe 
 And my integrity to heaven are all 
 I dare now call mine own." 
 
 Then in words not of Shakespeare's composing, but 
 which he is really said to have uttered, he appeals to Divine 
 Justice at this moment of worldly ruin and disgrace : 
 
 " O Cromwell, Cromwell ! 
 Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
 I served my king. He would not in mine age 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies." 
 
 This is the only time Wolsey mentions the king with 
 any kind of resentment, or sense of injury, and indeed 
 these words seem hardly consistent with his belief in the 
 noble nature of his sovereign. 
 
 Shakespeare, perhaps, had no wish to invent any dis- 
 loyal or disrespectful words, no matter iiow just, about 
 the father of his own sovereign ; and in merely record- 
 ing Wolsey's well-known words, the poet could give no 
 offence. Yet few as they are, they evidently express a 
 far more natural feeling than words of loyal admiration 
 coming from Wolsey at this time. In fact, Wolsey's 
 historic words at this crisis of his blighted life, prove that 
 he thought himself a faithful servant unjustly treated by 
 a capricious or tyrannical sovereign. 
 
 Cromwell naturally tries to calm his sudden agitation 
 by exclaiming : 
 
 " Good sir, have patience.'' 
 
 Then the cardinal, his great mind reverting to the 
 
324 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 sacred profession, for which he was originally destined, 
 replies with calm, even lofty resignation : 
 
 " So I have. Farewell 
 The hopes of court ! my hopes in heaven do dwell." 
 
 From these devout words it might be expected that 
 Wolsey's future life would have been devoted to religious 
 thoughts and enterprises. But his weakened bodily health 
 prevented anything of the sort. Unlike Ignatius Loyola, 
 who, at first a gallant soldier, rose from a sick-bed an 
 enthusiastic religious devotee, Wolsey's death, which soon 
 followed his political downfall, was more like that of a 
 broken-hearted statesman, recognising when too late that 
 he had made an irrevocable mistake between Church and 
 State when he had abandoned the sublime duties of the 
 former for the dangerous attractions of the latter. His 
 fall, after so many efforts to improve English knowledge 
 and education, was evidently regretted by many who had 
 formerly envied or disparaged him.^ 
 
 He never appears in the play after this scene, though 
 his character and conduct are again alluded to. His 
 downfall, however, was accompanied by no apparent 
 popular sympathy. The crafty, yet arrogant, king had 
 indeed in astuteness, as well as in utter unscrupulousness, 
 gone beyond him, and henceforth reposed confidence in 
 others who were equally, if not even more, expected to 
 aid and promote his personal caprices or inclinations. 
 
 The next act and scene describe two London gentle- 
 men in the streets of Westminster, discussing the corona- 
 tion of Anne Boleyn and the divorce desired by Henry 
 from Queen Katharine. The first says : 
 
 "You come to take your stand here, and behold 
 The Lady Anne pass from her coronation ? " 
 
 1 " When we consider that the subsequent part of Henry's reign 
 was much more criminal than that which had been directed by 
 Wolsey's counsels, we shall be inclined to suspect those historians of 
 partiality who have endeavoured to load the memory of this minister 
 with such violent reproaches." — " Hume's History," chap. xxx. 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 3^5 
 
 The second answers : 
 
 " 'Tis all my business. At our last encounter 
 The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial." 
 
 First : 
 
 " 'Tis very true : but that time offered sorrow ; 
 This, general joy." 
 
 The second gentleman replies in words which still 
 
 apply to the London people of the present time during 
 
 royal celebrations: 
 
 " The citizens, 
 I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds, 
 As, let 'em have their rights, they are ever forward 
 In celebration of this day with shows, 
 Pageants, and sights of honour. 
 
 May I be bold to ask what that contains, 
 That paper in your hand?" 
 
 the other replies : 
 
 " Yes ; 'tis the list 
 Of those that claim their offices this day 
 By custom of the coronation." 
 
 His companion asks about Queen Katharine's position, 
 and the other replies : 
 
 " That I can tell you too. The archbishop 
 Of Canterbury, accompanied with other 
 Learned and reverend fathers of his order. 
 Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off 
 From Ampthill, where the princess lay ; to which 
 She was often cited by them, but appear'd not : 
 And to be short, for not appearance and 
 The king's late scruple, by the main assent 
 Of all these learned men she was divorced, 
 And the late marriage made of none effect : 
 Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, 
 Where she remains now sick." 
 
 His hearer, pitying the unfortunate queen, exclaims : 
 
 " Alas ! good lady," 
 
 when at this moment the trumpets sound, and the pro- 
 cession gracing the new queen's coronation appears, 
 carefully described with the precision of a gratified eye- 
 witness. The two gentlemen show to each other the 
 chief personages as they pass, with all the interest and 
 
326 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 exactness of loyal subjects ; and Shakespeare certainly 
 
 seems in this, as in all his other plays laid in London, to 
 
 admire and make the very most of everything connected 
 
 with the court. 
 
 Thus, after some of the chief nobles pass, one gentleman 
 
 exclaims at sight of the young queen : 
 
 ' ' Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on. 
 Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel : 
 Our king has all the Indies in his arms " ; 
 
 the other observes : 
 
 " They that bear 
 The cloth of honour over her, are four barons 
 Of the Cinque-ports," 
 
 while the other enthusiastically rejoins : 
 
 " Those men are happy ; and so are all are near her," 
 
 and one of them, full of curiosity, asks : 
 
 " Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk ? " 
 
 the other says : 
 
 " It is ; and all the rest are countesses," 
 
 while his companion rejoins, with only too much truth : 
 
 " Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed ; 
 And sometimes falling ones," 
 
 and the other prudently replies : 
 
 "No more of that." 
 
 A third gentleman now comes from Westminster 
 Abbey, where he has seen and now describes the corona- 
 tion of the ill-fated Anne Boleyn to the other two. 
 
 There are few, if any, places in England which recall 
 
 so much of its former days as this noble edifice. 
 
 Historical students visiting it are at once reminded, not 
 
 only of English history, but of Shakespeare's frequent 
 
 mention of it. On this solemn occasion it appeared at its 
 
 utmost advantage. The delighted witness thus describes : 
 
 ' ' The rich stream 
 Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen 
 To a prepared place in the choir, fell off 
 A distance from her ; while her grace sat down 
 To rest awhile, some half-an-hour or so. 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 327 
 
 In a rich chair of state, opposing freely 
 The beauty of her person to the people. 
 
 which when the people 
 Had the full view of, such a noise arose 
 As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest. 
 As loud, and to as many tunes ; hats, cloaks, 
 (Doublets, I think,) flew up ; and had their faces 
 Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy 
 I never saw before. 
 
 At length her grace rose, and with modest paces 
 Came to the altar ; where she kneel'd, and saint-like 
 Cast her fair eyes to heaven and pray'd devoutly. 
 Then rose again and bow'd her to the people : 
 When by the Archbishop of Canterbury 
 She had all the royal makings of a queen ; 
 As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown 
 
 And all such emblems 
 Laid nobly on her ; which perform'd, the choir, 
 With all the choicest music of the kingdom. 
 Together sung ' Te Deum.' " 
 
 These London men then mention the disputes between 
 Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop Gardiner 
 of Winchester, the former of whom is -rising fast, they 
 think, in popular esteem and in the king's favour. The 
 unfortunate Wolsey, Cardinal of York, is now politically 
 effaced, as he predicted, from men's minds, at least from 
 any public notice. 
 
 One of these London citizens, who evidently is well 
 informed about the political changes at this time, says to 
 another, who named York Place: 
 
 " Sir, 
 You must no more call it York Place, that's past ; 
 For since the cardinal fell, that title's lost ; 
 'Tis now the king's and call'd Whitehall." 
 
 Wolsey is at present quite replaced in Henry's favour 
 by Cranmer. This remarkable play, on the whole true 
 to history, has startling changes from grave to gay in its 
 various scenes. While Anne Boleyn and her friends are 
 rejoicing in their short-lived favour with an almost despotic 
 monarch, his former wife, Katharine of Aragon, is dying 
 at Kimbolton, apparently from the effects of grief and a 
 broken heart. 
 
328 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The next scene, therefore, after the magnificent rejoic- 
 ings at Anne's coronation, is at Kimbolton, where the 
 divorced queen now "sick to death," as she tells her 
 attendant Griffith, asks : 
 
 "Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledd'st me, 
 That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, 
 Was dead?" 
 
 Griffith then relates that the unfortunate cardinal was 
 arrested and about to be brought to trial when he suddenly 
 fell ill, and entering the Abbey at Leicester, thus addressed 
 the Abbot: 
 
 "O ! father abbot; 
 An old man, broken with the storms of state, 
 Is come to lay his weary bones among ye ; 
 Give him a little earth for charity," 
 
 and soon died in that place of refuge. 
 
 His career is nobly and accurately described by Dr 
 Johnson's lines, which thoroughly agree with Shakespeare's 
 sketch : 
 
 " In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, 
 Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand, 
 To him the church, the realm, their powers consign. 
 Thro' him the rays of regal bounty shine, 
 Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows. 
 His smile alone security bestows. 
 At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 
 Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. 
 Now drops at once the pride of awful state 
 The golden canopy, the glittering plate. 
 The regal palace, the luxurious board. 
 The liv'ried army and the menial lord. 
 With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd. 
 He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
 Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings 
 And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings." 
 
 — Vanity of Human Wishes. 
 
 Katharine, though still believing Wolsey her enemy, 
 gently exclaims : 
 
 " So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him ! " 
 
 and then says that he was full of ambition and intrigue 
 To this accusation Griffith, evidently a man of rare 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 329 
 
 sense and good feeling, replies with eloquent, pathetic 
 
 truth : 
 
 " Noble madam, 
 Men's evil manners live in brass ; their virtues 
 We write in water. May it please your highness 
 To hear me speak his good now ? " 
 
 Katharine mildly answers: 
 
 "Yes, good Griffith; 
 I were malicious else." 
 
 and he continues : 
 
 " This cardinal, 
 Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly 
 Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle. 
 He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one : 
 Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading ; 
 Lofty and sour to them that loved him not ; 
 But to those men that sought him sweet as summer. 
 
 In bestowing, madam, 
 He was most princely. Ever witness for him 
 Those twins of learning, that he raised in you, 
 Ipswich and Oxford ! one of which fell with him. 
 Unwilling to outlive the good that rear'd it ; 
 The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous, 
 So excellent in art, and still so rising. 
 That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. 
 His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; 
 For then, and not till then, he felt himself, 
 And found the blessedness of being little ; 
 And, to add greater honours to his age 
 Than man could give him, he died fearing God." 
 
 Katharine, affected by this description while in her 
 weak state, freely forgives her former foe, or whom she 
 thought so, and with deep sympathy rejoins : 
 
 "After my death I wish no other herald, 
 No other speaker of my living actions. 
 To keep mine honour from corruption, 
 But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. 
 Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me. 
 With thy religious truth and modesty. 
 Now in his ashes honour." 
 
 Then, addressing her female attendant, she says : 
 
 " Patience, be near me still ; and set me lower : 
 I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, 
 Cause the musicians play me that sad note 
 I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating 
 On that celestial harmony I go to." 
 
330 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 She sleeps, and in dreamy vision, while the music 
 continues, sees angels approach her with white garlands, 
 while she, unconscious, holds out her hands. The music 
 continues, and she wakes exclaiming, still under the 
 influence of the vision : 
 
 "Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all gone, 
 And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye ? " 
 
 Griffiths says : 
 
 " Madam, we are here," 
 
 and she asks : 
 
 ' ' Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop 
 Invite me to a banquet ; whose bright faces 
 Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun? 
 They promised me eternal happiness." 
 
 Griffith and Patience perceive the queen's altered 
 appearance, as if near death, as she bids the music cease, 
 and a gentleman is announced from the king, and proves 
 to be a certain Capucius, ambassador, from the German 
 emperor. 
 She asks : 
 
 " What is your pleasure with me ? " 
 
 and he replies : 
 
 "Noble lady, 
 First, mine own service to your grace ; the next. 
 The king's request that I would visit you ; 
 Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me 
 Sends you his princely commendations. 
 And heartily entreats you take good comfort." 
 
 The poor broken-hearted queen sadly answers : 
 
 " O ! my good lord, that comfort comes too late ; 
 'Tis like a pardon after execution : 
 That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me ; 
 But now I am past all comforts here but prayers." 
 
 Then her love for the king again inspiring her, she 
 
 asks : 
 
 " How does his highness ? " 
 
 and Capucius replies : 
 
 " Madam, in good health." 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 331 
 
 and she rejoins with the same devoted spirit she always 
 evinced : 
 
 "So may he ever do ! and ever flourish, 
 When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name 
 Banish'd the kingdom." 
 
 She then sends a letter to the king by Capucius, saying 
 as she gives it to him : 
 
 "I most humbly pray you to deliver 
 This to my lord, the king. 
 In which I have commended to his goodness 
 The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter : 
 Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding." 
 
 She adds with melancholy fondness about the future 
 queen, Mary Tudor, destined to behold, if not to cause a 
 sad and sanguinary reign : 
 
 " She is young, and of a noble, modest nature, ' 
 
 and then petitions for all her faithful attendants, that they 
 may obtain the king's bounty, foreseeing their distress when 
 she is gone. This affecting entreaty Capucius promises to 
 convey to the king, and Katharine then adds perhaps the 
 most pathetic words of all. She well remembers how long 
 the king had wished to be divorced, or legally separated 
 from her, and anticipates the relief her departure from this 
 world may bring him saying : 
 
 " Remember me 
 In all humility unto his highness : 
 Say his long trouble now is passing 
 Out of this world ; tell him, in death I bless'd him, 
 For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, 
 My lord. Griffith, farewell," 
 
 then calling her female attendants around her, she gives 
 some last directions, and so this affecting scene ends, in 
 which the abandoned queen, like nearly all Henry's sub- 
 jects, no matter how he treats them, apparently loved and 
 honoured this extraordinary tyrant to the last. 
 
 The next and last act is chiefly taken up with the 
 religious rivalries now increasing about the English court, 
 and which are not perhaps very clearly described in this 
 
332 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 play, and apparently perplexed even some historians dur- 
 ing this remarkable period of English history.^ 
 
 Bishop Gardiner and many other noblemen and ecclesi- 
 astics distrust Cranmer, who is now succeeding Wolsey in 
 influence over the king. Shakespeare represents Henry 
 protecting his new favourite, Cranmer, from opposition and 
 even insults on the part of his many foes, both lay and 
 clerical. At this singular period of England's history, in 
 which religious and political parties were so strangely mixed, 
 the opposing factions might fairly enough form very 
 different conclusions as to the motives or principles of the 
 chief men in the state. Shakespeare in this involved play 
 evidently tries to do justice to all, except to the king, of 
 whom his description is certainly on the too favourable 
 side. His noble sketch of Queen Katharine, a most devout 
 Roman Catholic, would surely gratify those of her com- 
 munion, while his pleasing accounts both of Anne Boleyn 
 and of Cranmer, would likely please all Protestant readers. 
 Bishop Gardiner, on whom so much blame, rightly or 
 wrongly, is laid for religious persecution, is represented 
 eagerly opposing Cranmer, now supported by Thomas 
 Cromwell, Wolsey's former secretary, and who are both 
 favoured by the capricious king.^ 
 
 1 " Cranmer had secretly adopted the Protestant tenets. Norfolk 
 adhered to the ancient faith, Gardiner lately created, Bishop of Win- 
 chester, had enlisted himself in the same party. Cromwell and 
 Cranmer artfully made use of Henry's resentment to widen the breach 
 with the See of Rome. Norfolk and Gardiner feigned an assent to 
 the king's supremacy and to his renunciation of the sovereign pontiff, 
 but they encouraged his passion for the Catholic faith. Both sides 
 hoped by their unlimited compliance to bring him over to their party." 
 — Hume's " History," chap. xxxi. 
 
 '' " It is Henry on his throne who gives the sacred volume to Cran- 
 mer ere Cranmer and Cromwell can distribute it to the throng of 
 priests and laymen below. Hitherto men had looked on religious 
 truths as a gift from the Church. They were now to look on it as a 
 gift from the king. The very gratitude of Englishmen for fresh 
 spiritual enlightenment was to tell to the profit of the royal power. 
 Nor was it possible for Henry himself to avoid drifting from the 
 standpoint he had chosen. He had written against Luther ; he had 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 333 
 
 In the play Cranmer is described as beset with enemies 
 in the English court, but is befriended by Henry, who 
 rebukes his chief foe, Gardiner, without actually punishing 
 him. The Princess Elizabeth is born, and Shakespeare, as 
 if wishing to enliven this grave, stately play with a comic 
 scene, which could scarcely have really happened, though 
 possible, introduces an old lady who talks like a nurse, and 
 tells the king of the child's birth. As she and all the court 
 well know Henry's great desire to have a son and heir, she 
 announces the truth in a half-frightened, half-cunning 
 manner. Henry eagerly asks her : 
 
 " Now, by thy looks 
 I guess thy message. Is the Queen deliver'd ? 
 Say, ay ; and of a boy." 
 
 Old Lady: 
 
 " Ay, ay, my liege : 
 And of a lovely boy : the God of heaven 
 Both now and ever bless her ! 'Tis a girl, 
 Promises boys hereafter. 
 
 'Tis as like you 
 As cherry is to cherry.'' 
 
 The evidently disappointed king says to his attendant, 
 Lovell : 
 
 " Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the Queen," 
 
 and goes out. 
 
 The old lady in a spirit more worthy of Mrs Gamp, or 
 Betsy Prig, than of a ceremonious Court dame, at hearing 
 this sum exclaims angrily : 
 
 " An hundred marks ! By this light, I'll ha' more. 
 An ordinary groom is for such payment : 
 I will have more, or scold it out of him. 
 Said I for this the girl was like to him ? 
 I will have more, or else unsay't ; and now. 
 While it is hot, I'll put it to the issue,'' 
 
 and off she goes apparently after the king, but what suc- 
 
 persisted in opposing Lutheran doctrines ; he had passed new laws to 
 hinder the circulation of Lutheran books in his realm. But influences 
 from without as from within drove him nearer to Lutheranism." — 
 Green's " History of the English People," Book V., chap. iv. 
 
334 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 cess her scolding had with Henry is very doubtful, though 
 it is well known that he, while imperious and relentless 
 towards the nobility, was usually familiar and indulgent 
 with his subjects of lower degree. Yet it is unlikely that 
 any one about the Court would use such language about 
 such a king, and this little scene seems like the poet's 
 invention to amuse himself or his readers. 
 
 Though the mutual distrust between Cranmer and 
 Gardiner continued really unabated, Henry tried to make 
 an apparent reconciliation between them when asking 
 Cranmer to be godfather to the baby princess. Cranmer, 
 devoted to the king, and high in favour with Anne and her 
 friends, exclaims before the king, the assembled courtiers, 
 statesmen, and Bishop Gardiner : 
 
 " The greatest monarch now alive may glory 
 In such an honour : how may I deserve it, 
 That am a poor and humble subject to you ? " 
 
 Henry gratified at this humble reply, and apparently in 
 a merry mood, rejoins : 
 
 " Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your spoons. You shall have 
 Two noble partners with you ; the old Duchess of Norfolk, 
 And Lady Marquess Dorset : will these please you ? " 
 
 Though Henry asks this question and seems to pause 
 for an answer, Cranmer makes none, except probably by a 
 humble bow, and Henry then addressing Gardiner, says : 
 
 " Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, 
 Embrace and love this man." 
 
 Before such a sovereign neither prelate dares express 
 
 his real sentiments about the other, and Gardiner compels 
 
 himself to say : 
 
 '■ With a true heart 
 And brother love I do it." 
 
 and Cranmer exclaims : 
 
 " And let heaven 
 Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation." 
 
 At this time Gardiner and Cranmer to some extent 
 represent the opposing parties of English Roman Catholics 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 335 
 
 and Protestants. The former influence is waning, while 
 that of the latter, aided by the new Queen's party, is 
 increasing, yet still there is much uncertainty and constant 
 intrigues while the popular despot reigns supreme. Henry 
 impatient, or pretending to be so, for the coming christen- 
 ing rejoins : 
 
 " Come, lords, we trifle time away ; I long 
 To have this young one made a Christian. 
 As I have made ye one, lords, one remain ; 
 So I grow stronger, you more honour gain." 
 
 All who hear him at least pretend to believe and trust 
 him ; his complete ascendancy over all his subjects of high 
 or low degree is evident alike in this play and in the pages 
 of history. No royal rival opposed him, and republican 
 revolt was apparently never apprehended. At this time 
 all parties obeyed the king, uniting in himself the claims 
 of the houses of York and Lancaster on English loyalty .^ 
 
 There is no mention of Henry's excommunication by 
 the Pope in this play ; Shakespeare evidently avoids writing 
 anything that could offend either Roman Catholic or 
 Protestant readers. He dwells chiefly towards the end on 
 the most cheerful and important events of this extra- 
 ordinary reign, and the next scene after the reconciliation 
 of Gardiner and Cranmer is near the palace yard among a 
 crowd of London people assembled together to catch sight 
 of the King and Queen. A porter and his servant describe 
 
 ^ " There never was Prince more delighted in Interviews or gener- 
 ally came off better from them. To which also as his goodly 
 personage and excellent qualities did much dispose him ; so they 
 gave him a particular advantage and lustre." — Lord Herbert of 
 Cherbury's "Life of Henry VIIL," p. 571. The same writer 
 supplies this formidable list of Henry's victims : " Two Queens, one 
 Cardinal or two (for Poole was condemned though absent), Dukes, 
 Marquises, Earls, and Earls' sons, twelve ; Barons and Knights, 
 eighteen ; Abbots, Priors, Monks and Priests, seventy-seven ; of the 
 more common sort between one religion and another, huge multi- 
 tudes. He gave some proofs yet that he could forgive, though as they 
 were few and late, they served not to recover him the name of a, 
 clement Prince," p. 573. 
 
336 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 the noisy, but loyal London mob, whose enthusiasm they 
 
 cannot keep within the bounds of order. The porter asks : 
 
 " How got they in, and be hanged ? " 
 
 and his man answers : 
 
 " I know not ; how gets the tide in ? 
 As much as one sound cudgel of four foot, 
 You see the poor remainder, could distribute, 
 I made no spare, sir.'' 
 
 The porter, evidently strict and anxious to keep every- 
 one and everything in good order, pettishly answers : 
 " You did nothing, sir," 
 
 and his subordinate replies, protesting : 
 
 " I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, 
 To mow 'em down before me ; 
 
 They fell on ; I made good my place ; at length they came to the broomstaflf 
 to me ; I defied 'em still ; when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot, 
 delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, 
 and let 'em win the work. The devil was amongst 'em, I think surely." 
 
 To this account the porter replies : 
 
 " These are the youths that thunder at a, play-house, and fight for bitten 
 
 apples I have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and they are like to 
 
 dance these three days ; besides the running banquet of two beadles, that 
 is to come.'' 
 
 The Lord Chamberlain now arrives in his turn, scolding 
 the porter for not keeping better order about the palace 
 precincts, and exclaiming : 
 
 " Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here ! 
 They grow still, too, from all parts they are coming, 
 As if we kept a fair here ! 
 
 We shall have 
 Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies. 
 When they pass back from the christening. 
 
 As I live. 
 If the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all 
 By the heels, and suddenly ; 
 
 Hark ! the trumpets sound : 
 They're come already from the christening. 
 Go, break among the press, and find a way out 
 To let the troop pass fairly, or I'll find 
 A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.' 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 337 
 
 Shakespeare evidently enjoys describing the loyalty of 
 the London populace on all public occasions, and gives a 
 detailed account of the royal procession with a careful 
 exactness apparently worthy of an eager monarchist taking 
 real pleasure in describing at length all royal ceremonies 
 and pageants. 
 
 The next and final scene is in the palace where Cranmer 
 pronounces a benediction on the infant princess. He 
 exclaims to the king and all present in words which 
 Shakespeare evidently means to be prophetic : 
 
 " This royal infant, heaven still move about her ! 
 Though in her cradle, yet now promises 
 Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings. 
 Which time shall bring to ripeness ; she shall be 
 (But few now living can behold that goodness), 
 A pattern to all princes living with her ; 
 And all that shall succeed, . . . truth shall nurse her ; 
 Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her ; 
 She shall be lov'd and fear'd." 
 
 Shakespeare, never mentioning the chance of her having a 
 brother, and knowing that James First will succeed her, 
 proceeds to describe her successor in the same spirit of 
 loyal enthusiasm : 
 
 " So shall she leave her blessedness to one 
 When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness, 
 Who from the sacred ashes of her honour, 
 Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, 
 And so stand fix'd. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, 
 That were the servants to this chosen infant. 
 Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him : 
 Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine. 
 His henour and the greatness of his name 
 Shall be, and make new nations ; he shall flourish. 
 And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches 
 To all the plains about him ; our children's children 
 Shall see this and bless heaven." 
 
 This enthusiastic prophecy surprises as well as delights 
 Henry, who evidently believing it, exclaims : 
 
 " Thou speakest wonders ! " 
 
 and Cranmer rejoins again alluding to the infant princess' 
 long life and reign : 
 
 " She shall be, to the happiness of England, 
 An aged princess ; many days shall see her, 
 And yet no day without a deed to crown it." 
 Y 
 
338 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 He then in language alike true, impressive, and pathetic, 
 concludes : 
 
 " Would I had known no more ! but she must die, 
 She must, the saints must have her ; yet a virgin ; 
 A most unspotted lily shall she pass 
 To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.'' 
 
 These noble words produce evidently the desired impres- 
 sion on the gratified king. At this moment, and indeed 
 during all his reign, Henry seems to have felt little, if any, 
 remorse, or even interest about his former friends and 
 subjects. The noble Buckingham, the learned Wolsey, the 
 virtuous Queen Katharine, all more or less the victims of 
 his relentless and imperious will, seem alike soon banished 
 from his memory. He is now with a new Queen and new 
 confidants, as if beginning his royal life over again, and 
 joyfully replies to Cranmer's eloquence : 
 
 " O lord Archbishop I 
 Thou hast made me now a man : never before 
 This happy child, did I get anything 
 This oracle of comfort has so pleased me." 
 
 He then seems to anticipate his own future with 
 rather more than justifiable confidence : 
 
 " That, when I am in heaven, I shall desire 
 To see what this child does, and praise my Maker. 
 I thank ye all — To you, my good lord mayor, 
 And your good brethren, I am much beholden, 
 1 have received much honour by your presence, 
 And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords : 
 Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank ye : 
 
 This day, no man think 
 Has business at his house ; for all shall stay : 
 This little one shall make it holiday.'' 
 
 These eloquent words to some extent came to pass, 
 ''this little one" became the proud Queen of England, 
 and all written in this last scene seems meant to gratify 
 her and her loyal subjects. With this christening of the 
 Princess Elizabeth, Shakespeare ends his magnificent and 
 really instructive Play. No hint is given of the terrible 
 years that follow this beautiful scene. No reader ignorant 
 of history could indeed imagine that the beautiful and 
 
KING HENRY VIII. 339 
 
 honoured young queen, Anne Boleyn, together with many 
 of her friends and relations were to be publicly executed at 
 the pleasure of the vindictive and selfish tyrant who by 
 Heaven's will presided over the fate of so many illustrious 
 English men and English women at this period. Shakes- 
 peare leaves this despotic ruler, popular, if not loved, and 
 certainly feared throughout all England, without the least 
 murmur of revolt or even remonstrance against his sole un- 
 disputed authority. Probably no English sovereign, perhaps 
 no sovereign in any country, was so thoroughly successful 
 during a most eventful reign, obeyed by so many illustrious 
 subjects and gratifying his capricious feelings and desires, 
 not only with impunity, but with undiminished popularity. 
 His reign in some respects was one of the most interesting 
 as well as the most important in English history. Shake- 
 speare only describes its early and most prosperous years 
 and prudently abstains from alluding to most of the crimes 
 which attended it. The curtain falls on this grand Play 
 with the christening of the princess and the general 
 rejoicing of the court and the nation now completely 
 united. 
 
 The chief characters seem all, or nearly all, described in 
 a friendly, if not admiring spirit. The friends or relations 
 of the opposing queens and rival statesmen in this grand 
 Play might read it with almost equal gratification. Henry 
 himself, the terrible arbiter of their destinies in this world, 
 is only described in his best moments, not a word against 
 him is ever uttered, except one brief reproach by Wolsey, 
 which being historical, Shakespeare had no hesitation in 
 recording. 
 
 ' "He possessed indeed great vigour of mind, which qualified him 
 for exercising dominion over men, courage, intrepidity, vigilance, 
 inflexibility, and everyone dreaded a contest with a man who was 
 never known to yield or to forgive. It may seem a little extraordinary 
 that notwithstanding his cruelty, his extortion, his violence, his 
 arbitrary administration, this prince not only acquired the regard of 
 his subjects, but never was the object of their hatred. He seems even 
 in some degree to have possessed to the last their love and affection." 
 — Hume's " History," chap, xxxiii. 
 
340 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 This whole Play was evidently meant to please as well 
 as to interest all loyal English readers. The many grand 
 historical personages are shown as in a living panorama, 
 arousing not only interest but usually admiration in all 
 who read about them. The philosophic poet leaves 
 Henry VIII. his Court and young Queen enjoying a most 
 delightful and pleasing occasion, during one of those 
 rare brief periods indeed of human life when to quote the 
 words of an eminent novelist: "The brief sunshine of 
 the world is blazing full upon them."^ 
 
 ' Charles Dickens, in ending the " Pickwick Papers." 
 
KING LEAR. 
 
 In this most powerful and perhaps most pathetic of all 
 Shakespeare's tragedies, he apparently has very little, if 
 any, historical evidence to guide him. He depends almost 
 entirely on his own unequalled mind for the production of 
 this grandest of tragedies. Perhaps no other play shows 
 such amazing contrasts in imaginary characters, yet unlike 
 most of his works the interest of this tragedy depends 
 largely, if not chiefly, on its female personages. It does not 
 seem surely founded on any well-authenticated legend, but 
 merely to rest upon a vague tradition, probably founded on 
 some facts, which could not be altogether verified even in 
 Shakespeare's time. This play in its true nature is well, 
 though perhaps unintentionally, described, by one of our 
 greatest modern English novelists in these expressive 
 words : 
 
 " Shakespeare derived some of his plots from old tales 
 and legends in general circulation ; he brought within the 
 magic circle of his genius, traditions peculiarly adapted for 
 his purpose and turned familiar things into constellations 
 which should enlighten the world for ages." ^ These words 
 of Dickens' young hero probably expressed that writer's 
 own opinion of plays like King Lear, which, having no 
 actual historic foundation owe their lasting charm and per- 
 manent value to Shakespeare's genius alone. Unlike Sir 
 Walter Scott who often heads his chapters in the " Waver- 
 ley Novels " with quotations from Shakespeare, Mr Dickens 
 rarely mentions the poet, which may render the pleasing 
 allusion to him in Nickleby, the more remarkable. Shake- 
 
 1 " Nicholas Nickleby," ch. xvi. vol. ii. 
 
342 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 speare, to use Dickens' words, has indeed "enlightened the 
 world for ages," and in King Lear his chief object seems to 
 be to portray the fatal folly of yielding to violent temper or 
 selfish vanity. None perhaps of Shakespeare's plays is in 
 these respects more worthy of earnest study. King Lear 
 himself is the almost despotic sovereign of a great part of / 
 England, if not all of it, but of England alone, no mention 
 being made of Scotland or of Wales, and France is evi- 
 dently both friendly and independent at this fanciful period 
 of remote English history. The play begins with a short 
 interview between the Earls of Kent and of Gloster, two 
 noblemen in Lear's palace, and Gloster's illegitimate son 
 Edmund. The few words that they say are important, 
 considering the future of the play. King Lear has three 
 daughters — Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia, but no son, all 
 about to be married, and Kent hears from Gloster that in 
 the approaching marriages Lear's two English sons-in-law, 
 the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall, are equally favoured 
 by him, despite their opposite characters. Albany is a 
 noble and generous man, and Cornwall a relentless tyrant. 
 While these English nobles are about to wed Goneril and 
 Regan, the younger sister Cordelia is proposed for by the 
 King of France and the Duke of Burgundy. The names 
 of these three princesses rather represent or indicate their 
 characters. There is something harsh in the very names of 
 Goneril and Regan, while Cordelia in its melodious sound 
 expresses or indicates comparative amiability. Gloster 
 in reply to Kent, who hoped Albany was more in favour 
 than Cornwall with King Lear, says : 
 
 " It appears not which of the dukes he, [Lear,] values most ; for equalities 
 are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of cither's moiety." 
 
 Then Kent, evidently impressed by young Edmund's 
 handsome appearance, asks : 
 
 " Is not this your son, my lord ? " 
 
 to which query Gloster rather dubiously replies : 
 
 " His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge : I have so often blushed to 
 acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to it. . . . Do you smell a fault ? " 
 
KING LEAR 343 
 
 Kent at once p(6rceiving his meaning frankly replies, 
 evidently admiring ,all that he sees or knows of Edmund : 
 
 "I cannot wish A« feult undone, the issue of it being so proper." 
 Glcfoterniontinues : 
 
 " But I have a son, sir, by order of law, 
 Some year elder than this, who yet is no 
 Dearer in my account. . . . 
 
 Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund ? " 
 
 Edmund replies : 
 
 " No, my lord." 
 
 His father informs him : 
 
 " My Lord of Kent : remember him hereafter as my honourable friend." 
 
 Edmund in apparent dutifulness exclaims : 
 
 " My services to your lordship." 
 
 Kent good-naturedly rejoins : 
 
 " I must love you, and sue to know you better." 
 
 While Edmund meekly replies : 
 
 " Sir, I shall study deserving." 
 
 Neither Gloster nor Kent have the least idea of the true 
 character of the dangerous, deceitful young man before them. 
 With a consummate duplicity worthy of Richard III., 
 Edmund, with assumed meekness, hears his illegitimacy 
 mentioned by his father in coarse terms, yet expressing 
 preference for him instead of for his elder and legitimate 
 brother Edgar, whom he has hitherto contrived to com- 
 pletely surpass in their father's regard. His assumed 
 deference or humility in this short scene should be well 
 remembered, considering the terrible part this vindictive, 
 relentless young man plays in this tragedy, of which, 
 indeed, he is the evil spirit throughout. 
 
 The next scene introduces most of the chief personages 
 assembled together in Lear's palace. The old king himself 
 presides with his three daughters, the Dukes of Albany 
 and Cornwall, and the Earls of Kent and Gloster. It is 
 
344 SHAKESPEARE STfJDIED 
 
 between these dukes that England is to be in fact divided, 
 as Lear intends abdicating while the re^lers of France and 
 Burgundy, rival suitors for Cordelia, av'e not present, but 
 are about the Court and soon appear. Le;aTorders Qostgf ~ 
 to attend upon these foreign princes. The la.itA,:>SMiently 
 departs with his son Edmund. Then Lear resolves to 
 acquaint the assembled Court with his future intentions. 
 First asking for a map of England, he proceeds evidently 
 quite absolute in disposing of his dominions : 
 
 " Know that we have divided 
 In three our kingdom ; and 'tis our fast intent 
 To shake all cares and business from our age, 
 Conferring them on younger strengths, while we 
 Unburden'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, 
 And you, our no less loving son of Albany, 
 We have this hour a constant will to publish 
 Our daughter's several dowers, that fiiture strife 
 May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, 
 Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, 
 Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, 
 And here are to be answer'd." 
 
 He then addresses his three daughters with almost a 
 childish longing for praise, love, and thanks, contrasting 
 strangely with his precise, practical words on other 
 subjects : 
 
 " Tell me, my daughters, . . . 
 
 Which of you shall we say doth love us most ? 
 That we our largest bounty may extend 
 Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril, 
 Our eldest-born, speak first." 
 
 Goneril and Regan, who probably have prepared their 
 dutiful pleasing speeches, well knowing their excitable 
 father's imperious and passionate temper, are alike resolved 
 to gratify his weaknesses, both knowing how to influence 
 him, and Goneril, therefore, enthusiastically replies : 
 
 " Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter ; 
 Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty ; 
 Beyond What can be valu'd, rich or rare ; 
 No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour ; 
 As much as child e'er loved, or father found ; 
 A love that makes breath poor and speech unable ; 
 Beyond all manner of so much love I love you." 
 
KING LEAR 345 
 
 Cordelia, well knowing the real characters of her two 
 sisters, only murmurs to herself at hearing these fulsome 
 professions : 
 
 " What shall Cordelia do ? Love and be silent." 
 
 The old king, delighted at Goneril's words, exhibits the 
 map of England, and with almost doting pleasure exclaims : 
 
 " Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, 
 With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd, 
 ' With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads. 
 
 We make thee lady : to thine and Albany's issue 
 Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter. 
 Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.'' 
 
 It may seem incredible how completely Goneril and 
 Regan have up to this time deceived their father as to 
 their real characters. In actual life such successful deceit 
 carried to such an extent, would scarcely be possible, yet 
 Shakespeare persists iri his consistent description. Regan, 
 in every way like Goneril, replies in the same style : 
 
 " I am made of that self metal as my sister, 
 And prize me at her worth. In my true heart 
 I find she names my very deed of love ; 
 Only she comes too short : that I profess 
 Myself an enemy to all other joys 
 Which the most precious square of sense possesses, 
 And find I am alone felicitate 
 In your dear highness' love.' ' 
 
 Again, Cordelia knowing the real feelings and motives 
 of her odious sisters, says to herself, anticipating the coming 
 test to her own truth and love : 
 
 "Then poor Cordelia ! 
 And yet not so ; since I am sure my love's 
 More richer than my tongue." 
 
 Lear as gratified with Regan's fulsome assurances, as 
 with those of Goneril, exclaims with eager delight, evidently 
 anxious to reward them : 
 
 "To thee and thine, hereditary ever, 
 Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, 
 No less in space, validity, and pleasure, 
 Than that conferr'd on Goneril." 
 
346 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 He pauses and then says certainly with real fondness 
 
 for the time : 
 
 " Now, our joy, 
 Although our last, not least ; to whose young love 
 The vines of France and milk of Burgundy 
 Strive to be interest'd ; what can you say to draw 
 A third more opulent than your sisters ? Speak." 
 
 Cordelia, unmoved by temptation and herself the incar- 
 nation of truth and modesty, replies : 
 
 " Nothing, my lord." 
 
 Lear retorts : 
 
 " Nothing will come of nothing : speak again." 
 
 Cordelia thus pressed answers with mild humility : 
 
 " Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 
 My heart into my mouth : I love your majesty 
 According to my bond ; no more nor less." 
 
 Lear, impatient, irritable, and disappointed at these 
 words after hearing so many warm expressions of love 
 from his other daughters, exclaims : 
 
 " How, how, Cordelia ! mend your speech a little, 
 Lest you may mar your fortunes." 
 
 Cordelia, probably apprehending her father's wrath, yet 
 resolved to be truthful at all hazards, calmly replies : 
 
 " Good, my lord, 
 You have begot me, bred me, loved me : I 
 Return those duties back as are right fit, 
 Obey you, love you, and most honour you. 
 Why have my sisters husbands, if they say 
 They love you all ? Haply, when I shall wed. 
 That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry 
 Half my love with him, half my care and duty. 
 Sure I shall never marry like jiiy sisters, 
 To love my father all." 
 
 This beautiful answer, so truthful, modest and really 
 dutiful, only irritates or bewilders Lear, as he hardly seems 
 to understand it. He asks if she is in earnest, and being 
 sure she is, exclaims in rather confused anger : 
 
 " So young, and so untender." 
 
KING LEAR 347 
 
 She meekly replies : 
 
 " So young, my lord, and true." 
 
 At this mild and yet firm reply, Lear losing all self- 
 control, as if fancying himself insulted, exclaims with 
 almost reckless anger : 
 
 " Let it be so ; thy truth then be thy dower 
 For, by the sacred radiance of the sun . . 
 
 Here I disclaim all my paternal care ... , 
 
 And as a stranger to my heart and me 
 Hold thee from this for ever." 
 
 He proceeds in furious denunciation when his faithful 
 
 subject, Kent, bravely ventures to remonstrate exclaiming : 
 
 " Good, my liege.'' 
 
 Lear, not wishing to hear him in his senseless anger, 
 
 interrupts him : 
 
 " Peace, Kent ! 
 Come not between the dragon and his wrath. 
 I loved her most, and thought to set my rest 
 On her kind nursery." 
 
 Then addressing Cordelia, who does not immediately 
 obey, Lear exclaims : 
 
 " Hence, and avoid my sight ! 
 So be my grave my peace, as here I give 
 Her father's heart from her." 
 
 He then sends for the foreign princes, and before they 
 enter thus addresses his English future sons-in-law : 
 
 "Cornwall and Albany, 
 With my two daughters' dowers digest this third." 
 
 Then with passionate reference to poor Cordelia he 
 adds : 
 
 " Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her ; " 
 
 and continues : 
 
 " I do invest you jointly with my power. 
 Pre-eminence, and all the large efifects 
 That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course. 
 With reservation of an hundred knights. 
 By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode 
 Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain 
 The name and all the addition to a king ; 
 
348 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, 
 Beloved sons, be yours ; which to confirm. 
 This coronet part between you.'' 
 
 And he presents the two dukes with the crown in formal 
 
 ceremony. Here Kent, truly faithful to his impetuous old 
 
 king, and well knowing the real characters of the three 
 
 princesses, again tries to remonstrate in loyal pathetic 
 
 words : 
 
 " Royal Lear, 
 Whom I have ever honoured as my king, 
 Loved as my father, as my master followed. 
 As my great patron thought on in my prayers." 
 
 Lear interrupts, unable indeed to contradict a word, yet 
 
 full of selfish rage and petulance, exclaiming in assumed 
 
 sarcasm : 
 
 "The bow is bent and drawn ; make from the shaft." 
 
 Kent as fearless, as honest, nobly replies : 
 
 " Let it fall rather, though the fork invade. 
 The region of my heart : be Kent unmannerly, 
 When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man ? 
 Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak 
 When power to flattery bows ? To plainness honour's bound 
 When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom ; 
 And, in thy hcsl consideration, check 
 This hideous rashness : answer my life my judgment, 
 Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least ; 
 Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound 
 Rcverbs no hollowness." 
 
 To these just and noble words the infatuated old king 
 rejoins in a burst of passion : 
 
 " Kent, on thy life, no more." 
 
 His dutiful subject replies in language which might well 
 have conciliated any offended king in his senses : 
 
 " My life I never held but as a pawn 
 To wage against thine enemies ; nor fear to lose it, 
 Thy safety Ijcing the motive." 
 
 Yet all his past services and true loyalty are at this 
 excited moment of no avail. Lear, almost frantic with 
 anger, exclaims : 
 
 " Out of my sight." 
 
KING LEAR 349 
 
 Kent mildly, yet firmh', attempts to remonstrate again 
 with his vehement sovereign : 
 
 " See better, Lear ; and let me still remain 
 The true blank of thine eye." 
 
 Lear replies like a Pagan monarch of Greece or Rome : 
 
 ■' Now, by Apollo." 
 
 Kent, in his turn, now interrupts, being doubtless grieved 
 and alarmed beyond his patience : 
 
 " Now, by Apollo, king, 
 Thou swear'st thy gods in Tain." 
 
 Lear in a fury, and impetuous as a youth, lays his hand 
 
 on his sword, exclaiming for the moment in threatening 
 
 anger: 
 
 " Oh, vassal ! miscreant ! " 
 
 Even Albany and Cornwall think best to interfere, and 
 exclaim : 
 
 •' Dear sir, forbear." 
 
 While the fearless Kent proceeds, almost inviting death at 
 the hand of his passionate master : 
 
 " KUl thy physician, and the fee bestow 
 Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift ; 
 Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, 
 I'll tell thee thou dost evil." 
 
 Kent's vehemence, though surely excusable in a faithful 
 and tried loyal subject, only exasperates Lear in his 
 present excited state of mind, and he sternly replies : 
 
 " Hear me. recreant ! 
 On thine allegiance, hear me ! " 
 
 This solemn adjuration commands Kent's silence, and 
 his arbitrary master wholly misled by selfish passion, con- 
 tinues : 
 
 " Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow, 
 Which we durst never yet, and with strained pride 
 To come betwixt our sentence and our power . . . 
 
 . . . Take thy reward. 
 
 Five days we do allot thee for provision 
 
 To shield thee &om diseases of the world ; 
 
350 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 And on the sixth to turn thy hated back 
 Upon our kingdom : if on the tenth day following 
 Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions, 
 The moment is thy death. Away ! By Jupiter, 
 This shall not be revok'd." 
 
 It may seem strange that Lear and others always appeal 
 to the classic deities instead of to those of ancient Britain, 
 who are never mentioned. Lear's power at this time seems 
 absolute, no remonstrance or remark is offered by any of 
 the assembled Court, and Kent himself replies in submis- 
 sive, patient resignation : 
 
 " Fare thee well, king ; sith thus thou wilt appear, 
 Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.'* 
 
 Then addressing Cordelia whose merit he well under- 
 stands : 
 
 " The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid. 
 That justly think'st, and hath most rightly said ! " 
 
 Then to Goneril and Regan whom he understands 
 equally well : 
 
 " And your large speeches may your deeds approve. 
 That good effects may spring from words of love." 
 
 Lastly, addressing all others except Lear and his 
 daughters, this faithful subject and true noble exclaims : 
 
 " Thus Kent, oh princes ! bids you all adieu, > 
 
 He'll shape his old course in a country new." 
 
 and departs, Cordelia apparently not daring to utter a word 
 of thanks, while the other nobles and courtiers are mute 
 before the angry, despotic old king. Gloster, a man not 
 unlike Kent in truth and honour, now re-enters introducing 
 the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy, whom 
 Lear formally addresses on the trying subject of their pro- 
 posals to marry Cordelia. Burgundy, evidently a worldly, 
 selfish prince, expects the dower formerly promised or 
 insinuated as Cordelia's marriage portion, and Lear replies : 
 
 " But now her price is faU'n. Sir, there she stands : 
 If aught within that little seeming substance, 
 Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced, 
 And nothing more, may fitly like your grace. 
 She's there, and she is yours." 
 
KING LEAR 351 
 
 Burgundy, astonished, owns he knows not what to 
 answer, and Lear angrily proceeds : 
 
 " Will you, with those infirmities she owes, 
 Unlriended, new-adopted to our hate, 
 Dower'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath, 
 Take her, or leave her ? " 
 
 Burgundy meanly answers in a way which proves how 
 
 little his love is worth : 
 
 " Pardon me, royal sir ; 
 Election makes not up on such conditions. " 
 
 And Lear then addressing the French King, a suitor of 
 higher rank, and of far nobler character, says respectfully : 
 
 " For you, great king, 
 I would not from your love make such a stray 
 To match you, where I hate ; therefore beseech you 
 To avert your liking a more worthier way 
 Than on a wretch whom nature is ashamed 
 Almost to acknowledge hers." 
 
 To this burst of petulant, impetuous anger the French 
 king responds in a spirit worthy of the reputation of his 
 chivalrous nation : 
 
 " This is most strange. 
 That she, who even but now was your best object, 
 The argument of your praise, balm of your age, 
 The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time 
 Commit a thing so tr^onstrous, to dismantle 
 So many folds of favour." 
 
 These sympathetic words evidently encourage Cordelia 
 to make a last appeal for mere justice to her vehement 
 headstrong father : 
 
 " I yet beseech your majesty, . . . 
 
 . . . that you make known 
 
 It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness. 
 
 No unchaste action, or dishonour'd step. 
 
 That hath deprived me of your grace and favour, 
 
 But even for want of that for which I am richer, 
 
 A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue 
 
 That I am glad I have not, though not to have it 
 
 Hath lost me in your liking." 
 
 To this modest, pathetic appeal so mild, truthful and 
 
352 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 affecting, the old king completely yielding to his selfish 
 pride or obstinacy, yet unable to contradict her words, 
 makes a truly contemptible answer, but which doubtless 
 expresses his mind at present : 
 
 " Better thou 
 Hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better.'' 
 
 Then the King of France in a spirit worthy of the 
 
 French heroes in th^ age of chivalry, and evidently 
 
 shocked as well as astounded at Lear's senseless anger 
 
 with Cordelia, indignantly asks : 
 
 " Is it but this ? a tardiness in nature 
 Which often leaves the history unspoke 
 That it intends to do ? " 
 
 He then asks Burgundy if he refuses to marry Cordelia, 
 to which that worldly, if not avaricious, prince replies by 
 asking Lear if he will give Cordelia what he had before 
 named, in which case he will espouse her. Lear sternly 
 repeats that he will give her nothing, and Burgundy heart- 
 lessly addresses Cordelia : 
 
 " I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father 
 That you must lose a husband." 
 
 And she replies with that calm good sense which always 
 distinguishes her : 
 
 " Peace be with Burgundy ! 
 Since that respects of fortune are his love, 
 I shall not be his wife. " 
 
 It is at this important crisis of her life when Cordelia 
 seems abandoned by her angry father, and rejected by her 
 cold-hearted, unworthy suitor, that the French King in 
 noble words indicates the true generosity of his nature. 
 He probably has anticipated what Burgundy, his neighbour 
 abroad, would likely do in the event of no fortune in his 
 intended bride, and being evidently deeply impressed by 
 Cordelia's real merit and cruel treatment, addresses her in 
 words of generosity and truth : 
 
 " Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor ; 
 Most choice, forsaken ; and most lov'd, despised ! 
 Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon : 
 Be it lawful I take up what's cast away . . . 
 
 Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance 
 Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France." 
 
KING LEAR 353 
 
 Lear, still infuriated, replies with stern bitterness : 
 
 " Thou hast her, France ; let her be thine, for we 
 Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see 
 That face of hers again ; therefore be gone 
 Without our grace, our love, our benison. 
 Come, noble Burgundy." 
 
 The angry king departs with his two future sons-in-law, 
 Albany and Cornwall, together with Gloster and attendants, 
 leaving the three princesses alone with the French King 
 who, with the courtesy of his nation asks Cordelia to bid 
 her sisters farewell. She, well knowing their real charac- 
 ters, apprehending the worst and fearing for her old father's 
 welfare, when left in their power, mildly addresses them : 
 
 " The jewels of our father, with washed eyes 
 Cordelia leaves you : I know you what you are ; 
 And like a sister am most loth to call 
 Your faults as they are named. Use well our father : 
 To your professed bosoms I commit him : 
 But yet, alas ! stood I within his grace, 
 I would prefer him to a better place. 
 So farewell to you both." 
 
 They reply scornfully, well knowing how thoroughly, up 
 to this time, they have each succeeded in deceiving their 
 father. 
 
 Goneril : 
 
 " Prescribe not us our duties," 
 
 and Regan, in the same hardened spirit but with an 
 additional sneer, says : 
 
 " Let your study 
 
 Be to content your lord, who hath received you 
 
 At fortune's alms." 
 
 The King of France departs then with Cordelia leaving 
 Goneril and Regan alone together, who for the present 
 quite agreed reveal their characters in a brief conversation. 
 Goneril alluding to her father contemptuously exclaims : 
 
 " I think our father will hence to-night," 
 
 and Regan replies : 
 
 "... And with you ; next month with us." 
 Z 
 
354 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Goneril scornfully says : 
 
 " You see how full of changes his ^e is ; ... he always loved our sister 
 most ; and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too 
 grossly. " 
 
 Regan with equal scorn for her father, derived from their 
 long experience of his passionate temper, replies : 
 
 " 'Tis the infirmity of his age ; yet he hath ever but slenderly known him- 
 self." 
 
 Goneril now steadily contemplating the future of their 
 lives, thus warns Regan, intimating the same utter con- 
 tempt for their trustful, misjudging father : 
 
 " The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash ; then must we look 
 to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed condition, 
 but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring 
 with them." 
 
 Regan quite agreeing with her observes : 
 
 " Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent's 
 banishment." 
 
 Goneril rejoins proposing they should " hit together," 
 and adds : 
 
 "... If our father carry authority with such disposition as he bears, this 
 last surrender of his will but offend us. . . . We must do something, and 
 i' the heat." 
 
 They evidently disapprove already of their father's future 
 arrangements about his independent body of knights, and 
 alike contemplate opposing them when the proper time 
 comes. Thus allied in spirit and interest Goneril and 
 Regan are for the present of one mind. 
 
 The next scene again presents Edmund, the evil genius 
 of this tragedy, in Gloster's house with a letter he has written 
 or got written purporting to be from his legitimate brother, 
 Edgar, to himself. Edmund intends showing it to their 
 father, Gloster, hoping that its contents will enrage the latter 
 against Edgar. On the whole Edmund is certainly one of 
 the worst of Shakespeare's villains, not even excepting lago, 
 yet, unlike him, seems naturally fitted for better things. 
 He is brave, intelligent, handsome, and pleasing, but the 
 sense of illegitimacy constantly weighs on his thoughtful 
 
KING LEAR 3S5 
 
 mind, embitters his temper, and alienates him completely 
 from both father and brother, who hitherto love and trust 
 him. His character and designs, like those of lago and 
 Richard III., are chiefly indicated in soliloquy, as like them 
 he seems to have no close confidant until he captivates 
 both Goneril and Regan. He now exclaims to himself, 
 reflecting on his birth, fortunes, qualities, and the forged 
 letter : 
 
 " Thou, Nature, art my goddess ; to thy law 
 
 My services are bound. Wherefore should I 
 
 Stand in the plague of custom, and permit 
 
 The curiosity of nations to deprive me. 
 
 For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines 
 
 Lag of a brother ?" 
 
 Then angrily remembering that his illegitimacy places 
 him socially below his physical and mental inferiors, he 
 continues in moody, suppressed wrath : 
 
 "... Why bastard ? wherefore base ? 
 When my dimensions are as well compact, 
 My mind as generous, and my shape as true, 
 As honest madam's issue ? Why brand they us 
 With base ? with baseness ? bastardy ? base, base." 
 
 Edmund, unlike most villains here boasts of his alleged 
 generosity of mind, a^virtue he certainly never shows, being 
 the complete incarnation throughout this terrible play of 
 the most consummate hypocrisy, deceit and cold-blooded 
 cruelty. He proceeds, revealing his wicked designs to 
 himself alone, when sarcastically alluding to his elder 
 brother whom he wishes to supplant : 
 
 "... Well, then. 
 Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land." 
 
 lie owns that his father prefers himself, but seems 
 
 incapable of gratitude : 
 
 " Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund 
 As to the legitimate. Fine word, ' legitimate.' ! 
 Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed, 
 And my invention thrive, Edmund the base 
 Shall top the legitimate." 
 
 Then full of confidence in his own powers of deceit he 
 
3S6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 adds, with a strange address to the heathen gods though he 
 is apparently an atheist : 
 
 " I grow, I prosper ; 
 Now, gods, stand up for bastards." 
 
 At this moment his father, Gloster, enters, astonished 
 and alarmed at recent events, like all other true subjects 
 of the old king. He excitedly exclaims while quite trust- 
 ing his false son, Edmund : 
 
 " Kent banish'd thus ! And France in choler parted ! 
 And the king gone to-night ! subscribed his power ! 
 Confined to exhibition.^ All this done 
 Upon the gad ! Edmund, how now ! what news ? " 
 
 Edmund eagerly pretending to hide his forged letter in 
 a way to attract Gloster's notice, replies theire is none, when 
 his father asks what the paper is that he is hiding. 
 Edmund replies it is nothing ; and Gloster, his curiosity 
 fully aroused as Edmund intended, eagerly asks in a very 
 practical way : 
 
 "What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? the 
 quality of nothing hafh not such need to hide itself. Let's see : come ; if it be 
 nothing, I shall not need spectacles." 
 
 Edmund owns it is a letter from Edgar to himself, but 
 not fit for their father to read.; Gloster is the more eager to 
 see it, and insists on Edmund giving it him*, which he does 
 with feigned reluctance, observing : 
 
 ' ' I hope, for my brother's justification, he wrote this but as an essay or 
 taste of my virtue." 
 
 Glos. (reads), " This poUcy and reverence of age makes the world bitter 
 to the best of our times ; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot 
 relish thetn. ... If opr father would sleep till I waked him, you should 
 'enjoy half his revenue for ever, a'nd live the beloved of your brother. 
 
 "Edgar." 
 
 Gloster shocked -and astonished exclaims : 
 
 *" My son Edgar ! Had he a hand to write this ? a heart and brain to breed 
 it in ? W!hen came this to you ? Who brought it ? " 
 
 Allowance. 
 
KING LEAR 3S7 
 
 Edmund well prepared with falsehoods and probably 
 expecting these questions, artfully replies : 
 
 " It was not brought me, my lord ; there's the cunning of it ; I found it 
 thrown in at the casement of my closet." 
 
 Gloster asks : 
 
 " You know the character to be your brother's ? " 
 
 to which young Edmund, with a base cunning worthy of 
 lago, readily replies : 
 
 " If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his ; but, in 
 respect of that, I would fain think it were not. ... It is his hand, my lord ; but 
 I hope his heart is not in the contents." 
 
 Gloster eagerly asks : 
 
 " Has he never before sounded you in this business? " 
 
 and Edmund answers with consummate duplicity : 
 
 " Never, my lord ; but I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit that, sons 
 at perfect age, and fathers declining, the father should be as ward to the son, 
 and the son manage his revenue." 
 
 Gloster evidently a hasty man, and additionally excited 
 by the late events, at once believes Edmund thoroughly, 
 and convinced of Edgar's guilt exclaims in horrified 
 apprehension : 
 
 " O villain, villain ! His very opinion in the letter ? Abhorred villain ! 
 Unnatural, detested, brutish villain ! worse than brutish ! Go, sirrah, seek 
 him ; I'll apprehend him. Abominable villain ? Where is he ? " 
 
 Edmund replies : 
 
 " I do not well know, my lord," 
 
 and for some time pretends to soothe his father, -then 
 makes a suggestion : 
 
 "... I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an 
 auricular assurance have your satisfaction." 
 
 ,. « 
 
 Gloster agrees^ adding : 
 
 " Edmund, seek him out ; -wind me into him, I pray you : frame the 
 business after your own wisdom." , 
 
 Edmund promisq^ to do. so," and Gloster, apparently 
 bewildered between public and private troubles, happening, 
 as it were all at once, yields to superstitious fancies, which, 
 
3S8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 considering his own age, circumstances, and trying position, 
 seems in him natural enough, and he exclaims before 
 the apparently dutiful, but really treacherous and sardonic 
 Edmund : 
 
 "These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us : though 
 the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged 
 by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide : in 
 cities, mutinies ; in countries, discord ; in palaces, treason ; and the bond 
 cracked 'twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the predic- 
 tion ; there's son against father : the king falls from bias of nature ; there's 
 father against child. We have seen the best of our time." 
 
 He remembers his own troubles and exclaims : 
 
 " Find out this villain, Edmund ; it shall lose thee nothing : do it care- 
 fully." 
 
 Then reverting to public affairs, he concludes : 
 
 " And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished ! his offence, honesty ! 
 'Tis strange." 
 
 Evidently King Lear, though perhaps , wayward or 
 passionate, has greatly changed recently, and thus his two 
 elderly courtiers, Kent and Gloster, friendly to each other, 
 and thoroughly loyal to him, are alike shocked and alarmed 
 at the violence of his late conduct. Gloster, grieved and 
 perplexed, departs, leaving Edmund alone in triumph at 
 the success of his deceit, and ridiculing his father's fancies. 
 He exclaims in scorn when there is none to hear'him: 
 
 ■ " This is the excellent foppery of the virorld, that, jvhen we are sick in 
 fortune, often the surfeit of oiir own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters 
 the sun, the moon, and the stars ; as if we were villains on necessity, fools by 
 heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves and treachers by spherical predominance, 
 drunkards, liars and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence, 
 and all that we. are evil in, by a divine thrusting on." 
 
 These philosophic remarks he utters while contemplat- 
 ing the ruin of his confiding father and brother, with the 
 utter calloueness of his merciless nature, and continues : 
 
 "An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition 
 to the charge of a star." 
 
 He sees or hears his brother approaching, and exclaims 
 
KING LEAR 359 
 
 to. himself, preparing his deceitful mind for the coming 
 interview : 
 
 " Edgar - . . my cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom 
 o'Bedlam." 
 
 He then rather imitates his father, exclaiming doubtless 
 like a good actor with all the appearance of mental sorrow 
 or anxiety : 
 
 " Oh ! these eclipses do portend these divisions : — Fa, sol, la mi." 
 
 ■ Edgar, evidently surprised at his shrewd brother's low 
 spirits, and apparent melancholy, asks : 
 
 " How now, brother Edmund ! What serious contemplation are you in? " 
 
 Edmund pretends to share their father's idea that the late 
 eclipses portend most human misfortunes, while Edgar, 
 amused and incredulous, asks : 
 
 " Do you busy yourself with that ? " 
 
 And the other, with assumed apprehension, replies he had 
 lately read that the effects of the eclipses 
 
 " succeed unhappily ; as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent ; 
 death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities ; divisions in state ; menaces and 
 maledictions against king and nobles ; needless diffidences, banishment of 
 friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what." 
 
 Edgar, perhaps amused and quite unsuspicious, asks : 
 
 " How long have you been a sectary astronomical ? " 
 
 Edmund, apparently perceiving that his brother hardly 
 believes him, abruptly changes the subject and asks : 
 
 " Come come ; when saw you my father last ? " 
 Edg. " The night gone by." 
 Edm. " Spake 70U with him ? " 
 Edg. " Ay, two hours together. '' 
 
 Edm. " Parted you in good terms ? Found you no displeasure in him 
 by word nor countenance ? " 
 Edg. "None at all." 
 
 Edm. " Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him ; and at 
 my entreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath qualified the heat 
 of his displeasure .which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief 
 of your person it would scarcely allay." 
 
36o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Edgar, astonished and thoroughly trusting his false 
 brother, truthfully and innocently exclaims : 
 
 " Some villain hath done me wrong," 
 
 when the treacherous Edmund readily retorts : 
 " That's my fear," 
 
 and then advises Edgar with all appearance of friendship 
 to always be armed and very cautious, saying also that 
 he will bring him to some place where he will surely hear 
 his father speak. Edgar quite trusts him, and departs 
 when his villainous brother again, like lago and Richard III., 
 reveals his wicked thoughts and designs in cold-blooded 
 and crafty soliloquy : 
 
 " A credulous father, and a brother noble. 
 Whose nature is so far from doing harms 
 That he suspects none ; on whose foolish honesty 
 My practices ride easy." ' 
 
 He exults in perceiving how thoroughly he is trusted 
 by father and brother alike, and resolves to make certain 
 profit out of their misplaced confidence : 
 
 ". . . I see the business. 
 Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit : 
 All with me's meet that I can fashion fit." 
 
 It seems hardly possible that Edmund should up to 
 this time have so utterly deceived both relations old and 
 young who must have known him all his life. Yet this 
 imaginary deceit is in this respect somewhat verified by 
 the historical instance of Richard III., who certainly 
 deceived his elder brother, Clarence, and most of the nobles 
 about his brother King Edward's court, with a success 
 almost like that of a fiend, deceiving fallible, misjudging 
 men. Edmund now stands as it were between his father 
 and brother trusted by both, with neither fortune nor 
 
 1 lago expresses almost the same idea about his dupe, Othello : — 
 " The Moor is of a free and open nature. 
 That thinks men honest that but seem to be so. 
 And will as tenderly be led by the nose, 
 As asses are." — Othello, Act 1st; Scene isi. 
 
KING LEAR 361 
 
 position, yet calmly resolyed on their destruction, and by 
 that means hopes to obtain all they have. 
 
 The next scene is in Albany's palace when his wife, the 
 Princess Goneril, with her steward, Oswald, her unscrupulous 
 instrument, enters. She asks him in rising anger if her 
 father had struck one of her attendants for chiding his 
 jester, and Oswald says he did. This jester or fool as he 
 is usually termed, unlike most of his class, has little oppor- 
 tunity for being either merry or witty in this tragic story. 
 He is devoted to Lear and Cordelia, and at present with 
 the King in Goneril's palace is probably not very well 
 treated. Goneril now resolving to deprive her helpless 
 father of all comfort as well as power, works herself up 
 into stern rage which well displays her odious nature. 
 She exclaims before her obedient steward, Oswald, alluding 
 to Lear : 
 
 " By day and night he wrongs me ; every hour 
 He flashes into one gross crime or other. 
 That sets us all at odds : I'll not endure it : 
 His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us 
 On every trifle." 
 
 Then addressing Oswald : 
 
 " When he returns from hunting 
 I will not speak with him j say I am sick : 
 If you come slack of former services. 
 You shall do well ; the fault of it I'll answer." 
 
 Oswald, eager to obey her, exclaims : 
 " He's coming, madam ; I hear him." 
 
 Hunting horns are heard announcing Lear's return 
 from his kingly sport, and Goneril gives her subordinates 
 the following directions : 
 
 " Put on what weary negligence you please, 
 You and your fellows ; I'd have it come to question : 
 If he distaste it, let him to my sister. 
 Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one, 
 Not to be over-ruled." 
 
 Then recalling her trustful infatuated father she scorn- 
 fully exclaims : 
 
362 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 " Idle old man, 
 That still would manage those authorities 
 That he hath given away ! Now, by my life, 
 Old fools are babes again, and must be used 
 With checks as flatteries. . . . 
 Remember what I have said." 
 
 Oswald obediently answers : 
 
 "Well, madam?" 
 
 while she gives more directions : 
 
 ' ' And let his knights have colder looks among you. 
 . . . I'll write straight to my sister 
 To hold my very course." 
 
 She departs with her attendant, and Kent in disguise 
 appears in a hall of the palace. This faithful subject of 
 his kind but passionate king foresees the latter's future 
 treatment from such ladies as Goneril and Regan, now 
 sharing supreme power between them, and with true 
 devotion says to himself: 
 
 "... Now, banish'd Kent, 
 If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn'd, 
 So may it come, thy master, whom thou lovest, 
 Shall find thee full of labours." 
 
 Lear now enters with attendants from hunting, with a 
 sportsman's appetite, hurriedly ordering dinner, and without 
 recognising Kent in disguise, asks him questions, likes his 
 answers, and promises him employment. Meantime 
 Oswald enters, obeying his mistress in trying to provoke 
 Lear, when the latter asks where Goneril is he refuses to 
 answer, and when called goes carelessly away. This is 
 perhaps the first time that Lear, evidently accustomed to 
 implicit obedience, perceives himself neglected, and one of 
 his knights observes truly : 
 
 " My lord, ... to my judgment, your highness is no't entertained with 
 that ceremonious affection as you were wont ; there's a great abatement of 
 kindness appears as well in the general dependents as in the duke himself also 
 and your daughter. " 
 
 Lear avows he has perceived some slight disrespect 
 towards him, says he will look further into it, and then im- 
 patiently calls for his jester, who was wont to amuse him. 
 
KING LEAR 363 
 
 and whom he has not seen for two days. His attendant 
 impressively observes : 
 
 " Since my young lady's going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined 
 away. '' 
 
 This is natural enough considering her kindness, while 
 the stern tempers of Goneril and Regan were not likely to 
 favour the poor jester. Lear stirred by these words recall- 
 ing Cordelia, yet ashamed to own the regret he begins to 
 feel for his injustice to her, replies with suppressed grief: 
 
 " No more of that ; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my daughter 
 I would speak with her." [Exii an attendant. 
 
 While longing to be amused he sends another attendant 
 to summon his jester. Oswald re-enters, and Lear 
 haughtily asks : 
 
 " Oh ! you sir, you, come you hither, sir. Who am I, sir ? " 
 
 This question Oswald is well prepared to answer, and 
 he replies : 
 
 "My lady's father," 
 
 and the enraged old king feeling himself insulted strikes 
 him. The blow, though likely not a heavy one from so 
 old a man, Oswald resents, exclaiming : 
 
 " I'll not be struck, my lord," 
 
 when Kent retorts : — 
 
 " No^ tripped neither, you base football player." 
 
 [ Tripping up his heels. 
 
 Lear thanks Kent for this service, who pushes Oswald 
 out, when the fool enters, apparently an affectionate though 
 half silly youth, devoted to Lear and Cordelia, but incap- 
 able of serving any one except by singing and making 
 jokes. This lad, a petted favourite of Lear's, is yet able 
 under the guise of partly assumed imbecility to tell Lear 
 more home truths than any one else could, without a risk 
 of giving offence. After some light talk, the poor fool 
 brings about the subject of all their thoughts in a few lines, 
 which, though coming from a jester, are now more sad than 
 comic. He can say anything he likes to the old king. 
 
364 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 whom he treats almost like a comrade, and after a little 
 while comes to the point by asking : 
 
 "Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a 
 sweet fool ? " 
 
 Lear. " No, lad ; teach me.'' 
 
 And the fool wittily replies, though with a mournful and 
 practical meaning : 
 
 " That lord that counsell'd thee 
 To give away thy land, 
 Come place him here by me, 
 Or do thou for him stand : 
 The sweet and bitter fool 
 Will presently appear ; 
 The one in motley here, 
 The other found out there." 
 
 He either looks or points at Lear, who indulgently 
 
 asks : 
 
 " Dost thou call me fool, boy ? " 
 
 and the jester truly replies : 
 
 " All thy other titles thou hast given away ; that thou was born with." 
 
 Kent thoughtfully observes to Lear, well knowing the 
 fool, who never recognises him : 
 
 " This is not altogether fool, my lord," 
 
 to which words the fool, with a faint sparkle of his pro- 
 fessional merriment, replies : 
 
 " No, faith, lords and great men will not let me ; if I had a monopoly 
 out, they would have part on 't : and ladies, too, they will not let me have all 
 fool to myself ; they'll be snatching." 
 
 He continues to jest and sing in mingled sadness and 
 merriment, when Lear asks : 
 
 "When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?" 
 
 The fool replies, alluding more and more to the king's 
 degraded position : 
 
 " I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy daughters thy mothers ; 
 for when thou gavest them the rod," 
 
KING LEAR 365 
 
 and then sings though certainly not cheerfully : 
 
 " Then they for sudden joy did weep, 
 And I for sorrow sung, 
 That such a king should play bo-peep. 
 And go the fools among." 
 
 He then sadly adds : 
 
 " 1 had rather be any kind o' thing than a fool ; and yet I would not be 
 thee, nuncle ; thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides, and left nothing i' the 
 middle : here comes one o' the parings." 
 
 Goneril enters, and her changed look from docility to 
 something like defiance, Lear at once tries to reprove, 
 apparently for the first time, as he asks : 
 
 " How now, daughter ! what makes that frontlet on ? 
 Methinks you are too much of late i' the frown." 
 
 Here the fool cannot help exclaiming, protected as he 
 thinks by Lear's presence : 
 
 " Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her 
 frowning j now thou art an O without a ^ure. I am better than thou art 
 now ; I am a fool, thou art nothing." 
 
 Then addressing Goneril : 
 
 " Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue ; so your fece bids me, though you 
 say nothing. Mum, mum." 
 
 Then Goneril appears in her true colours, conscious of 
 her powers, though fortunately not agreed with her noble 
 husband, Albany, she sternly confronts her helpless father 
 and says : 
 
 " Not only, sir, this your all-licensed fool. 
 But other of your insolent retinue 
 Do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth 
 In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, 
 I had thought, by making this well known unto you. 
 To have found a safe redress ; but now grow fearful. 
 By what yourself too late have spoke and done, 
 That you protect this course, and put it on 
 By your allowance." 
 
 The fool again exclaims to Lear : 
 
 " For you know nuncle. 
 The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long. 
 That it had its head bit off by its young." 
 
366 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Lear is so utterly amazed at finding what seems to him 
 a totally different character in one whom he had known, or 
 thought he had known, all her life, makes no immediate 
 answer. He is evidently a complete stranger to the real 
 woman, and can only ask in utter amazement, as if half 
 stupefied, the short simple question : 
 
 " Are you our daughter ? " 
 
 Goneril scornfully replies : 
 
 "I would you would make use of your good wisdom, 
 Whereof I know you are fraught ; and put away 
 These dispositions which of late transport you 
 From what you rightly are," 
 
 Lear still astonished, fancies he is in a dream, or has 
 lost his wits, hardly realising that the person he now sees 
 and hears can be the real Goneril. He himself asks in 
 vague bewilderment : 
 
 " Does any here know me ? This is not Lear : 
 Does Lear walk thus ? speak thus ? Where are his eyes ? 
 Either his notion weakens, his discernings 
 Are lethargied. Ha ! 'tis not so. 
 Who is it that can tell me who I am ?" 
 
 While in this mental confusion the fool replies with 
 some truth : 
 
 " Lear's shadow." 
 
 The old king quite bewildered wonders at all around 
 him as if in a dream, and asks Goneril whom he hardly 
 recognises in her new character of open defiance : 
 " Your name, fair gentlewoman ? " 
 
 Goneril utterly hardened, shameless, and well knowing 
 her own sudden independence of her father's authority, 
 insolently replies : 
 
 " This admiration, sir, is much o' the favour 
 Of other your new pranks. . . . 
 
 As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. 
 Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires ; 
 Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd, and bold, 
 That this court, infected with their manners, 
 Shows like a riotous inn. . . . 
 
KING LEAR 367 
 
 The shame itself doth speak 
 
 For instant remedy ; be then desired 
 
 By her, that else will take the thing she begs, 
 
 A little to disquantity your train ; 
 
 And the remainder, that shall still depend, 
 
 To be such men as may besort your age, 
 
 Which know themselves and you." 
 
 Her father is at last roused to the true state of his posi- 
 tion. Goneril's threat of taking what she requires if not 
 granted, now excites the passionate old man, hitherto 
 treated with such implicit obedience, to sudden fury, and 
 he exclaims : 
 
 " Darkness and devils ! 
 Saddle my horses ; call my train together. 
 Degenerate bastard ! I'll not trouble thee : 
 Yet have I left a daughter." 
 
 He then clings to the hope that Regan will behave 
 differently from Goneril, when Albany enters. This noble- 
 minded prince has evidently been completely mistaken in 
 the true character of his wife, Goneril, and is never in her 
 confidence. Lear now recalling the past more and more, 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Woe, that too late repents." 
 
 Then sternly addressing Albany : 
 
 " O ! sir, are you come ? 
 Is it your will ? Speak, sir." 
 
 Albany is silent and Lear says to his attendants : 
 
 " Prepare my horses," 
 
 and again reflecting on his present state exclaims with a 
 vehemence which probably was never forgotten by all who 
 heard him : 
 
 " Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, 
 More hideous, when thou showest thee in a child, 
 Than the sea monster." 
 
 Albany amazed at this scene, vainly tries to soothe his 
 father-in-law, exclaiming : 
 
 " Pray sir, be patient," 
 
368 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 when Lear remembering some of Goneril's words, contra- 
 dicts her in impatient fury : 
 
 " Detested kite ! thou liest : 
 My train are men of choice and rarest parts, 
 That all particulars of duty know. 
 And in the most exact regard support 
 The worships of their name." 
 
 Then in the midst of unavailing rage, the sweet image 
 
 of Cordelia flashes across his distracted mind as he recalls 
 
 Goneril's former mischief-making against her innocent 
 
 sister : 
 
 " - . . O most small fault, 
 How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show ! 
 Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature 
 From the fix'd place, drew from my heart all love, 
 And added to the gall." 
 
 Then in bitter self-reproach at recalling his past con- 
 duct, he addresses himself, striking his head : 
 
 " O Lear, Lear, Lear ! 
 Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in 
 And thy dear judgment out ! Go, go, my people." 
 
 He is perhaps hastening away, when the noble Albany 
 
 protests, astonished : 
 
 " My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant 
 Of what hath moved you." 
 
 Even at this excited moment Lear is apparently 
 
 impressed by Albany's truth and sincerity as he replies, 
 
 as if exonerating him : 
 
 " It may be so, my lord," 
 
 and then denounces his ungrateful daughter before the 
 
 heathen deities whom Shakespeare apparently represents 
 
 as worshipped at this period in England. Lear exclaims 
 
 in the bitterness of almost frantic wrath : 
 
 " Hear, Nature, hear ! dear goddess, hear ! 
 Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend 
 To make this creature fruitful. . . . 
 
 And from her derogate body never spring 
 A babe to honour her ! If she must teem, 
 Create her child of spleen, that it may live 
 And be a thwart disnatured torment to her ! 
 Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, 
 With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, 
 
KING LEAR 369 
 
 Turn all her mother's pains and benefits 
 To laughter and contempt, that she may feel 
 How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
 To have a thankless child ! Away, away." 
 
 He departs, and Albany, shocked and astounded, asks 
 his wife : 
 
 " Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this ? " 
 
 Goneril utterly unmoved by her father's terrible male- 
 diction, and well knowing she and Regan share at present 
 all his former power, calmly answers her husband scorn- 
 fully, alluding to Lear : 
 
 " Never afflict yourself to know the cause ; 
 But let his disposition have that scope 
 That dotage gives it." 
 
 Lear re-enters, again raging at Goneril, and flattering 
 himself that Regan, to whom he is now going, will take his 
 part against her. He then departs, with these words : 
 
 " Thou Shalt find 
 That I'll resume the shape which thou dost think 
 I have cast off for ever ; thou shalt, I warrant thee." 
 
 Goneril, as if wishing to rouse Albany against Lear, 
 draws his attention to Lear's last words, saying : 
 " Do you mark that, my lord?" 
 
 but Albany puzzled apparently, as if beginning to distrust 
 Goneril, though still under her influence, says doubtfully : 
 
 " I cannot be so partial, Goneril, 
 To the great love I bear you " 
 
 when she contemptuously interrupts him : 
 
 " Pray you, content.'' 
 
 Then she calls Oswald, and finding the poor jester, 
 angrily exclaims : 
 
 " You, sir, morp knave than fool, after your master," 
 
 and the poor lad goes out calling after the departing old 
 king: 
 
 " Nuncle Lear, Nuncle Lear ! tarry, and take the fool with thee." 
 
 Goneril then alone with Albany complains of Lear 
 
 2 A 
 
37° SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 keeping a hundred knights in their palace, saying sar- 
 castically : 
 
 " 'Tis politic and safe to let him keep 
 At point a hundred knights ; yes, that on every dream, 
 Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, 
 He may enguard his dotage with their powers." 
 
 Albany, evidently not agreeing with her, yet doubtful 
 how to act, replies : 
 
 " Well, you may fear too far,'' 
 
 and she sharply replies : 
 
 " Safer than trust too far. 
 
 I know his heart. 
 What he hath utter'd I have writ my sister." 
 
 She then calls her trusty steward, Oswald, asking him 
 if he has written a letter to her sister, Regan, by her desire ; 
 this man who seems also her secretary, replies he has, and 
 she charges him : 
 
 " Take you some company, and away to horse : 
 Inform her full of my particular fear ; . . . 
 
 Get you gone. 
 And hasten your return." [Exit Oswald. 
 
 Then Goneril tries to harden Albany against her 
 father : 
 
 " No, no, my lord, 
 This milky gentleness and course of yours 
 Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon , 
 You are much more attask'd for want of wisdom 
 Than praised for harmful mildness." 
 
 Albany, doubtful about her conduct but not yet aware 
 of what she is capable, replies : 
 
 " How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell : 
 Striving to better, oft we mar what's well," 
 
 but he still partially trusts her, and they go out. 
 
 The next scene introduces Lear, Kent, and the fool in 
 a court before Goneril's palace, about to start on their 
 
KING LEAR 37 1 
 
 journey. Lear, still in his senses though confused, says to 
 Kent, whom disguised he never recognises : 
 
 " Go you before to Gloster with these letters. ... If your diligence be 
 not speedy I shall be there afore you," 
 
 and Kent departs on his mission. Lear and his jester 
 indulge in a strange talk together, in which the fool's 
 shrewdness occasionally appears amid his fantastic, way of 
 speaking. Thus he addresses Lear ironically : 
 
 "Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly ; for though she's as 
 like this as a crab's like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell." 
 
 Lear asks : 
 
 "What canst tell, boy?" 
 
 and he answers : 
 
 " She will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab ; " 
 
 while Lear confused, and becoming weak, exclaims : 
 
 " I will forget my nature," 
 
 and recalling his gifts to Goneril and Regan utters in dis- 
 jointed sentences : 
 
 " So kind a father — to take 't again perforce ! Monster ingratitude ! " 
 
 The fool makes the curious remark : 
 
 " Thou shouldst not have been old, before thou hadst been wise." 
 
 The idea of real insanity now strikes Lear for the first 
 time, as coming events cast their shadows before, and he 
 exclaims almost wildly : 
 
 " Oh ! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven ; 
 Keep me in temper ; I would not be mad," 
 
 when an attendant announces his horses are ready, and 
 Lear sets out for Gloster's castle. 
 
 The next act and scene introduce Edmund in his father 
 Gloster's abode meeting a courtier named Curan, who tells 
 him that Regan and her husband Cornwall will arrive at 
 Gloster's castle this night, and also reports that Albany and 
 
372 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Cornwall are now at variance. Curan departs, and 
 Edmund, prompt, resolute, and treacherous, exclaims : 
 
 " The duke be here to-night ? The better ! best ! 
 This weaves itself perforce into my business. 
 My father hath set guard to take my brother.'' 
 
 He then^ calls his unsuspicious brother Edgar, and 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 " My father watches : Oh, sir ! fly this place ; 
 Intelligence is given where you are hid ; 
 You have now the good advantage of the night. 
 Have you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall ? " 
 
 Edgar does not reply, but apparently he has as Edmund 
 proceeds : — 
 
 " He's coming hither, now, i' the night, i' the haste, 
 And Regan with him ; have you nothing said 
 Upon his party 'gainst the Duke of Albany ? " 
 
 Edgar. " I am sure on't, not a word." 
 
 Edmund. " I hear my father coming ; pardon me ; 
 
 In cunning I must draw my sword upon you. 
 Draw ; seem to defend yourself ; now quit you well. 
 Yield ; come before my father. Light, ho ! here ! 
 Fly, brother. Torches ! torches ! So, farewell." 
 
 After this imaginary encounter, or fencing match, Edgar 
 departs, completely believing his deceitful brother, and 
 Edmund then slightly wounds himself, intending to accuse 
 Edgar of attacking him. Gloster appears, and Edmund, 
 showing his wound, says, piteously : 
 
 " Look, sir, I bleed." 
 
 He then invents a story against Edgar, and convinces 
 Gloster that he is a murderer in heart. Gloster exclaims : 
 
 " Let him fly far : 
 Not in this land shall he remain uncaught." 
 
 Edmund declares that he vainly tried to reason with 
 Edgar about his duty to their father, and was wounded 
 by his brother in consequence. Gloster, quite trusting 
 Edmund, exclaims in mingled anger and alarm : 
 
 " Strong and fasten'd villain ! . . . 
 All ports I'll bar ; the villain shall not 'scape ; 
 
 Besides, his picture 
 I will send far and near, that all the kingdom 
 May have due note of him " ; 
 
KING LEAR 373 
 
 and then says to Edmund what probably amused and 
 gratified his base spirit : 
 
 " And of my land, 
 Loyal and natural boy, I'll work the means 
 To make thee capable." 
 
 Regan and Cornwall now enter with attendants, pre- 
 tending to sympathise with Gloster about the alleged 
 undutifulness of Edgar. Regan asks if Edgar was one of 
 her father's knights, and Edmund replies that he was. 
 Cornwall and Regan then highly praise Edmund for his 
 supposed good conduct to his father, while Edgar is being 
 pursued, but fortunately not captured. Gloster, therefore, 
 is now, though for a very short time, altogether deceived 
 about the real character of his two sons, and also quite 
 mistaken in the designs of Regan and Cornwall. The 
 latter says to Gloster, who is a complete dupe among 
 them : 
 
 " If he be taken, he shall never more 
 Be fear'd of doing harm j make your own purpose, 
 How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund, 
 Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant 
 So much commend itself, you shall be ours : 
 Natures of such deep trust we shall much need ; 
 You we first seize on." 
 
 Edmund replies with courteous humility : 
 
 " I shall serve you, sir, truly " ; 
 
 and the deceived Gloster humbly says to the Duke : 
 
 " For him I thank your grace." 
 
 Regan then explains the reason for their sudden visit 
 to Gloster's castle : 
 
 " Thus out of season, threading dark-eyed night ; 
 Occasions, noble Gloster, of some poise. 
 Wherein we must have use of your advice. 
 Our father, he hath writ, so hath our sister. 
 Of differences, which I best thought it fit 
 To answer from our home ; the several messengers 
 From hence attend despatch. Our good old friend, 
 Lay comforts to your bosom, and bestow 
 Your needful counsel to our business, 
 Which craves the instant use.'' 
 
374 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Gloster, little knowing those he addresses, loyally 
 
 answers : 
 
 " I serve you, madam. 
 Your graces are right welcome." 
 
 The next scene introduces Kent still disguised, meeting 
 
 Goneril's steward, Oswald, at Gloster's castle, whither he 
 
 is sent by his mistress. Kent, who thoroughly understands 
 
 this worthless fellow, soon quarrels with him, when Regan, 
 
 Cornwall, and Edmund enter. They take Oswald's part, 
 
 and order Kent to be put in the stocks. This strange old 
 
 English punishment, well known in Shakespeare's time, 
 
 seems out of place here, and Kent vainly remonstrates, 
 
 declaring he is Lear's servant, though without revealing 
 
 his name. He exclaims : 
 
 " Call not your stocks fo^: me : I serve the King, 
 On whose employment I was sent to you " ; 
 
 but he is unheeded — the old King's name being no longer 
 respected by either of his daughters or Cornwall. The 
 latter, evidently a ferocious man, is yet, if anything, less 
 vindictive than his wife, and exclaims : 
 
 " Fetch forth the stocks ! 
 There shall he sit till noon " } 
 
 when the relentless Regan exclaims : 
 
 " Till noon ! till night, my lord ; and all night too." 
 Kent nobly protests : 
 
 " Why, madam, if I were your father's dog, 
 You should not use me so.'' 
 
 To this touching remonstrance, Regan, as hardened and 
 shameless as her sister, only replies : 
 
 "Sir, being his knave, I will." 
 
 Gloster now vainly protests against Kent's ill-treat- 
 ment ; Cornwall and Regan insist on his being put in the 
 stocks and then go out, leaving Gloster and Kent together. 
 The former tries to comfort Kent whom he never 
 recognises, but is now quite helpless, though in his own 
 castle, and has to leave Kent alone, who proceeds, while 
 in the stocks, to read a letter from Cordelia in France, 
 whom likely he has informed of the terrible events that 
 
KING LEAR 375 
 
 have happened in England since she left it. After reading 
 this letter without naming its contents, he sleeps, and the 
 next very short scene introduces the poor belied Edgar 
 hiding from pursuit in a wood. He, like Kent, has 
 disguised himself, feigning idiotcy and calling himself " Poor 
 Turlygood, poor Tom." He only appears now to reveal 
 his plans for self-protection during his present danger, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " I heard myself proclaim'd ; 
 And by the happy hollow of a tree 
 Escap'd the hunt. No port is free ; no place. 
 That guard, and most unusual vigilance, 
 Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may 'scape, 
 I will preserve myself ; and am bethought 
 To take the basest and most poorest shape 
 That ever penury, in contempt of man, 
 Brought near to beast." 
 
 He departs, resolving to act the part of a poor beggarly 
 idiot, or object of charity, and in the next scene Lear, with 
 his fool and an attendant appear before Gloster's castle, 
 and find Kent in the stocks. Kent assures him that 
 Cornwall and Regan have placed him in them, which Lear 
 at first cannot believe. At length the unfortunate King 
 excited, amazed, and thoroughly bewildered by new 
 experiences exclaims, full of agitation : 
 
 " O ! how this mother swells up towards my heart ; Hysterica passio ! 
 down, thou climbing sorrow ! " 
 
 then rousing himself asks : 
 
 " Where is this daughter ? " 
 
 He hears she is in the castle and goes apparently to 
 its door or hall, while the fool and Kent remain together. 
 The former tries to talk in his usual fanciful way, but the 
 poor lad cannot be really merry, and Lear now attended 
 by Gloster returns. Lear utterly confounded by late 
 events and his altered position, still clings to the hope 
 that Regan may be dutiful, and exclaims as if trying to 
 make excuses for her and Cornwall : 
 
 " Deny to speak with me ! They are sick 1 
 They are weary ! 
 They have travell'd all the night ! " 
 
376 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 He thus tries to excuse them, but the truth flashing on 
 his mind, exclaims : 
 
 " Mere fetches, 
 The images of revolt and flying off. 
 Fetch me a better answer." 
 
 His faithful subject, Gloster, knowing the bitter truth, 
 which Lear is apparently only now learning, replies : 
 
 " My dear lord, 
 You know the iiery quality of the duke ; 
 How unremovable and fix'd he is 
 In his own course. " 
 
 This account of his son-in-law hitherto an obedient 
 subject, now transformed into an insolent, independent 
 prince, drives the astonished Lear almost to distraction. 
 Remembering the past and astounded by the present 
 state of things, he exclaims in vague fury : 
 
 "Vengeance ! plague ! death ! confusion ! 
 Fiery ! what quality ? Why, Gloster, Gloster, 
 I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife." 
 
 Gloster uneasily replies : 
 
 "Well, my good lord, I have informed them so." 
 
 Lear, unable to realise his present degradation, is 
 confounded by Gloster's words, repeating : 
 
 " Inform'd them ! Dost thou understand me, man ? " 
 
 Then recalling his former power, dignity, and almost 
 absolute authority, he proceeds proudly : 
 
 " The King would speak with Cornwall ; the dear father 
 Would with his daughter speak, commands her service : 
 Are they inform'd of this ? 
 My breath and blood I " 
 
 Again he repeats Gloster's description of Cornwall once 
 Lear's humble subject : 
 
 " Fiery ! the fiery duke ! Tell the hot duke that " 
 
 He pauses 'in his indignant surprise and tries to 
 imagine excuses for his daughter and son-in-law : 
 
 " No, but not yet ; may be he is not well ; 
 Infirmity doth still neglect all ofiice 
 Whereto our health is bound ; we are not ourselves 
 When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind 
 
KING LEAR 377 
 
 To suffer with the body. I'll forbear ; 
 And am fall'n out with my more headier will, 
 To take the indisposed and sickly fit, 
 For the sound man." 
 
 Lear thus tries to think that Cornwall's sudden rude- 
 ness or disrespect is caused by illness, then, as if recollect- 
 ing himself, and seeing Kent in the stocks, exclaims 
 passionately : 
 
 " Death on my state ! Wherefore 
 Should he sit here ? This act persuades me 
 That this remotion of the Duke and her 
 Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. 
 Go, tell the Duke and 's wife I'd speak with them, 
 Now, presently ; bid them come forth and hear me. 
 Or at their chamber door I'll beat the drum 
 Till it cry sleep to death." 
 
 Gloster knowing only too well the helpless state of the 
 self-deposed King, as well as Cornwall's haughtiness and 
 complete independence, nervously replies : 
 
 " I would have all well betwixt you," 
 
 and departs to give Lear's message. The latter exclaims 
 before Kent and the fool : 
 
 " O me ! my heart, my rising heart ! but down ! " 
 
 The poor fool, knowing Lear's distress, and partly 
 sharing it, exclaims with a feeble attempt at cheerfulness : 
 
 " Cry to it, nuncle, as the Cockney did to the eels when she put 'em i' the 
 paste alive,'' 
 
 but his nonsense can no longer enliven or cheer the 
 confused and bewildered King. 
 
 Regan and Cornwall now enter with Gloster. Regan 
 coldly tells her father she is glad to see him, and Lear 
 replies, remembering his past indulgence : 
 
 " Regan, I think you are ; I know what reason 
 I have to think so : if thou shouldst not be glad, 
 I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb." 
 
 This is the only allusion in the play to the former 
 Queen, and which of her daughters she most resembled is 
 never told. 
 
378 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Lear then seeing Kent freed from the stocks, says : 
 
 " O ! are you free ? 
 Some other time for that," 
 
 and proceeds to complain of Goneril to Regan, never 
 thinking they are in league against him : 
 
 " Beloved Regan, 
 Thy sister's naught : O Regan ! she hath tied 
 Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here 
 
 [Points to his heart], 
 I can scarce speak to thee " ; 
 
 Regan contemptuously replies : 
 
 " I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope 
 You less know how to value her desert 
 Than she to scant her duty. 
 
 If, sir, perchance 
 She have restrain'd the riots of your followers, 
 'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, 
 As clears her from all blame." 
 
 Lear, irritated and confounded, utters an imprecation 
 on Goneril, and Regan proceeds with the same insolent 
 contempt : 
 
 " O, sir ! you are old ; 
 Nature in you stands on the very verge 
 Of her confine ; you should be ruled and led 
 By some discretion that discerns your state 
 Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you 
 That to our sister you do make return ; 
 Say you have wrong'd her, sir." 
 
 Lear enraged, yet still unable to believe Regan is like 
 Goneril, attempts a remonstrance, doubtfully hoping it 
 will have due effect : 
 
 " Ask her forgiveness ? 
 Do you but mark how this becomes the house." 
 
 He kneels in assumed supplication, thinking such a 
 sight will move or shame Regan, and perhaps for the first 
 time in his life tries to act a humble part, exclaiming : 
 
 " Dear daughter ; I confess that I am old ; 
 Age is unnecessary : on my knees I beg 
 That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food." 
 
KING LEAR 379 
 
 Regan, utterly unmoved, scornfully retorts : 
 
 " Good sir, no more ; these are unsightly tricks. 
 Return you to my sister." 
 
 Lear rising, with a touch of his old spirit replies : 
 
 " Never, Regan. 
 She hath abated me of half my train ; 
 Look'd black upon me ; struck me with her tongue," 
 
 then relapsing into impotent fury he exclaims : 
 
 " All the stored vengeances of heaven fall 
 On her ungrateful top ! " 
 
 He- continues to denounce her when Cornwall, now 
 feeling himself independent for the first time in his life, 
 ventures to reprove his former king : 
 
 " Fie, sir, fie ! " 
 
 Lear, lashed into yet greater fury by a rebuke from 
 his son-in-law, continues in frantic rage : 
 
 "You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames 
 Into her scornful eyes ! Infect her beauty 
 You fen-sucked fogs, dravifn by the powerful sun. 
 To fall and blast her pride I " 
 
 Regan, scornfully ridiculing her old father's violent 
 temper, insolently exclaims : 
 
 " O the blest gods I so will you wish on me. 
 When the rash mood is on." 
 
 Lear, still trying to deceive himself in the idea that 
 Regan has a better heart than Goneril, despite her present 
 manner, exclaims with appealing tenderness : 
 
 " No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse" ; 
 
 and reminds her that he has left half the kingdom to her, 
 and thinks that she cannot have forgotten all his past 
 favours to her. To this remonstrance Regan makes a 
 practical answer: 
 
 " Good sir, to the purpose," 
 
38o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and Lear, still mindful of his dignity, asks who put his 
 servant in the stocks, and adds : 
 
 " Regan, I have good hope 
 Thou didst not know on 't." 
 
 No answer is made him, but Goneril now appears, her 
 
 approach first announced by her steward, Oswald, and at 
 
 sight of her Lear exclaims in wild appeal to higher 
 
 powers : 
 
 " O heavens, 
 If you do love old men, if your sweet sway 
 Allow obedience, if yourselves are old. 
 Make it your cause ; send down and take my part ! " 
 
 then addressing Goneril : 
 
 " Art not ashamed to look upon this beard ? " 
 
 No answer is returned, and he exclaims to Regan, 
 whom he now sees is quite agreed with her sister : 
 " O Regan ! wilt thou take her by the hand ?" 
 
 Goneril, if anything the sterner of the two sisters, 
 
 haughtily asks : 
 
 " Why not by the hand, sir ? How have I offended ? 
 All 's not offence that indiscretion finds 
 And dotage terms so.'" 
 
 Lear almost overcome among so many foes, once 
 
 apparently obedient and loyal, exclaims as if struggling 
 
 with bodily weakness : 
 
 " O sides ! you are too tough ; 
 Will you yet hold ? " 
 
 Then again recollecting the ill-usage of his servant, as 
 if among the first insults to himself, asks : 
 " How came my man i' the stocks ?" 
 
 Cornwall insolently replies : 
 
 " I set him there, sir ; but his own disorders 
 Deserved much less advancement." 
 
 Lear furious yet astounded at Cornwall's complete 
 change from former loyalty to impudent defiance, can only 
 ask in utter, almost incredulous, amazement : 
 
 "You I did you?" 
 
KING LEAR 381 
 
 Regan then calmly addresses the helpless, insulted 
 King: 
 
 " I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. 
 If, till the expiration of your month, 
 You will return and sojourn with my sister, 
 Dismissing half your train, come then to me." 
 
 Lear absolutely refuses to return to Goneril, and still 
 trying to think Regan is better than her sister, finally 
 exclaims to Regan, alluding to Goneril : 
 
 " Return with her ! 
 Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter 
 To this detested groom." 
 
 [Pointing to Oswald. 
 
 Goneril coldly replies in a sardonic style that exasper- 
 ates Lear beyond his reason : 
 
 ■' At your choice, sir," 
 
 and Lear exclaims, nearly distracted : 
 
 " I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad : 
 I will not trouble thee, my child ; farewell. 
 We '11 no more meet, no more see one another. 
 Let shame come when it will, I do not call it ; 
 
 Mend when thou canst ; be better at thy leisure : 
 I can be patient ; I can stay with Regan, 
 I and my hundred knights." 
 
 Hitherto Regan has not absolutely refused to fulfil her 
 obligation, but now thinks it time to do so decisively : 
 
 " Not altogether so ; 
 I looked not for you yet, nor am provided 
 For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister." 
 
 Lear now for the first time sees that his daughters are 
 like one in conduct and sentiment, and vaguely asks 
 Regan, as if still surprised : 
 
 " Is this well spoken ?" 
 
 His weakness becoming more and more apparent, 
 induces Goneril and Regan to question his right to have 
 more than fifty followers, which was Goneril's first allow- 
 ance to him, and Regan says she will only permit half that 
 
382 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 number to attend Lear in her palace. Lear vainly reminds 
 them of his condition with them when abdicating in their 
 favour, and asks Regan : 
 
 " What ! must I come to you 
 With five-and-twenty ? Regan, said you so ? " 
 
 and she replies : 
 
 " And speak't again, my lord ; no more with me." 
 
 Then Lear exclaims, as it were looking from one to 
 another of his relentless daughters before him : 
 
 " Those wicked creatures yet do look well favour'd 
 When others are more wicked ; not being the worst 
 Stands in some rank of praise." 
 
 Then addressing Goneril : 
 
 " I'll go with thee ; 
 Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty. 
 And thou art twice her love." 
 
 Goneril knowing her power, and more convinced per- 
 haps than ever of being quite agreed with Regan, asks Lear 
 what need has he of even five followers, when her own can 
 serve him, and Regan finally asks : 
 
 " What need one ? " 
 
 At these declarations their ruined father's mind as well 
 as temper gives way completely. He can well foresee his 
 probable treatment by the servants of Goneril and Regan 
 when left undefended among them, and utterly distracted 
 breaks forth into wild reproaches, first appealing to the 
 gods : 
 
 " You see me here, you gods, a poor old man. 
 As full of grief as age ; wretched in both ! 
 If it be you that stirs these daughters' hearts 
 Against their father, fool me not so much 
 To bear it tamely, touch me with noble anger ; 
 
 No, you unnatural hags, 
 I will have such revenges on you both 
 That all the world shall — I will do such things." 
 
KING LEAR 383 
 
 Then confused in his torrent of impotent fury he adds : 
 
 " What they are yet I know not, but they shall be 
 The terrors of the earth. You think I'll weep ; 
 No, I'll not weep : 
 
 I have full cause of weeping, but this heart 
 Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws 
 Or ere I'll weep."' 
 
 Hitherto his naturally high spirit has sustained Lear in 
 this final and terrible denunciation of both daughters, who 
 remain utterly unmoved before him, but his age, bodily 
 weakness, and mental excitement become too much for 
 him, and he exclaims to his jester in a sort of vague terror : 
 
 " O fool ! I shall go mad," 
 
 and departs with Kent, Gloster, and the jester. 
 
 A storm is heard, and Gloster, the helpless host and 
 soon the victim of his savage visitors, re-enters saying : 
 
 " The King is in high rage. 
 He calls to horse ; but will I know not whither." 
 
 The relentless Goneril exclaims : 
 
 " My lord, entreat him by no means to stay," 
 
 and Gloster, quite helpless, though in his own house, can 
 only exclaim : 
 
 " Alack ! the night comes on, and the high winds 
 Do sorely ruffle ; for many miles about 
 There's scarce a bush." 
 
 Regan, as unmoved as ever, and apparently hoping her 
 father may perish in the storm, replies : 
 
 " O ! sir, to wilful men, 
 The injuries that they themselves procure 
 Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors* 
 He is attended with a desperate train. " 
 
 Cornwall, quite agreed with his wife and her sister, 
 advises, or rather orders Gloster : 
 
 " Shut up your doors, my lord ; 'tis a wild night ; 
 My Regan counsels well." 
 
 Thus ends the second Act. 
 
 The third is on a heath where Kent meets a gentleman 
 whose name is not given, and who has his confidence 
 
384 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 though he does not recognise Kent in his continued 
 disguise. They meet on a stormy night, and the gentle- 
 man tells Kent that Lear, with the fool 
 
 " Who labours to out-jest 
 His heart-struck injuries," 
 
 is now near them and exposed to the storm. Kent tells 
 him that Albany and Cornwall have quarrelled, and then 
 entrusts him with a message to France, expecting that from 
 thence will come an invasion for Lear's rescue. Kent adds 
 impressively : 
 
 " Make your speed to Dover, you shall find 
 Some that will thank you, making just report ^ 
 
 Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow 
 The King hath cause to plain. 
 
 If you shall see Cordelia, 
 As fear not but you shall, show her this ring. 
 
 Fie on this storm ! 
 I will go seek the King." 
 
 They part, and in the next scene Lear appears with the 
 jester on the heath during a terrible storm, which coming 
 amid all his troubles, makes the old king nearly as mad as 
 his follower. He almost raves, his disordered mind con- 
 tinually reverting to his ungrateful daughters, while the 
 poor fool, longing to have shelter at any price, exclaims : 
 
 " Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughter's blessing ; here's a night pities 
 neither wise men nor fools." 
 
 But Lear exclaims in distracted desperation : 
 
 " Rumble thy bellyful I spit fire ! spout, rain ! 
 t Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters : 
 I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ; 
 I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, 
 You owe me no subscription : then let fall 
 Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand, your slave, 
 A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man. 
 But yet I call you servile ministers, 
 That have with two pernicious daughters join'd 
 Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head 
 So old and white as this. O ! O ! 'tis foul." 
 
 Lear continues lamenting while the fool utters strange 
 
KING LEAR 3&i 
 
 pieces of poetry, being always faithful yet practically 
 useless to his old master. 
 
 Kent now appears, exclaiming : 
 
 "Alas ! sir, are you here ? things that love night 
 Love not such nights as these ; 
 
 Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, 
 Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never 
 Remember to have heard ; man's nature cannot carry 
 The affliction nor the fear." 
 
 Lear, in vague superstition, his mind becoming more 
 and more deranged, exclaims solemnly, evidently alluding 
 to the heathen deities as before : 
 
 ' ' Let the great gods, 
 That keep this dreadfiil pother o'er our heads, 
 Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, 
 That hast within thee undivulged crimes, 
 Unwhipp'd of justice ; 
 
 Close pent-up guilts. 
 Rive your concealing continents, and cry 
 These dreadful summoners grace." 
 
 Then recalling his own present state and past history, 
 
 he adds : 
 
 " I am a man 
 More sinned against than sinning." 
 
 Kent says there is a hovel near and offers to lead him 
 to it. 
 
 Lear, as if observing the poor fool shivering, exclaims : 
 
 " My wits begin to turn. 
 Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy ? Art cold ? 
 I am cold myself." 
 
 Then to Kent, he says : 
 
 " Where is this straw, my fellow ? " 
 
 and observes as if to himself : 
 
 " The art of our necessities is strange, 
 That can make vile things precious. 
 Come, your hovel. 
 
 Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart 
 That's sorry yet for thee.'' 
 2 B 
 
386 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The poor fool endeavours to sing, probably meaning to 
 cheer Lear and himself, the rather doleful lines : 
 
 " He that has and a little tiny wit, 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
 Must make content with his fortune fit 
 Though the rain it raineth every day." 
 
 Lear probably glad to hear his voice replies : 
 " True, ray good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. 
 
 The jester though in every way out of his element in 
 such a scene of exposure and hardship bears up bravely, 
 singing snatches of song in which flashes of common-sense 
 are strangely mixed with wild fancies. He exclaims : 
 
 " I'll speak a prophecy ere I go : 
 When priests are more in word than matter ; 
 When brewers mar their malt with water ; 
 
 When every case in law is right ; 
 No squire in debt, nor no poor knight ; 
 When slanders do not live in tongues ; 
 Nor cut-purses come not to throngs. 
 
 Then shall the realm of Albion 
 Come to great confusion." 
 
 He then makes brief allusion to ancient English 
 legends : 
 
 " This prophecy Merlin shall make ; for I live before his time. " 
 
 The next scene in Gloster's Castle though short is very 
 important. Gloster is with Edmund, and knowing nothing 
 of the latter's treachery completely trusts him, and with 
 fatal results. Gloster has discovered and deplores the 
 conduct of Regan, Goneril, and Cornwall to the hapless 
 king, while Edmund deceitfully pretends to blame it also, 
 to preserve his father's confidence. Gloster exclaims : 
 
 " Alack, alack ! Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When 
 I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine 
 own house ; charged me, on pain of their perpetual displeasure, neither to 
 speak of him, entreat for him, nor any way sustain him.'' 
 
 Edmund with his usual duplicity replies : 
 " Most savage and unnatural," 
 
KING LEAR 387 
 
 and his father thoroughly trusting hira, now tells him all 
 he knows : 
 
 " Go to ; say you nothing. There is division between the dukes, and a 
 worse matter than that. I have received a letter this night ; 'tis dangerous to 
 be spoken ; I have locked the letter in my closet. These injuries the king now 
 bears will be revenged home ; there's part of a power already footed ; we must 
 incline to the king. I will seek him and privily relieve him ; go you and 
 maintain talk with the duke. ... If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, 
 the king, my old master, must be relieved." 
 
 He goes out and Edmund when alone, reveals his 
 treachery : 
 
 " This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke 
 Instantly know ; and of that letter too : 
 This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me 
 That which my father loses ; no less than all ; " 
 
 then contemplating his father's coming ruin or death, the 
 wicked son, well suited to the two wicked daughters, 
 exultingly concludes : 
 
 " The younger rises, when the old doth fall." 
 
 The next scene shows Lear with Kent and the fool 
 outside the hovel during the storm. Kent entreats the 
 half mad king to enter, when the latter, as though confused, 
 
 replies : 
 
 " Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm 
 Invades us to the skin : so 'tis to thee ; 
 But where the greater malady is fix'd. 
 The lesser is scarce felt. 
 
 . . . When the mind's free 
 The body's delicate ; the tempest in my mind 
 Doth from my senses take all feeling else 
 Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude ! 
 
 . . . O Regan, Goneril ! 
 
 Your kind old father, whose &ank heart gave all, — 
 O ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that ; 
 No more of that." 
 
 The idea of madness again strikes Lear with a peculiar 
 terror when Kent again entreating him to enter the hovel, 
 Lear sends the fool in first, whom he evidently pities 
 before himself, saying : 
 
 " In, boy ; go first. You houseless poverty." 
 
388 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The fool goes in, but rushes out, finding Edgar there 
 disguised and pretending madness. The latter comes out, 
 but Lear does not recognise him. The ensuing talk 
 among this singular group shows the wonderful contrast 
 between a half-witted youth like the jester, an old man 
 astray in mind through grief like Lear, and a pretended 
 madman like Edgar, who observes keenly all around him, 
 while pretending madness and fear to save his threatened 
 life. Amid this strange trio Kent though also disguised 
 for the same reason yet attending steadfastly to the king, 
 seems at his noblest advantage. Lear now absorbed by 
 his own griefs, fancies that Edgar's wretched appearance 
 and strange talk denote similar treatment to his own from 
 undutiful children, and impressed with this idea, exclaims 
 in wondering inquiry : 
 
 " Didst thou give all to thy two daughters ? 
 And art thou come to this ? " 
 
 Edgar acting his part exclaims like a crazy beggar : 
 
 " Who gives anything to poor Tom ? whom the foul fiend 
 Hath led through fire and through flame. . . . 
 
 Bless thy five wits ! Tom's a cold. . . . 
 
 Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes.'' 
 
 Lear wondering at him exclaims : 
 
 " Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air 
 Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters." 
 
 Kent observes as Edgar makes no reply : 
 
 " He hath no daughters, sir " ; 
 
 but Lear, his brain dwelling on his own misery, vehemently 
 replies : 
 
 " Death, traitor ! nothing could have subdu'd nature 
 To such a lowness but his unkind daughters." 
 
 The poor fool exclaims naturally : 
 
 " This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen." 
 
 Edgar still calling himself " Poor Tom " continues to talk 
 in a wild, vague manner, and Lear becomes more and 
 
KING LEAR 389 
 
 more distracted in mind and thought, when Gloster appears 
 with a torch without recognising his disguised son, who, 
 acting his part, calls himself in answer to Gloster asking 
 him his name : 
 
 " Poor Tom ; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, the 
 wall-newt, and the water ; who is whipped from tything to tything, and 
 stocked, punished, and imprisoned " ; 
 
 and then either sings or recites from memory : 
 
 " But mice and rats and such small deer 
 Have been Tom's food for seven long year." 
 
 Gloster, shocked and surprised at finding Lear with 
 such a companion, exclaims : 
 
 " What ! hath your grace no better company ? 
 
 Go in with me. My duty cannot suffer 
 
 To obey in all your daughters' hard commands." 
 
 Lear becomes more and more confused while Gloster 
 never recognises either Kent or Edgar in their disguises, 
 and exclaims : 
 
 " His daughters seek his death. Ah ! that good Kent ; 
 He said it would be thus, poor banish'd man ! 
 I'll tell thee, friend, 
 I am almost mad myself. I had a son, 
 Now outlaw'd from my blood ; he sought my life. 
 The grief hath crazed my wits." 
 
 This extraordinary party, Lear, Edgar, Kent, Gloster, 
 and the fool, are all now hiding from danger, and they 
 alike take refuge in the hovel. Lear mad with grief, the 
 fool naturally weak-minded, though not idiotic, while 
 Kent, Edgar, and Gloster, all faithful to Lear, are able to 
 preserve his life, but as yet are unable to comfort him. 
 
 The next scene is in Gloster's castle where the savage 
 Cornwall and the treacherous Edmund are together. The 
 former himself exclaims, referring to Gloster : 
 
 "I will have my revenge ere I depart his house." 
 
 Edmund, who has thus succeeded in irritating Cornwall 
 against Gloster, deceitfuHy exclaims : 
 
 " How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just. This is the 
 letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages 
 of France," 
 
390 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then persevering in his resolve to ruin his father, the 
 accomplished hypocrite adds : 
 
 " O heavens ! that this treason were not, or not I the detector ! 
 If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand." 
 
 The stern duke rejoins, doubtless to Edmund's gratifica- 
 tion : 
 
 " True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloster ; seek out where thy 
 father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension." 
 
 Edmund, the incarnation of base cunning, says aside : 
 " If I find him comforting the king, it will stuff his suspicion more fully." 
 
 Then to the duke he says with assumed regret : 
 
 "I will persevere in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore 
 between that and my blood." 
 
 Cornwall, fully accepting his services, replies : 
 
 " I will lay trust upon thee ; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my 
 love." 
 
 The next scene is in a farmhouse adjoining Gloster's 
 castle, where Lear, Kent, the jester, and Edgar, have 
 found a refuge provided for them by Gloster, who is now 
 as much hated and endangered by Cornwall and Regan, as 
 any of the others, though the lord of the soil. Gloster 
 having settled his singular group of helpless guests in this 
 place, departs to wait on Regan and Cornwall in his 
 castle. When he is gone the strange talk is resumed 
 between the poor crazy king, the half-witted jester, and 
 the pretended madman, Edgar. In contrasting these 
 various forms of mental distraction, real and assumed, of 
 these three, Shakespeare apparently finds a peculiar 
 interest, yet the representation however truthful must be 
 repulsive, if not puzzling to many readers. Edgar's 
 assumed insanity is shown in uttering wild nonsense, 
 mingled with complaints of bodily pain or hardship ; the 
 jester faintly tries to be merry and repeat verses, while 
 Lear's disordered mind is perpetually referring to his two 
 
KING LEAR 391 
 
 undutiful daughters, who he fancies are on their trial 
 before him. He exclaims : 
 
 "I will arraign them straight." 
 (To Edgar) "Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer," 
 (To the fool) "Thou, sapient sir, sit here.'' 
 
 Then as if addressing Goneril and Regan : 
 
 " Now, you she foxes." 
 
 He stops, and Edgar watching him, exclaims : 
 " Look where he stands and glares." 
 
 Kent always devoted to his hapless master asks him : 
 
 " How do you, sir ? Stand you not so amazed : 
 Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions ? " 
 
 Lear now quite out of his senses replies : 
 
 " I '11 see their trial first. Bring in the evidence," 
 
 and addressing Edgar, the fool, and Kent, severally, says : . 
 
 " Thou robed man of justice, take thy place ; 
 And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, 
 Bench by his side. You are o' the commission, 
 Sit you too." 
 
 Edgar, as if arguing with Lear, trying to soothe him 
 
 says : 
 
 " Let us deal justly." 
 
 The distracted king, partly believing that the trial of 
 
 his daughters is really proceeding, continues : 
 
 " Arraign her first ; 'tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honour- 
 able assembly, she kicked the poor king her father." 
 
 This accusation was likely mere fancy, no mention was 
 made of either Goneril or Regan actually striking Lear. 
 The fool as if acting a part to please Lear exclaims : 
 " Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril ? " 
 
 Lear exclaims, still fancying he sees his daughters 
 before him, and that one escapes : 
 
 " She cannot deny it. 
 And here's another, whose warp'd looks proclaim 
 What store her heart is made on. Stop her there ! 
 Arms, arms, sword, fire ! Corruption in the place ! 
 False justicer, why hast thou let her 'scape ? " 
 
392 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 To this question Edgar can only reply : 
 
 " Bless thy five wits." 
 
 Kent in this trying scene preserves his good sense, and 
 begs Lear to have patience, while Edgar exclaims aside : 
 
 " My tears begin to take his part so much, 
 They 'II mar my counterfeiting." 
 
 Lear, with a vague idea of being deserted or treated 
 ungratefully on every side, wildly exclaims, apparently 
 remembering his former pets : 
 
 " The little dogs and all, 
 Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me. '' 
 
 He becomes more and more confused or fanciful, and 
 wildly exclaims with the image of Regan, his final dis- 
 appointment, in his mind : 
 
 " Then let them anatomize Regan, see what breeds about her heart. Is 
 there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts ? " 
 
 yet Lear in pronouncing threats of banishment and death 
 
 against the faithful Kent had shown himself also very 
 
 relentless. It is possible he would not have carried them 
 
 out, but evidently his passionate nature had been well 
 
 studied by his artful daughters, Goneril and Regan. 
 
 During his days of power Lear is represented as almost 
 
 a despotic king, vehement and imperious, though the deep 
 
 attachment of such " good and true " subjects as Kent and 
 
 Gloster indicates that the king had been a generous, kind 
 
 master, but was sinking gradually into something like 
 
 dotage when the play begins. In his adversity, these 
 
 noblemen show certainly more love for Lear than the latter 
 
 seems to deserve, from his conduct in the tragedy. In his 
 
 present distraction neither Edgar himself, in great danger 
 
 from his deceived father, nor Kent, disguised and supposed 
 
 to be banished, can render Lear much assistance, but being 
 
 thoroughly faithful, brave and honest, they bide their time. 
 
 At length Kent persuades Lear, who is likely quite 
 
 exhausted, to take rest, and the king exclaims in a confused 
 
 way: 
 
 " Make no noise, make no noise ; draw the curtains : so, so, so. We 'U 
 go to supper i' the morning : so, so, so,'' 
 
KING LEAR [ 39 
 
 while the fool, in a last poor attempt to be witty or cheerful, 
 rejoins : 
 
 " And I '11 go to bed at noon." 
 
 Gloster re-enters, revealing to Kent a plot against 
 Lear's life, planned apparently by his wicked guests, Regan 
 and Cornwall. Though Gloster never recognises Kent in 
 disguise, he believes him faithful, and persuades him to 
 convey the old king to Dover. Kent agrees, and takes the 
 jester also, who does not again appear in the play. 
 Gloster, Kent and the fool then depart, bearing Lear off 
 with them, leaving Edgar who, when alone, nobly compares 
 his comparatively slight sorrows with the afflictions of the 
 unhappy king. 
 
 " When we our betters see bearing our woes, 
 We scarcely think our miseries our foes. 
 
 How light and portable my pain seems now. 
 
 When that which makes me bend makes the king bow ; 
 
 He childed as I fathered ! " 
 
 He thus compares Lear ill-treated by his children to 
 himself ill-treated by his father, Gloster, He departs, well 
 knowing the plots that are around him, but finally awaiting 
 the time to throw off his disguise and re-appear the avenger 
 of his father's wrongs and his own. 
 
 The next scene is one of peculiar atrocity, painful to 
 read or remember, yet essential to the progress of this awful 
 tragedy. The four chief villains of the play, male and 
 female, Cornwall, Edmund, Goneril, and Regan, are now in 
 the unhappy Gloster's castle, which they seize upon, 
 Edmund having revealed his father's plans and hopes to aid 
 Lear to the others, and they are resolved to destroy him 
 and put Edmund in Gloster's place. Cornwall, a savage 
 specimen of a feudal tyrant, says to his servants : 
 " Seek out the traitor, Gloster," 
 
 and Regan exclaims : 
 
 " Hang him instantly." 
 
 Then to Edmund, Cornwall says : 
 
 " Keep you our sister company," 
 
394 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 meaning Goneril, who is about to return to her husband 
 under Edmund's escort, and adds with cold-blooded 
 ceremony : 
 
 " The revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not 
 fit for your beholding. Advise the duke, where you are going, to a most 
 festinate preparation : we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and 
 intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister ; farewell, my Lord of Gloster," 
 
 so he now terms Edmund. 
 
 Gloster is arrested in his own castle by his powerful 
 guests, Regan and Cornwall, alike enraged at discovering 
 that their host is faithful to Lear. They bind his arms, 
 when he exclaims : 
 
 " What mean your graces ? Good, my friends, consider you are my guests : 
 do me no foul play, friends." 
 Com. " Bind him, I say." 
 
 Regan adds : 
 
 " Hard, hard. O filthy traitor ! " 
 
 and she plucks his beard, which insult Gloster resents, but 
 is helpless, and Cornwall and Regan then savagely ask 
 what letters he has had from France, and to whom he has 
 sent " the lunatic king," as Regan terms him, and Cornwall 
 then asks : 
 
 " Where hast thou sent the king ? " 
 
 Gloster replies : 
 
 " To Dover.'- 
 
 Both then ask, why to Dover, and Gloster, exasperated, 
 at last exclaims in desperation that he would not see his 
 old master ill-used, and has therefore connived at his 
 escape. 
 
 Cornwall, in a fury, stamps out his eyes, when a horrified 
 servant has the unexpected boldness to interfere in Gloster's 
 defence, and mortally wounds Cornwall, but is himself 
 stabbed to death by Regan. 
 
 Gloster, in despair, exclaims : 
 
 " Where's my son, Edmund ? 
 Edmund enkindle all the sparks of nature 
 To quit this horrid act." 
 
KING LEAR 395 
 
 Regan then reveals what the misled Gloster never 
 suspected : 
 
 " Thou call'st on him that hates thee ; it was he 
 That made the overture of thy treasons to us, 
 Who is too good to pity thee." 
 
 Gloster, astonished as much as Lear, and equally 
 deceived in his children's real characters, exclaims in 
 remorse : 
 
 " O my follies ! Then Edgar was abused. 
 Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him ! " 
 
 Regan then orders Gloster to be turned, when blind, 
 out of the house, and Cornwall, owning himself seriously 
 wounded, is led away by Regan, and never appears again. 
 
 The next act and scene are on a heath where Edgar 
 meets his unfortunate father, led by an old man, who says 
 to the helpless Gloster : 
 
 " O my good lord ! 
 I have been your tenant, and your father's tenant, 
 These fourscore years." 
 
 Gloster kindly replies : 
 
 " Away, get thee away ; good friend, be gone : 
 Thy comforts can do me no good at all ; 
 Thee they may hurt. " 
 
 He then recalls his own errors and sorrows, exclaiming : 
 " Ah ! dear son, Edgar, 
 
 Might I but live to see thee in my touch, 
 I'd say I had eyes again." 
 
 The old man leading Gloster takes Edgar for some 
 well-known brainless idiot, calling him " poor mad Tom." 
 Gloster seems to know the name, asking his guide to leave 
 him with the supposed idiot and follow on the Dover road 
 with clothes for Tom, saying : 
 
 " Thou wilt o'ertake us, hence a mile or twain 
 I' the way towards Dover, do it for ancient love ; 
 And bring some covering for this naked soul, 
 Who I'll entreat to lead me.'' 
 
 The old guide remonstrates : 
 
 " Alack, sir ! he is mad," 
 
396 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and Gloster replies : 
 
 " 'Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind." 
 
 The old man departs, and Gloster, addressing his 
 
 disguised son, says : 
 
 " Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues 
 Have humbled to all strokes : 
 
 Dost thou know Dover ? " 
 Edgar replies : 
 
 " Ay, master," 
 and Gloster proceeds ; 
 
 " There is a cliff, whose high and bending head 
 Looks fearfully in the confined deep. 
 Bring me but to the very brim of it. 
 And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear 
 With something rich about me ; from that place 
 I shall no leading need." 
 
 Edgar agrees to lead him to this cliff, Gloster evidently 
 contemplating suicide, and still thinking his disguised son 
 is a poor beggar, thus tries to reward him. 
 
 They depart on their strange walk to Dover, and the 
 next scene is before Albany's palace, where Oswald, 
 Goneril's trusted servant, tells her and Edmund, who arrive 
 together, news which neither like to hear. Goneril asks ; 
 
 " Now, where's your master ? " 
 
 and Oswald replies : 
 
 " Madam, within ; but never man so chang'd. 
 I told him of the army that was landed ; 
 He smil'd at it : I told him you were coming ; 
 His answer was ' The worse' ; of Gloster's treachery. 
 And of the loyal service of his son. 
 When I informed him, then he called me sot. 
 And told me I had turned the wrong side out.'' 
 
 Goneril, then angry and apprehensive, addresses 
 
 Edmund, whom she begins to prefer to her husband : 
 
 " Then shall you go no further. 
 It is the cowish terror of his spirit. 
 
 Back, Edmund, to my brother. 
 Hasten his musters and conduct his powers ; 
 I must change arms at home, and give the distaff 
 Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant 
 Shall pass between us," 
 
KING LEAR 397 
 
 She then reveals her love for Edmund, giving him a 
 favour, and saying : 
 
 " Wear this ; spare speech ; 
 Decline your head : this kiss, if it durst speak, 
 Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. 
 Conceive, and fare thee well." 
 
 Edmund, probably overjoyed and hopeful, courteously 
 
 replies : 
 
 "Yours in the ranks of death," 
 
 and departs, when Goneril compares him to her despised 
 husband, Albany : 
 
 " My most dear Gloster ! 
 O ! the difference of man and man. 
 To thee a woman's services are due ; 
 My fool usurps my bed." 
 
 She imagines Albany either a fool or coward, perhaps 
 both, but she has yet to discover that he is neither. 
 
 He now enters, and horrified at her conduct towards 
 Lear, exclaims indignantly : 
 
 " O Goneril ! 
 
 ... I fear your disposition : 
 That nature, which contemns its origin, 
 Cannot be border'd certain in itself ; 
 She that herself will sliver and disbranch 
 From her material sap, perforce must wither 
 And come to deadly use." 
 
 Goneril contemptuously answers : 
 
 " No more ; the text is foolish." 
 
 Albany more and more roused against her, rejoins : 
 
 " Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile ; 
 
 Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform'd ? 
 A father, and a gracious aged man. 
 
 Most barbarous, most degenerate ! have you madded. 
 
 If that the heavens do not their visible spirits 
 Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, 
 'Twill come. 
 
 Humanity must perforce prey on itself, 
 Like monsters of the deep." 
 
398 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Goneril replies, with scornful insolence ; 
 
 " Milk-liver'd man ! 
 That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs ; 
 
 Where's thy drum ? 
 France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, 
 
 Whiles thou, a moral fool, sitt'st still, and criest 
 ' Alack ! why does he so?' " 
 
 Albany, in indignant horror, replies : 
 
 " Were't my fitness 
 To let these hands obey my blood, 
 They are apt enough to dislocate and tear 
 Thy flesh and bones ; howe'er thou art a fiend, 
 A woman's shape doth shield thee." 
 
 Goneril, with a ready sneer, retorts : 
 
 " Marry, your manhood now — " 
 
 but is interrupted by a messenger with the terrible news of 
 Cornwall's death and the blinding of Gloster. 
 
 Albany, shocked and horrified, considers the savage 
 Cornwall's death as the judgment of heaven, while deeply 
 pitying the unfortunate Gloster. Goneril, partly pleased 
 and partly alarmed, exclaims to herself: 
 
 " One way I like this well." 
 
 Then fearing lest her sister should take Edmund from 
 her, adds : 
 
 " But being widow, and my Gloster with her. 
 May all the building in my fancy pluck 
 Upon my hateful life : " 
 
 and she goes out, resolving to send some answer to this 
 intelligence. 
 
 Albany, hitherto ignorant of Edmund's character, 
 
 asks : 
 
 " Knows he the wickedness ? " 
 
 and the messenger, evidently well informed about 
 Edmund's conduct to his father, replies : 
 
 " Ay, my good lord ; 'twas he inform'd against him." 
 
 Albany then exclaims to himself, like the high-minded. 
 
KING LEAR 399 
 
 generous man he really is, though his character is not 
 revealed till now : 
 
 " Gloster, I live 
 
 To thank thee for the love thou showd'st the king, 
 
 And to revenge thine eyes. " 
 
 He goes out, bidding the messenger tell him anything 
 more he knows, and the next scene is in the French camp 
 near Dover. Kent and a gentleman are here conversing 
 about the French king, who has returned to France, leaving 
 Cordelia and a French general named Le Far, who is never 
 again mentioned. The French troops are probably joined by 
 some of the English, their object being apparently to only 
 rescue King Lear, but nothing is said about their proceed- 
 ings. The gentleman then relates to Kent the emotion of 
 Cordelia at learning of her father's ill-usage by her sisters : 
 
 " Once or twice she heaved the name of ' father ' 
 Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart ; 
 Cried ' Sisters ! sisters ! Shame of ladies ! sisters ! 
 Kent ! father ! sisters ! What ! i' the storm ? i' the night ? 
 Let pity not be believed ! ' There she shook 
 The holy water from her heavenly eyes. 
 And clamour-moisten'd, then away she started 
 To deal with grief alone." 
 
 Kent then says that the poor broken-down king, repent- 
 ing his past conduct, cannot at present bear to see this 
 dutiful daughter : 
 
 " A sovereign shame so elbows him ; his own unkindness. 
 That stripp'd her from his benediction, turned her 
 To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights 
 To his dog-hearted daughters." 
 
 Here Kent surely maligns the faithful canine race, 
 usually, if not always, superior to such human specimens : 
 
 " These things sting 
 His mind so venomously that burning shame 
 Detains him from Cordelia." 
 
 They then go to the king, and in the following scene 
 Cordelia appears with a physician in a tent with soldiers, 
 her husband's French subjects, yet likely joined by English 
 allies. This imaginary French invasion of England, 
 
400 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Shakespeare invents for the sake of his tragedy, but intro- 
 duces no Frenchmen. It might be his intention to indicate 
 an English rising in favour of Lear, with only slight assist- 
 ance from England's ancient foe. Cordelia hears that Lear 
 is quite deranged in mind, and wanders about talking or 
 singing to himself among the fields of his former obedient 
 kingdom. She orders a careful search after him, and con- 
 sults the physician about her father's reported mental 
 condition, and exclaims : 
 
 " Seek, seek for him, 
 Lest his ungovem'd rage dissolve the life 
 That wants the means to lead it. 
 
 . . . Oh, dear father ! 
 
 It is thy business that I go about ; 
 
 Therefore, great France, 
 
 My mourning and important tears hath pitied. 
 
 No blown ambition doth our arms incite, 
 
 But love, dear love, and our aged father's right." 
 
 The next scene is in Gloster's castle, now conferred 
 with the title on Edmund, where the widow Regan meets 
 Oswald, her sister Goneril's trusted servant, and who brings 
 a letter for Edmund, which arouses Regan's jealous 
 suspicions of her sister. Hitherto Goneril and Regan had 
 been thoroughly united in feeling and policy, but their love, 
 if such it can be called, for Edmund, now makes them 
 deadly enemies. The remorseless Regan, who, like 
 Goneril, thoroughly trusts the rascal, Oswald, now says to 
 him, regretting that old Gloster had not been executed : 
 
 " It was great ignorance. 
 To let him live ; where he arrives he moves 
 All hearts E^ainst us." 
 
 Oswald then says he must seek out Edmund to give 
 him Goneril's letter. Regan then exclaims, full of jealous 
 animosity : 
 
 " Why should she write to Edmund ? Might not you 
 Transport her purpose by word ? Belike, 
 Something — I know not what. I'll love thee much, 
 Let me unseal the letter.'' 
 
 She thus tries to tamper with Goneril's messenger. 
 
KING LEAR 401 
 
 while he, naturally alarmed or perplexed between these 
 two dangerous ladies, both of whom he would like to please, 
 hesitatingly replies : 
 
 " Madam, I had rather " 
 
 when Regan interrupts him : 
 
 " I know your lady does not love her husband ; 
 I am sure of that : and at her late being here 
 She gave strange oeilliads and most speaking looks 
 To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom." 
 
 Oswald now interrupts, perhaps imagining Regan 
 means that Goneril loves him, and deprecating the idea : 
 
 " I, madam?" 
 
 and Regan, calmly explaining, proceeds : 
 
 " I speak in understanding ; you are, I know 't. 
 Therefore I do advise you, take this note : 
 My lord is dead ; Edmund and I have talk'd, 
 And more convenient is he for my hand 
 Than for your lady's. You must gather more 
 If you do find him, pray you give him this." 
 
 Then believing that she as a widow has more right to 
 marry Edmund than her sister, Goneril, she adds : 
 
 " And when your mistress hears thus much from you 
 I pray desire her call her wisdom to her ; 
 So fare you well. " 
 
 Then recollecting that the poor Earl 01 Gloster is still 
 living, and may make dangerous complaints of her and 
 Goneril, Regan tempts Oswald to slay him ; 
 
 " If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor. 
 Preferment falls on him that cuts him off." 
 
 Oswald devoted to both sisters eagerly rejoins : 
 
 " Would I could meet him, madam : I would show 
 What party I do follow." 
 
 He departs without apparently showing Goneril's secret 
 letter to Edmund, the contents of which the jealous Regan 
 suspects, both these sisters being now alike captivated by 
 Edmund, who, bold, handsome, and courteous, for some 
 time seems to please and deceive all he addresses. 
 
 2 C 
 
402 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The next scene is near Dover, where old Gloster and 
 his son Edgar, the latter disguised as a peasant, and 
 talking like one, are on the road to it. Edgar, doubtless 
 guessing his unhappy father's contemplated suicide, stops 
 at a safe place, pretending it is at the top of the dangerous 
 cliff Gloster had previously named. He thus describes it 
 to his father who never recognises him, in Shakespeare's 
 noble style, in one of the finest passages for its length in 
 the play : 
 
 " Come on, sir ; here's the place : stand still. 
 How fearfiil 
 And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low ! 
 The crows and choughs that wing the midway air 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles ; half way down 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade ! 
 The fishermen that walk upon the beach 
 
 Appear like mice The murmuring surge, 
 
 That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes. 
 Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more. 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 Topple down headlong." 
 
 This vivid, terrific description never frightens the de- 
 spairing Gloster, who, resolved on suicide, firmly answers, 
 with an evident fatal purpose : 
 
 " Set me where you stand." 
 
 Edgar determines to save him, yet knowing he must be 
 
 for the present deceived, replies : 
 
 " Give me your hand ; you are now within a foot 
 Of the extreme verge ; for all beneath the moon 
 Would I not leap upright." 
 
 His father calmly rejoins : 
 
 " Let go my hand. 
 Here, friend, 's another purse ; in it a jewel 
 Well worth a poor man's taking ; fairies and gods 
 Prosper it with thee ! Go thou farther off ; 
 Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going." 
 
 Edgar, pretending to leave, bids him farewell, exclaim- 
 ing to himself : 
 
 " Why I do trifle thus with his despair 
 Is done to cure it," 
 
KING LEAR 403 
 
 Gloster then thinking himself unheard, addresses a 
 devout prayer to those pagan gods in whose sight suicide 
 was hardly deemed a crime : 
 
 " O you mighty gods ! 
 This world I do renounce, and in your sights 
 Shake patiently my great affliction off ; 
 
 If Edgar live, O, bless him ! " 
 
 He attempts to leap, but merely falls unhurt on the 
 ground, believing he has fallen down the cliff, while Edgar, 
 pretending that he has, and raising him, asks, as if he 
 were a stranger, doubtless in an altered voice : 
 
 " What are you, sir ? " 
 
 Gloster replies ; 
 
 " Away and let me die" ; 
 
 and Edgar proceeds, pretending to wonder at his safe fall : 
 
 " Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air. 
 So many fathoms down precipitating, 
 Thou'dst shiver'd like an egg ; but thou dost breathe 
 
 Thy life's a miracle. Speak yet again." 
 
 Gloster asks : 
 
 " But have I fallen or no ?" 
 
 and Edgar, pretending not to perceive his blindness, 
 replies : 
 
 " From the dread summit of this chalky bourne, 
 Look up a-height ; " 
 
 Gloster sadly answers : 
 
 " Alack ! I have no eyes " ; 
 
 and Edgar rejoins : 
 
 ' ' Give me your arm : 
 Up : So ; how is't ? Feel you your legs ? You stand." 
 
 Gloster sadly answers, wishing he were dead ; 
 
 " Too well, loo well." 
 
404 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Edgar rejoins, keeping up his poor father's delusion for 
 his sake : 
 
 " This is above all strangeness," 
 
 and asks him who it was that lately parted from him. 
 Gloster imagines it was some beggar, evidently not recog- 
 nising the same man in Edgar, who trying to comfort him 
 and explain how his attempt at suicide failed, exclaims : 
 
 " Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours 
 Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee." 
 
 Gloster, reconciled to live if the gods desire it, replies : 
 
 " I do remember now ; henceforth I'll bear 
 Affliction till it do cry out itself, 
 ' Enough, enough,' and die." 
 
 While they are speaking, Lear appears, now quite 
 insane, fantastically dressed with ilowers. The disguised 
 Edgar at once recognises the old king, who though raving 
 and wild in his words is bitterly referring to his ungrateful 
 daughters. Gloster himself knows Lear's voice, and asks : 
 
 " The trick of that voice I do well remember : Is 't not the king ? " 
 
 Lear catches up the word and wildly exclaims : 
 
 " Ay, every inch a king ; 
 When I do stare, see how the subject quakes." 
 
 During his vague, rambling talk^ he often alludes to his 
 late treatment, while seeming to abhor human nature in 
 strange repulsive language, when Gloster, at the sound of 
 his once respected voice, recalling old times, exclaims : 
 
 " O ! let me kiss that hand." 
 
 Lear replies : 
 
 " Let me wipe it first ; it smells of mortality," 
 
 and Gloster, now knowing Lear's real condition, though 
 unable to see him, exclaims : 
 
 " O ruin'd piece of nature ! 
 
 . . . Dost thou know me ? " 
 
\ KING LEAR 40S 
 
 \ 
 
 Lear at first answers vaguely, his distracted mind 
 
 hurrying from one subject to another, yet he partly 
 
 perceives that Gloster is blind, and says : 
 
 " A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine 
 eaiB : see how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark, in thine ear : 
 change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? 
 Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar?" 
 
 To this sudden, yet simple question, Gloster answers : 
 "Ay, sir," 
 
 and the crazy king proceeds with a strange mixture of 
 common-sense and mental distraction : 
 
 " And the creature run from the cur ? There thou might'st behold the 
 great image of authority ; a dog's obeyed in office 
 
 Get thee glass eyes ; 
 And, like a scurvy politician, seem 
 To see the things thou dost not." 
 
 Lear's extraordinary language, so wild, disordered, yet 
 full of meaning, compels Edgar to express his feelings : 
 
 " O ! matter and impertinency mix'd ; 
 Reason in madness." 
 
 Lear, as if vaguely guessing from their sad voices that 
 they pity him, but unable to keep his mind long upon any 
 subject, yet recognises his former subject, while too con- 
 fused to ask him questions. 
 
 " If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes ; 
 I know thee well enough ; thy name is Gloster ; 
 Thou must be patient." 
 
 Here he again seems to lose his subject, and vaguely 
 
 proceeds : 
 
 " I will preach to thee : mark. 
 
 When we are born, we cry that we are come 
 To this great stage of fools." 
 
 Recollections of his present state then make hint break 
 off and devise or compose a plot against his triumphant 
 
 foes : 
 
 " It were a delicate stratagem to shoe 
 A troop of horse with felt ; I'll put 't in proof, 
 And when I have stol'n upon these sons-in-law 
 Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill 1 " 
 I 
 
4o6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 At this moment the friendly gentleman who had spoken 
 
 to Kent, appears with attendants, exclaiming, though with 
 
 all respect : 
 
 " O ! here he is ; lay hand upon him. Sir, 
 Your most dear daughter " 
 
 He means Cordelia, but Lear, alarmed, and fancying 
 
 himself arrested, exclaims : 
 
 " No rescue ? What ! a prisoner ? I am even 
 The natural fool of fortune. Use me well ; 
 You shall have ransom.'' 
 
 Then as if conscious of an injured brain, and attributing 
 it to wounds, he asks : 
 
 " Let me have surgeons ; 
 I am cut to the brains.'' 
 
 The gentleman, anxious to soothe him, replies : 
 
 " You shall have anything," 
 
 while Lear confused, yet never really terrified, occasionally 
 remembers who he is, but cannot hold the same idea long. 
 
 The varied sketches of Lear when maddened for a time 
 by misfortune, of the jester, always of weak intellect, and 
 of Edgar, a man of sound sense assuming madness, are so 
 strangely yet forcibly contrasted, that perhaps only medi- 
 cal men, specially studying mental derangements, could 
 appreciate them or decide if they are true or not to real 
 nature. 
 
 Lear, amid his excitement and distraction, again 
 remembers himself, exclaiming between command and 
 
 entreaty : 
 
 " Come, come, I am a king. 
 My masters, know you that ? " 
 
 The gentleman, trying to calm him, rejoins : 
 " You are a royal one, and we obey you." 
 
 These words, though unable to restore Lear's senses, 
 yet prevent his becoming desperate, and he replies in giddy 
 confusion, as if somewhat relieved : 
 
 " Then there's life in'L Nay, an you get it, you shall get it by running. 
 Sa, sa, sa, sa," 
 
KING LEAR 407 
 
 and he runs off, thinking he has made his escape, but is 
 followed by attendants, who evidently care for his safety. 
 
 Meantime, Edgar and the gentleman converse about 
 the impending battle of Goneril's and Regan's forces with the 
 French rescuers, and probably some English allies joining 
 Cordelia. The gentleman, whose name is never given, 
 then departs, leaving Gloster and Edgar alone. The 
 former vainly asks Edgar who he is, but the latter still 
 conceals his name from his father, while leading him and 
 receiving his thanks. 
 
 Oswald now appears before them, eager to slay Gloster 
 for the promised reward. Edgar assumes the accent and 
 words of a poor peasant and no longer talks like a madman. 
 Oswald, recognising the helpless Gloster, eagerly exclaims : 
 
 " A proclaim'd prize ! Most happy I 
 That eyeless head of thine was first framed flesh 
 To raise rny fortunes." 
 
 Then addressing his intended victim with a charitable 
 interest in his future : 
 
 " Thou old unhappy trailer, 
 Briefly thyself remember : the sword is out 
 That must destroy thee.'' 
 
 Gloster aware of his danger though seeing nothing, and 
 no longer wishing for death, appeals to Edgar : 
 
 " Now let thy friendly hand 
 Put strength enough to't." 
 
 Edgar comes forward, and Oswald, seeing himself 
 opposed, exclaims : 
 
 " Wherefore, bold peasant, 
 Darest thou support a publish'd traitor ? 
 
 Let go his arm." 
 
 Edgar, speaking in a coarse country dialect, replies 
 " Chill not let go, zur, without vurther 'casion.' 
 
 Oswald only retorts : 
 
 " Let go, slave, or thou diest." 
 
4o8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Edgar continues speaking in a style which both 
 deceives and provokes Oswald : 
 
 " Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volk pass Nay, come 
 
 not near th' old man ; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whither your costard or 
 my ballow ^ be the harder. Chill be plain with you." 
 
 Oswald, in scornful rage, retorts : 
 " Out, dunghill ! " 
 
 to which Edgar calmly replies : 
 
 " Chill pick your teeth, zur. Come ; no matter vor your foins." 
 
 They fight, and Edgar, doubtless a skilled swordsman, 
 inflicts a mortal wound on the wretch, Oswald, who falls 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse " ; 
 
 then as if anxious, as some other villains have been said 
 to be about their burial : 
 
 "If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body ; 
 And give the letters which thou find'st about me 
 To Edmund, Earl of Gloster ; seek him out. 
 
 O ! untimely death." 
 
 Still full of base plots, he expires, while Edgar 
 exclaims, recognising him : 
 
 " I know thee well, a serviceable villain ; 
 As duteous to the vices of thy mistress 
 As badness would desire." 
 
 He then examines the dead wretch's letters, finding one 
 from Goneril to Edmund. This wicked, most important 
 missive tempts Edmund to murder her husband, Albany, 
 and marry her, in these decisive words : 
 
 " Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities 
 to cut him off. . . . There is nothing done if he return the conqueror ; then am 
 I the prisoner ; .... whereofdeliver me, and supply the place for your labour. 
 Your — wife, so I would say — 
 
 Affectionate servant, 
 
 Goneril." 
 
 ^ Staflf. 
 
KING LEAR 409 
 
 Edgar, on reading this, exclaims, in horrified astonish- 
 ment : 
 
 " A plot upon her virtuous husband's life. 
 And the exchange my brother ! " 
 
 He then hides the letter, resolved to show it to Albany 
 on the first opportunity. 
 
 He leads away his helpless father, intending to bestow 
 him " with a friend," and then devote himself to Albany's 
 service, and take active part in the impending contest. 
 
 The next scene is in the French camp, where Lear is on 
 a bed asleep, attended by a physician, while Cordelia enters 
 with Kent, whom she warmly thanks for his steady de- 
 votion to the unfortunate king, whose violent, ungovernable 
 temper had indeed been the cause of all their misfortunes 
 and his own. Kent, the model of a thoroughly honest 
 man, frankly answers : 
 
 " To be acknowledged, madam, is o'er-paid. 
 All my reports go with the modest truth, 
 Nor more, nor clipp'd, but so." 
 
 Cordelia then prays for her sleeping father : 
 
 " O you kind gods, 
 Cure this great breach in his abused nature ! 
 The untun'd and jarring senses, O ! wind up 
 Of this child-changed father." 
 
 The physician now proposes to wake Lear, who has not 
 yet received his daughter. When he awakes he is at first 
 too confused or weak to remember where he is or who are 
 with him. At length Cordelia addresses him : 
 
 " O ! look upon me, sir, 
 And hold your hands in benediction o'er me. 
 No, sir, you must not kneel." 
 
 Lear, evidently confused at her respect and affection, 
 hardly believing she is in earnest, replies, gradually re- 
 membering who and where he is : 
 
 " Pray, do not mock me ; 
 I am a very foolish fond old man, 
 And to deal plainly, 
 I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
 Methinks I should know you and know this man 
 
410 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Yet I am doubtful : for I am mainly ignorant 
 What place this is. 
 
 Nor I know not 
 Where I did lodge last night." 
 
 His mind, gradually regaining strength, though still 
 confused, he continues, at first doubtful, then with a burst 
 of recognition : 
 
 " Do not laugh at me ; 
 For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
 To be my child Cordelia." 
 
 She answers : 
 
 " And so I am, I am." 
 
 Lear, remembering her voice, at the same time recalls his 
 own conduct to her, as she weeps, and he exclaims in con- 
 fused self-reproach : 
 
 " Be your tears wet? Yes, feith. I pray, weep not : 
 If you have poison for me, I will drink it. 
 I know you do not love me ; for your sisters 
 Have, as I do remember, done me wrong : 
 You have some cause, they have not." 
 
 Cordelia, ever dutiful, and whose angelic character seems 
 incapable of resenting injury, replies with more affection 
 than truth : 
 
 " No cause, no cause." 
 
 Lear, vaguely remembering her marriage with the 
 French king, asks : 
 
 "Am I in France?" 
 
 to which question the loyal Kent, who could never endure 
 his king's abdication, proudly replies : 
 
 " In your own kingdom, sir.'' 
 
 Lear, hardly believing in the sudden respect now shown 
 
 him, answers : 
 
 " Do not abuse me," 
 
 while the physician here interposes, his valuable medical 
 experience specially enabling him to well understand the 
 
KING l.EAR 4" 
 
 king's mental as well as bodily condition. He says to 
 Cordelia : 
 
 " Be comforted, good madam ; the great rage 
 
 You see, is kiU'd in him ; and yet it is danger 
 
 To make him even o'er the time he has lost. 
 
 Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more 
 
 Till ftirther settling," 
 
 Cordelia, with the same respect she has always shown 
 to her passionate, unfortunate father, addresses him like 
 a dutiful subject : 
 
 ■ ' \Yill 't please your highness walk ? '" 
 
 Lear now convinced who she is, and who are with him, 
 yet weak and confused while full of thanks, feebly replies : 
 
 " You must bear with me. 
 Pray you now, forget and forgive : I am old and foolish.'' 
 
 He, Cordelia, the physician and attendants, wthdraw, 
 while Kent and tlie loyal gentleman who does not recog- 
 nise him converse about the approaching battle, and know 
 that Edmund now commands Regan's forces in place of her 
 late husband, Cornwall. Though both Kent and the gentle- 
 man are on Lear's side, the former preser\'es his disguise, 
 and they part, apparently not together, yet in the same 
 opinion and devotion to the cause of Lear. 
 
 The fifth, and last Act begins in the English camp near 
 Dover, where Regan and Edmund are leather, in nominal 
 alliance with Albany and Goneril, but all three distrust 
 Albany, while the two sisters are both in love with Edmund. 
 The latter is now almost at the summit of his guilty ambi- 
 tion. He, the illegitimate son of Gloster, has obtained his 
 father's rank and fortune while heading Regan's forces, and 
 beloved alike by her and her sister. Edmund and Regan, 
 however, are now disappointed at the non-return of the 
 slain Oswald, the trusty go-between of the wicked sisters. 
 Regan, jealous of Goneril, tries to prejudice Edmund 
 against her, but he, equally deceitful, apparently cares no 
 more for one than for the other, while crafHIy professing 
 respectful devotion to both. These odious princesses, 
 though hardened against everybody else, being equally 
 
412 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 captivated by Edmund, begin for the first time to hate each 
 other. Regan, though savage as a tigress, now tries to 
 cajole or win over Edmund, who is quite her match, perhaps 
 even more so, in profound, selfish duplicity. She asks, with 
 insinuating coaxing words : 
 
 "Now, sweet lord. 
 You know the goodness I intend upon you : 
 Tell me, but truly, but then speak the truth, 
 Do you not love my sister ? " 
 
 Edmund guardedly replies : 
 
 "In honour'd love." 
 
 But she is hardly satisfied with this answer, and proceeds; 
 
 " I never shall endure her : dear my lord. 
 Be not familiar with her." 
 
 Edmund, wishing to lull her suspicions, calmly replies : 
 
 -'Fear me notj" 
 
 and then enter Goneril and Albany. The former reveals 
 her overpowering jealousy of Regan by saying to herself 
 at seeing her sister and Edmund together : 
 
 " I had rather lose the battle than that sister 
 Should loosen him and me." 
 
 Albany, hitherto ignorant of the real characters of his 
 wife and her sister, but gradually understanding them, thus 
 reveals his aversion to the war, though compelled by his 
 position to act in alliance with Goneril and Regan : 
 
 " The king is come to his daughter, 
 With others whom the rigour of our state 
 Forc'd to cry out. Where I could not be honest, 
 I never yet was valiant : for this business, 
 It toucheth us, as France invades our land. 
 Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear, 
 Most just and heavy causes make oppose." 
 
 Edmund, a most consummate hypocrite, always self- 
 controlled, replies : 
 
 " Sir, you speak nobly," 
 
 while the more violent tempers of Regan and Goneril make 
 
KING LEAR 413 
 
 them openly scorn and distrust Albany, who reluctantly 
 agrees to take chief command in the coming battle. 
 
 As they go out, Edgar appears disguised, and obtains a 
 short private interview with Albany, to whom he delivers 
 the all-important letter, found upon Oswald's body, from 
 Goneril to Edmund, advising Albany's murder. Edgar 
 says: 
 
 " Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. 
 If you have victory, let the trumpet sound 
 For him that brought it : wretched though I seem, 
 I can produce a champion that will prove 
 What is avouched there. 
 
 . . . Let but the herald cry, 
 And I'll appear again." 
 
 Edgar departs, leaving the letter with Albany, and 
 Edmund returns announcing the enemy is in view. Albany 
 hastens to the scene, and Edmund, in soliloquy, briefly 
 reviews his present extraordinary position. 
 
 At first sight there seems something almost ludicrous 
 in the perplexity of this dangerous man, placed as it were 
 between two fires, in the rival sisters loving him, but in this 
 terrible tragedy there is no cause for merriment. All is 
 sad and terrible, though highly interesting, and as a study 
 of human nature most instructive. Edmund evidently 
 cares no more for one than for the other of these princesses, 
 who, despite their hardened natures, are alike completely 
 captivated by this attractive, accomplished deceiver. He 
 exclaims with cautious cunning, perhaps with some sarcasm, 
 quite determined and absorbed in his personal ambition : 
 
 " To both these sisters have I sworn my love ; 
 Each jealous of the.other, as the stung 
 Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take ? 
 Both ? one ? or neither ? Neither can be enjoy'd 
 If both remain alive : to take the widow 
 Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril ; 
 And hardly shall I carry out my side, 
 Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use 
 His countenance for the battle ; which being done, 
 Let her who would be rid of him devise 
 His speedy taking off." 
 
414 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Having thus shaped his hateful policy towards Albany 
 and the princesses, the remorseless villain proceeds, knowing 
 the former's merciful nature : 
 
 " As for the mercy 
 Which he intends to Lear and to CordeUa, 
 The battle done, and they within our power. 
 Shall never see his pardon : for my state 
 Stands on me to defend, not to debate." 
 
 He withdraws, and the next scene is in a field between 
 
 the two camps. Edgar is with his father, Gloster, to 
 
 whom he announces the defeat of Lear's rescuers and his 
 
 capture, together with that of Cordelia, by the forces of 
 
 Goneril and Regan, respectively commanded by Albany 
 
 and Edmund, now styled Earl of Gloster. Edgar then 
 
 leads his helpless father away to some safer place, and the 
 
 following most important scene in the concluding play 
 
 is in the English camp near Dover. Edmund is here 
 
 victorious and in command, Lear and Cordelia being now 
 
 his prisoners, and he haughtily exclaims : ^ 
 
 " Some officers take them away : good guard. 
 Until their greater pleasures first be known. 
 That are to censure them." 
 
 Cordelia mildly addresses her father and fellow-captive : 
 
 " We are not the first 
 Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst. 
 For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down ; 
 Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown." 
 
 She then asks, perhaps addressing Edmund : 
 " Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters ? " 
 
 Lear, who has no wish to see them, and is now wholly 
 
 absorbed in love and gratitude towards his one dutiful 
 
 daughter, exclaims, perhaps hardly comprehending his 
 
 actual situation : 
 
 " No, no, no, no ! 
 Come, let's away to prison ; 
 We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage ; 
 When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down 
 And ask of thee forgiveness : 
 
 And we'll wear out, 
 In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones' 
 That ebb and flow by the moon." 
 
KING LEAR 415 
 
 Edmund, utterly unmoved and hardened, quite en- 
 grossed by personal ambition, says to his followers : 
 
 " Take them away ; " 
 
 and Lear proceeds : 
 
 " Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, 
 The gods themselves throw incense. 
 Have I caught thee ? 
 
 He that parts us shall bring a brapd from Heaven 
 And fire us hence like foxes." 
 
 They depart as prisoners, and Edmund gives secret 
 
 orders about them to a subordinate officer in these ominous 
 
 words : 
 
 " Take thou this note : 
 Go follow them to prison. 
 One step I have advanc'd thee ; 
 
 To be tender-minded 
 Does not become a sword ; 
 
 Either say thou'lt do it, 
 Or thrive by other means." 
 
 His officer replies : 
 
 " I'll do't, my lord," 
 
 and the villain, Edmund, almost in the words of Richard III., 
 when giving somewhat similar fatal orders, rejoins : 
 
 " About it ; and write happy when thou hast done." 
 
 The man departs, and Goneril, Regan and Albany 
 appear with attendants. Albany, who though now supreme, 
 distrusts Edmund and the two princesses, coldly congratu- 
 lates Edmund on the victory, and demands the surrender 
 to him of Lear and Cordelia. Edmund replies : 
 
 " Sir, I thought it fit 
 To send the old and miserable king 
 To some retention and appointed guard, 
 
 With him I sent the queen : and they are ready 
 To-morrow, or at further space, to appear 
 Where yon shall hold your session. At this time 
 We sweat and blefed ; the friend hath lost his friend 
 And the best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed 
 By those that feel their sharpness : 
 The question af Cordelia and her father 
 Requires a fitter place." 
 
4i6 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Edmund's new importance and presuming style offend 
 Albany, who replies with dignity : 
 
 " Sir, by your patience, 
 I hold you but a subject of this war. 
 Not SIS a brother." 
 
 These words arouse Regan, who hoping to marry 
 Edmund and share power with him equal to that of 
 Albany, exclaims proudly : 
 
 " That 's as we list to grace him : 
 Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded, 
 Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers, 
 Bore the commission of my place and person ; 
 The which immediacy may well stand up. 
 And call itself your brother." 
 
 Goneril's jealousy now breaks forth, as she exclaims : 
 
 " Not so hot ; 
 In his own grace he doth exalt himself 
 More than in your addition.'' 
 
 Regan haughtily retorts : 
 
 " In my rights, 
 By me invested, he compeers the best.'' 
 
 Goneril sarcastically rejoins : 
 
 " That were the most, if he should husband you," 
 
 and Regan, evidently irritated, answers : 
 "Jesters do oft prove prophets." 
 
 Goneril, enraged, yet trying to command her passion, 
 scornfully exclaims : 
 
 " Holla, holla ! 
 That eye that told you so look'd but a-squint." 
 
 These hateful sisters, hardened and callous towards 
 every one except Edmund, are thus made by Shakespeare 
 to hate each other with fatal consequences, as Regan, 
 feeling ill, but not knowing why, replies to her sister : 
 
 " Lady, I am not well, else I should answer 
 From a full flowing stomach." 
 
KING LEAR 417 
 
 Then addressing Edmund, with passionate devotion : 
 
 " General, 
 Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony : 
 Dispose of them, of me ; the walls are thine 
 Witness the world, that I create thee here 
 My lord and master.'' 
 
 Goneril, in hardly suppressed rage, asks : 
 " Mean you to enjoy him ? " 
 
 Albany, who now knows all about the detestable trio 
 beside him, and appreciates them accordingly, calmly 
 observes, with some sarcasm : 
 
 " The let-alone lies not in your good will." 
 
 Edmund, thinking he can now defy Albany, retorts : 
 " Nor in thine, lord." 
 
 To him Albany haughtily replies, alluding to Edmund's 
 
 illegitimacy : 
 
 " Half-blooded fellow, yes." 
 
 Regan then exclaims to Edmund : 
 
 " Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine." 
 
 Albany now knows it is time to proclaim his private 
 knowledge and supreme power together, and exclaims, 
 doubtless to the astonishment of his three guilty hearers : 
 
 " Stay yet, hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee 
 On capital treason ; and in thine arrest 
 This gilded serpent." [Pointing to Goneril. 
 
 Then in bitter, but well-deserved sarcasm, he addresses 
 
 Regan : 
 
 " For your claim, fair sister, 
 I bar it in the interest of my wife j 
 'Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord, 
 And I, her husband, contradict your banns. 
 If you will marry, make your love to me. 
 My lady is bespoke." 
 
 Goneril here exclaims : 
 
 "An interlude!" 
 2 D 
 
4i8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and stops as if confounded at her plots being discovered, 
 and wishing to gain time ; while Albany now thoroughly 
 master of the situation, addressing Edmund by his usurped 
 title, exclaims : 
 
 " Thou art arm'd, Gloster ; let the trumpet sound ; 
 If none appear to prove upon thy person 
 Thy heinous, manifest and many treasons, 
 There is my pledge ; [ Throwing down a glove. 
 
 I 'U make it on thy heart. 
 Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less 
 Than I have here proclaim'd thee." 
 
 The wretched Regan unconsciously reveals the truth, 
 exclaiming of herself: 
 
 " Sick ! O, sick ! " 
 
 while Goneril to herself explains the cause in words of 
 fearful meaning : 
 
 " If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine." 
 
 Meantime Edmund throws down his glove accepting 
 Albany's challenge. Each summons a herald, but Albany 
 is alone obeyed, as he says to Edmund : 
 
 " Trust to thy single virtue ; for thy soldiers, 
 All levied in my name, have in my name 
 Took their discharge. " 
 
 Regan, becoming rapidly worse under the effects of the 
 poison, and no longer able to take part in this terrible 
 scene, again exclaims : 
 
 " My sickness grows upon me,'' 
 
 and is led away by Albany's order. 
 
 A herald then reads out Albany's defiance, and at the 
 sound of the third trumpet Edgar appears armed and 
 unexpected by all except Albany. He defies Edmund, 
 who never recognises him, to mortal combat, declaring that 
 despite his valour and good fortune, he is a thorough 
 
 traitor : 
 
 " False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father, 
 Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince. 
 And, from the extremest upward of thy head 
 To the descent and dust below thy foot, 
 A most toad-spotted traitor." 
 
KING LEAR 419 
 
 Edmund indignantly denying the charge, they instantly 
 fight, and Edgar mortally wounds his wicked brother, who 
 falls. 
 
 At this crisis, Goneril eagerly interposes, exclaiming : 
 
 " This is practice, Gloster. 
 By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer 
 An unknown opposite, thou art not vanquish'd 
 But cozen'd and beguil'd." 
 
 Albany, fully knowing her guilt, exclaims, with decisive 
 effect : 
 
 " Shut your mouth, dame. 
 Or with this paper shall I stop it. Hold, sir. 
 Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil/' 
 
 He apparently presents or shows Goneril's letter to 
 her, and she vainly tries to snatch it as he exclaims : 
 
 " No tearing, lady ; I perceive you know it," 
 
 and gives it to Edmund. Then Goneril, in a fit of im- 
 potent rage for the last time, exclaims : 
 
 " Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine ; 
 Who shall arraign me for 't ? " [Exit. 
 
 She evidently rushes wildly off after these few words of 
 defiance, as Albany exclaims : 
 
 " Go after her, she's desperate, govern her," 
 and asks Edmund : 
 
 " Most monstrous ! Knowest thou this paper ? " 
 
 and Edmund, as if conscience-struck and sinking fast, 
 replies : 
 
 " Ask me not what I know.'' 
 
 Then, knowing all is over with him, Edmund proceeds 
 to confess his long-concealed guilt, replying to Albany's 
 question : 
 
 " What you have charg'd me with, that have 1 done. 
 And more, much more ; the time will bring it out. 
 'Tis past, and so am I " 
 
420 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then addressing his slayer, he asks : 
 
 " But what art thou 
 That hast this fortune on me ? If thou'rt noble, 
 I do forgive thee." 
 
 Edgar rejoins : 
 
 " Let's exchange charity. 
 I am no less in blood than thou art. 
 If more, the more thou hast wrong'd me, 
 My name is Edgar, and thy father's son," 
 
 and in deep reproach, recalling his illegitimate brother's 
 baseness to their father, he exclaims : 
 
 " The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 
 Make instruments to plague us." 
 
 The dying Edmund replies : 
 
 " Thou hast spoken right, 'tis true. 
 The wheel is come full circle ; I am here." 
 
 Albany, congratulating the wronged Edgar, npw vic- 
 torious, says, alluding to his previous disguise : 
 
 " Methought thy very gait did prophesy 
 A royal nobleness — I must embrace thee. 
 Let sorrow split my heart if ever I 
 Did hate thee or thy father." 
 
 Edgar warmly replies : 
 
 " Worthy prince, I know it.'' 
 
 Albany asks where he concealed himself, and how he 
 came to know of his poor father's misewes, and Edgar 
 describes his own dangerous escape, also mow he met and 
 protected his helpless, injured father, who has just died 
 from the effects of over excitement : 
 
 " Became his j 
 Led him, begg'd for him, saved hin^from despair ; 
 Never (Oh fault !) reveal'd myselfmnto him. 
 Until some half-hour past, whenyl was arm'd ; 
 Not sure, though hoping, of this'good success, 
 I ask'd his blessing, and from ftrst to last 
 Told him my pilgrimage ; bu/mis flaw'd heart, 
 Alack ! too weak the conflict/to support ; 
 'Twixt two extremes of pasjtwn, joy and grief, 
 Burst smilingly.'' 
 
KING L 
 
 421 
 
 This pathetic record, uttered at such a lik 
 avenging Edgar, has its effect even on the 
 Edmund. He is now cut off in the midst of his sins, and 
 with all his hopes of power and pleasure blasted at the 
 moment of acquisition, he cannot help in his weakened, 
 dying state recognising a divine judgement. Though the 
 guilty cause of as much sin and misery as either lago or 
 Richard III., he does not at his end reveal the same re- 
 morseless spirit, but as if finally overcome by defeat, 
 detection, and approaching death, almost at the same 
 moment exclaims as if a different man : 
 
 " This speech of yours hath moved me. 
 And shall perchance do good ; but speak'you on. 
 VoQ look as you had something more to say. " 
 
 ^dgar then tells him, and the noble, sympathising 
 Albaiy, of the faithful Kent's devotion to the king, his 
 danges and disguises, and how when meeting his old 
 fdlow-^ibjects, Gloster and himself, he 
 
 *' Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him 
 That ever ear received ; which in recounting 
 His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life 
 Began to crack : twice then the trumpets sounded. 
 And there I left him tranced." 
 
 A gentleman now hastily enters, announcing that Regan 
 is poisoned b Groneril, who confessed the crime, and then 
 committed suade. Edmund exdciims at these fearful 
 news : 
 
 ■■ I'as contracted to them both : all three 
 W*» marry in an instant," 
 
 while Albany, wh. though shocked and horrified at such 
 guilt around him, irnains firm as a rock, and says : 
 
 " Produce thetodies. 
 This judgemt of tj,e heavens, that makes us tremble 
 Touches us no^jh pity." 
 
 Kent now enters, seek^ t^g captive king, when Albany 
 exclaims : 
 
 -eat thing of us fo^ot. 
 Speak, Edmund, « here's . ^mg , ^nd where's Cordelia ? " 
 
\ ^.aKESPeare studied 
 
 ) ''^ 
 
 ' „ ^^uuies of Goneril and Regan are here brought in, 
 
 and at sight of them Edmund is still able to exclaim : 
 
 " Yet Edmund was beloved : 
 The one the other poison'd for my sake, 
 And after slew herself." 
 
 To these words Albany, knowing their truth, sternly 
 rejoins : 
 
 " Even so. Cover their faces." 
 
 Then Edmund, though sinking, rouses himself for a last 
 effort, a desperate one indeed, yet showing some sign of 
 a too late repentance : 
 
 " I pant for life : some good I mean to do 
 Despite of mine own nature." 
 
 / 
 
 He then owns that he and Regan had ordered/ the 
 execution of Cordelia, who was to be accused of sycide, 
 and that Lear also was to share her fate. Edgar /ushes 
 off to rescue Cordelia while the dying Edmund is bc/ne off. 
 
 At this time Lear enters, bearing Cordelia deai in his 
 arms. He imagines at first that she still breves, ex- 
 claiming before Albany, Kent, and Edgar ; 
 
 " This feather stirs ! She lives ! If it be so 
 It is a chance which does redeem all sorrow^ 
 That ever I have felt." 
 
 Kent kneels, vainly trying to attract tho^ing's notice, 
 but the latter passionately exclaims v^n gradually 
 despairing of Cordelia's recovery : 
 
 " Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha ! 
 What is't thou sayest ? Her voice way^' soft, 
 Gentle and low, an excellent thing in /™*°- 
 
 Then with a last flash of his forme/pi"t he exclaims : 
 
 ' ' I kill'd the slave that was a-hangiiA"^^-" 
 
 An officer in attendance confir/ this news, yet the 
 wretched slave being only the in/|ment of Regan and 
 Edmund, his death was hardly a ydication of justice. 
 
 This incident is perhaps int/"ced to show the last 
 
KING LEAfe-.^^^ 423 
 
 spark of Lear's former spirit and energy.\ci;jjg_faijhful 
 Kent tries to make himself known to his king, who utterly 
 distracted by grief and trouble hardly notices him, except 
 in one sentence, when apparently recognising him for the 
 moment, he briefly exclaims : 
 
 " You are welcome hither." 
 
 He hears with scarcely any notice of the fate of 
 Goneril and Regan, when an officer announces Edmund's 
 death, which Albany terms "a trifle" compared to the 
 tragic scene before him. Lear, at length sure of Cordelia's 
 death, no longer wishes his own life prolonged. He 
 exclaims in final despair ; 
 
 " And my poor fool is hang'd ! No, no, no life ! 
 Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, 
 And thou no breath at all ? Thou'lt come no more. 
 Never, never, never, never, never ! " 
 
 At the fifth repetition of this fatal word, Lear's breath 
 evidently fails him, and he exclaims to those around him, 
 as if choking with embtion : 
 
 " Pray you undo this button " ; 
 
 this service being at once rendered, he says with a touch 
 of former courtesy : 
 
 " Thank you, sir." 
 
 Then with a last look at her whose virtues he has 
 never before appreciated, he utters his last words : 
 
 " Do you see this ? Look on her, look, her lips, 
 Look there, look there ! " 
 
 and these words end his troubled life. 
 
 Albany then addresses Kent and Edgar, now the only 
 three survivors of much importance in this tragedy, and 
 who are united in sympathy and friendship : 
 
 " Friends of my soul, you twain 
 Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain." 
 
 Kent, whose whole mind and thoughts are always 
 devpted to the king, replies : 
 
 " I have a journey, sir, shortly to go. 
 My master calls me, — I must not say no " ; 
 
424 j,^, .rs-ESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and Aihar.,- proceeds, apparently addressing Edgar : 
 
 " The weight of this sad time we must obey ; 
 The oldest hath borne most ; we that are young 
 Shall never see so much, nor live so long." 
 
 These words end this grand tragedy in which Shakes- 
 peare's utmost powers are shown, though entirely on the 
 pathetic side. The play, though of intense interest through- 
 out, contains really no comic element ; it is either sad or 
 serious from beginning to end. The so-called jester or 
 fool, whose fate is never distinctly mentioned, unless by 
 Lear in one vague sentence which may refer either to him 
 or to Cordelia, is never merry, and has certainly no reason 
 to be so. He is always true to the king, but his fantastic 
 talk during Lear's distress, and his attempts at warning 
 the misguided king, have nothing cheerful about them, 
 though occasionally displaying some flashes of his profes- 
 sional wit. 
 
 The vehement, wilful old sovereign had indeed brought 
 complete ruin on himself and many of those devoted to 
 him, though Albany, Kent and Edgar survive in melan- 
 choly triumph. Lear was apparently a complete despot at 
 first, freely threatening his subjects with death or banish- 
 ment, and encountering no remonstrance, far less opposition, 
 from any one except the submissive imploring Kent. 
 The king's downfall therefore though pitiable to the last 
 degree, and described with all the power and eloquence of 
 England's greatest poet, scarcely entitles him to the loyal, 
 unlimited devotion of such characters as Cordelia, Kent 
 and Gloster. Their sincere affection for such a wayward 
 monarch proves that Lear is never in his best days during 
 this play. He was evidently in former times kind, just and 
 beneficent, but sinking almost into dotage, or something 
 approaching it, when this tragedy begins. He thus storms 
 and rages at those who love him, and confers all wealth 
 and power on his two daughters, Goneril and Regan, whom 
 he must have known from childhood, but who deceive him 
 as completely as if they had been utter strangers endowed 
 with rare powers of deceit. The thorough success, how- 
 ever, achieved by unscrupulous persons in dealing with 
 
KING LEAR 425 
 
 those most intimate with them, Shakespeare minutely 
 describes in other plays, both fanciful and historical. 
 
 Thus in Othello the imaginary villain, lago, completely 
 deceives not only his commander but his friends, Cassio 
 and Roderigo, together with his own wife, Emilia. 
 
 In Richard III., the artful monarch deceives his two 
 elder brothers, as well as a number of English courtiers 
 familiar with him, as successfully as if they had never 
 known him from his youth ; and this account seems 
 certainly verified in the pages of history. 
 
 In like manner the imaginary King Lear with his three 
 daughters around him shows at the opening of the play a 
 practical ignorance of their differing characters, which 
 would seem impossible in real life, were not instances of a 
 similar kind occasionally found in the pages of impartial 
 history. Indeed, nothing can be more brilliant, prosperous 
 and promising than King Lear's apparent position at the 
 beginning of this play. He is surrounded by faithful 
 subjects, there is no rival to his throne, his three daughters 
 all in manner equally obedient and dutiful, the foreign 
 princes of France and Burgundy spending a complimentary 
 visit at his Court, and his two future sons-in-law, Albany 
 and Cornwall, probably the most powerful of his subjects, 
 alike apparently respectful and loyal. No reader could 
 indeed foresee or in any way apprehend the fearful progress 
 of events in this tragedy from its peaceful and happy com- 
 mencement, and Lear seems in many respects the spoiled 
 child of too much power, happiness and good fortune. 
 
 Shakespeare in this play, more perhaps than in any 
 other, indicates belief in people being morally better or 
 worse than is thought possible by some philosophical 
 moralists. It is a common idea that among human beings 
 the good and the evil have alike their faults and their 
 redeeming qualities, though in very unequal degrees. But 
 in King Lear, Shakespeare indicates a rather different 
 opinion. Thus Cordelia, Albany, the French king, Kent 
 and Edgar are represented without either guilt or weakness. 
 Everything they say and do seems worthy of a better 
 world and of a higher nature than human life presents. 
 
426 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 On the other hand, Goneril and Regan, Cornwall, Edmund 
 and Oswald seem no better than human ideas of evil 
 spirits endowed with worldly desires and limited in power 
 by human restraints, but in nature really diabolical. In 
 fact, all the above characters seem the extremes of good 
 and evil incarnate. Lear and Gloster, who perhaps are 
 more natural, are alike compounded of good and evil 
 qualities, and much resemble each other in both conduct 
 and personal history. They are generous, kind and 
 straightforward, yet violent, passionate and almost im- 
 placable in resentment. 
 
 Perhaps among the most remarkable features of this 
 noble tragedy is the steady, strict consistency of its various 
 personages. They seem as if described from either the 
 poet's individual knowledge, or from information given 
 him by personal acquaintances. Yet, in reality, all is due 
 to Shakespeare's mind alone, guided by a knowledge 
 of mankind never surpassed, if equalled, in the history of 
 our mortal race. - 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 The scene of this lively and beautiful play is laid at or 
 near Athens in its pagan days. The first scene is 
 there, in the palace of Theseus, Duke of Athens, who 
 is about to marry Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. 
 Although endowed with Greek names and surroundings, 
 this distinguished couple might well represent an English 
 prince and princess, while the subordinate personages, 
 though called Greeks, show a singular mixture of classic 
 Greek and English in their names. In taste and style 
 Theseus and Hippolyta rather resemble rural English 
 nobility of former times in their love of hunting and 
 promoting popular festivity, but their beautiful language is 
 that of Shakespeare alone, and such indeed as neither 
 Greeks or English, even the most accomplished, could 
 probably command. Their mcirriage is to be celebrated 
 four days after the play begins, and Hippolyta says to the 
 impatient Theseus : 
 
 " Four days will quickly steep themselves in night ; 
 Four daj-s wiU qnickly dream away the time ; 
 And then the moon, like to a silver bow 
 New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night 
 Of oui solemnities." 
 
 Theseus, wishing to encoureige general festivity, says to 
 his master of sports : 
 
 " Go, Philostiate, 
 Stir up the Athenian yoath to merriments," 
 
 427 
 
428 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and then addressing her, says : 
 
 " Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword, 
 And won thy love doing thee injuries ; 
 But I will wed thee in another key, 
 With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling." 
 
 An elderly Greek named Egeus, with his daughter 
 Hermia, now appears with two young Greeks, Lysander 
 and Demetrius, the former loving and loved by Hermia, 
 whose father wishes her to marry Demetrius. Egeus is 
 evidently an irritable or arbitrary father, and complains of 
 his daughter to Theseus, who wishes to be friendly and 
 gracious to both, but has to enforce the very severe 
 Athenian laws. Egeus thus appeals to the Duke, who 
 seems to reign independently of any other authority : 
 
 " Full of vexation come I, with complaint 
 Against my daughter Hermia. 
 Stand forth, Demetrius, 
 
 This man hath my consent to marry her. 
 Stand forth, Lysander : 
 
 Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes. 
 And interchanged love-tokens with my child ; 
 Thou hast by moonl^ht at her window sung. 
 With feigning voice, verses of feigning love ; 
 And stol'n the impression of her fantasy 
 With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits. 
 Knacks, trifles, nosegays. 
 
 With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart, 
 
 Turn'd her obedience, which is due to me. 
 
 To stubborn harshness. And my gracious duke 
 
 I beg the ancient privilege of Athens, 
 
 As she is mine, I may dispose of her ; 
 
 Which shall be either to this gentleman. 
 
 Or to her death, according to our law." 
 
 Theseus, rather pitying Hermia, yet knowing Egeus 
 has the law on his side, asks : 
 
 ' ' What say you, Hermia ? be advised, fair maid. 
 To you your father should be as a god ; 
 
 Demetrius is a worthy gentleman." 
 
 Hermia promptly replies : 
 
 " So is Lysander," 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 429 
 
 and Theseus rejoins : 
 
 "In himself he is ; 
 But in this kind, wanting your father's voice, 
 The other must be held the worthier." 
 
 Upon Hermia's asking what penalty she may incur by 
 rejecting Demetrius, Theseus declares that she must then 
 either die or become a nun. Theseus describes a convent 
 life in a way which of course no pagan prince could have 
 done, but in this play, as in many others, while the scenes 
 and characters may be nominally classic or foreign, the 
 ideas they express or suggest are thoroughly English, 
 though conveyed in words which only Shakespeare has 
 ever been able to command. Addressing Hermia, the 
 Athenian duke says decisively, but not unkindly, and 
 forced apparently to insist on rules or penalties, owing to 
 the position he holds : 
 
 " Fair Hermia, question your desires ; 
 
 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 mew'd, 
 
 Thrice blessed they that master so their blood. 
 
 But earthly happier is the rose distill'd, 
 Than that which withering on the virgin thorn 
 Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness." 
 
 Hermia firmly answers : 
 
 " So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, 
 Ere I will yield 
 
 Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke 
 My soul consents not to give sovereignty." 
 
 Theseus considerately replies : 
 
 "Take time to pause ; and by the next new moon 
 
 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.'' 
 
430 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Demetrius vainly appeals to Hermia : 
 
 " Relent, sweet Hermia ; and, Lysander, yield 
 Thy crazed title to my certain right." 
 
 The other, with a touch of sarcasm, retorts : 
 
 " You have her father's love, Demetrius ; 
 Let me have Herraia's : do you marry him," 
 
 when Egeus, evidently a stem parent, exclaims : 
 
 " Scornful Lysander ! true, he hath my love. 
 And what is mine my love shall render him ; 
 And she is mine, and all my right of her 
 I do estate unto Demetrius." 
 
 Lysander answers with truth and spirit : 
 
 " I am, my lord, as well derived as he. 
 As well possess'd ; my love is more than his ; 
 My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd. 
 
 And which is more than all these boasts can be, 
 
 I am beloved of beauteous Hermia, 
 
 Why should not I then prosecute my right ? " 
 
 Then alluding to his rival : 
 
 "Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head. 
 Made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena, 
 And won her soul ; and she, sweet lady, dotes, 
 Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, 
 Upon this spotted and inconstant man." 
 
 Theseus, who rather' sides with Lysander, and wishes to 
 make all happy, replies : 
 
 " I must confess that I have heard so much, 
 And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof ; 
 
 But, Demetrius, come 
 
 And come, Egeus ; you shall go with me, 
 
 For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself 
 To fit your fancies to your father's will. 
 
 Come, my Hippolyta." 
 
 Theseus thus breaks up the conference, postponing the 
 question of Hermia for the present. All now withdraw, 
 leaving Hermia and Lysander alone together, which in 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 431 
 
 reality Egeus and Demetrius would hardly have consented 
 
 to do under the circumstances. But in this instance, as in 
 
 some others, though not often, the poet makes probabilities 
 
 yield to dramatic or stage effect. The lovers at first 
 
 converse in the beautiful, natural, yet poetic language of 
 
 which Shakespeare is such an unrivalled master. Lysander 
 
 asks her: 
 
 ' ' Why is your cheek so pale ! 
 How chance the roses there do fade so fast ? " 
 
 She answers sadly : 
 
 " Belike for want of rain, which I could well 
 Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes." 
 
 Lysander joins in the celebrated words : 
 
 " Ay me ! for aught that I could ever read. 
 
 The course of true love never did run smooth. " 
 
 After more sentimental talk between the lovers, Hermia 
 says : 
 
 " If then true lovers have been ever cross'd, 
 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, becoming more practical, replies : 
 
 " A good persuasion ; therefore, hear me, Hermia. 
 I have a widow 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." 
 
 He then asks her to meet him the next night in a 
 wood about a league from Athens, where he will await her 
 on their flight to his aunt's abode, and Hermia replies in 
 that singularly beautiful, expressive language which so 
 distinguishes this exquisite play : 
 
 ' ' My good Lysander ! 
 I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow. 
 By his best arrow with the golden head. 
 
 By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves," 
 
432 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 then alluding to the far-famed history or tradition of 
 Dido and Eneas, centuries later immortalised by Virgil : 
 
 " And by that fire which burn'd 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 replies: 
 
 " Keep promise, love," 
 
 and Helena now appears, who is in love with Demetrius, 
 and has an eager talk with Hermia about that youth. 
 Helena eagerly exclaims : 
 
 " My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, 
 My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. 
 
 O ! teach me how you look, and with what art 
 You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart." 
 
 Hermia answers to this eager question : 
 
 " I firown upon him, yet he loves me still." 
 
 Helena rejoins : 
 
 " O ! that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill." 
 
 Hermia : 
 
 " The more I hate, the more he follows me." 
 
 Helena : 
 
 ' ' The more I love, the more he hateth me." 
 
 Hermia : 
 
 " His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine." 
 
 Helena : 
 
 " None, but your beauty : would that fault were mine.'' 
 
 Hermia: 
 
 "Take comfort ; he no more shall see my face ; 
 Lysander and myself will fly this place." 
 
 Lysander then reveals to Helena his plan to escape 
 with Hermia, which evidently meets with Helena's own 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 433 
 
 views, and Hermia exclaims to Helena as she departs 
 with Lysander : 
 
 " Fatewell, sweet playfellow : pray thou for us ; 
 And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius ! " 
 
 Helena exclaims to herself when alone : 
 
 " How happy some o'er other some can be ! 
 Through Athens I am thought as fair as she ; 
 But what of that ? Demetrius thinks not so ; 
 He will not know what all but he do know ; 
 
 For ere Demetrius looked on Hermia's eyne, 
 He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine ; 
 
 I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight : 
 Then to the wood will he to-morrow n^ht 
 Pursue her ; and for this intelligence 
 If I have thanks, it is a dear expense : 
 But herein mean I to enrich my pain. 
 To have his sight thither and back again." 
 
 The next scene is indeed a complete change from 
 somewhat fantastic sentiment to rather low, hut never 
 vulgar comedy. A set of tradesmen and artisans — Nick 
 Bottom a weaver, Peter Quince a carpenter. Snug a 
 joiner. Flute a bellows-mender. Snout a tinker, and 
 Starveling a tailor — meet in Quince's house to arrange 
 about a play which they intend performing before Duke 
 Theseus on the occasion of his marriage with Hippolyta. 
 These men are not only thoroughly English in name, style, 
 and occupation, but in their liking for acting, and yet 
 ignorance of its rules or management, to some extent 
 may resemble country people living near London in 
 Shakespeare's time. They had probably seen acting and 
 were delighted with it, while almost ignorant of its profes- 
 sional requirements and details. Bottom, who apparently 
 has more common-sense or more to say than the rest of 
 the company, both questions and lectures Quince, their 
 nominal manager, about the contemplated play as to 
 how it should be properly performed, evidently thinking 
 he himself knows best. He begins : 
 
 " First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on ; then read the 
 names of the actors, and so grow to a point.'' 
 
 2 E 
 
434 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Quince : 
 
 " Marry, our play is, ' The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death 
 of Pyramus and Thisbe.' " 
 
 Bottom condescendingly patronises and criticises alter- 
 nately : 
 
 "A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good 
 Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll.'' 
 
 Then to the company he says : 
 " Masters, spread-yourselves." 
 
 Quince : 
 
 ' ' You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. ... a lover that kills 
 himself most gallantly for love." 
 
 Bottom gratified yet full of comic conceit about his own 
 taste and supposed talent for acting, replies : 
 
 " 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 My chief humour is 
 
 for ■■• tyrant : " 
 
 And he then pompously declaims : 
 
 "I could play Ercles rarely, to make all split." 
 
 ' ' The raging rocks 
 And shivering shocks 
 Shall break the locks 
 
 Of prison gates : 
 And Phibbus' car 
 Shall shine from far 
 And make and mar 
 
 The foolish Fates." 
 
 Then, speaking in his natural voice : 
 
 " This was lofty ! Now name the rest of the players." 
 
 Quince addresses the other players, assigning to each 
 his part. Flute, the bellows-mender, protests against per- 
 sonating the heroine Thisbe, exclaiming : 
 
 " Nay, faith, let not me play a woman ; I have a beard coming," 
 
 but is over-ruled by Quince, when Bottom says : 
 " An' I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe too." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 435 
 
 Then, trying to speak in a very soft gentle voice, 
 and to personate both lovers, this truly comic personage, 
 who is really a rough downright man, says : 
 
 " ' Thisne, Thisne.' ' Ah ! Pyramus, my lover dear ; thy Thisbe dear, and 
 lady dear!'" 
 
 Quince, trying to direct them all, replies : 
 
 " No, no ; you must play Pyramus ; Flute, you Thisbe." 
 
 He calls upon Starveling, Snout, and Snug, assigning 
 each his part, when Bottom, either really or pretending 
 to be stage-struck, and wishing to do more than his part, 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Let me play the lion too. I will roar, that I will do any man's heart 
 good to hear me ; I will roar, that I will make the duke say, 'Let him roar again, 
 let him roar again.'' " 
 
 The manager Quince, troubled like some other 
 managers by vain or fanciful subordinates, is more per- 
 plexed by Bottom than by the rest, and tries to re- 
 monstrate : 
 
 " 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." 
 
 The rest then exclaim : 
 
 "That would hang us, every mother's son," 
 
 but Bottom, obstinately thinking he can do everything 
 well, replies : 
 
 " I grant you, friends, if that you should fright theladies 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' 'twere 
 any nightingale." 
 
 Quince then cleverly tries to make the irrepressible 
 Bottom more complaisant by a little flattery : 
 
 " 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, gentleman- 
 like man ; therefore you must needs play Pyramus." 
 
436 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Bottom, now not only satisfied but gratified, complac- 
 ently replies : 
 
 " Well, I will undertake it," 
 
 and then rather teases the manager by his questions, 
 evidently delighted at the coming performance, asking : 
 
 " What beard were I best to play it in ? " 
 
 Quince, likely tired of him, replies : 
 
 "Why, what you will," 
 
 and Bottom, full of importance, proceeds : 
 
 " I will discharge it in either your straw-coloured beard, your orange-tawny 
 beard, or your French crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow." 
 
 Quince, addressing the whole company, gives final and 
 
 parting directions to them : 
 
 " Masters, here are your parts ; and I am to entreat you, request you, and 
 desire you, to con them by to-morrow night, and meet me in the palace wood, 
 a mile without the town, by moonlight : there will we rehearse ; for if we meet 
 in the city, we shall be dogg'd with company, and our devices known. In 
 the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray 
 you, fail me not." 
 
 Bottom, who apparently speaks for the rest, replies 
 with his usual self-importance : 
 
 " We will meet ; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courage- 
 ously. Take pains ; be perfect ; adieu." 
 
 Quince, evidently most anxious all should go right, 
 says : 
 
 " At the duke's oak we meet," 
 
 and Bottom pompously replies for himself and the others : 
 
 " Enough ; hold, or cut bow-strings." 
 
 In this scene Quince and Bottom are the only two who 
 seem to take much interest in the play, the latter evidently 
 a conceited, pompous man, but a real lover of acting, with 
 no end of self-confidence, while Quince seems naturally 
 rather anxious, if not apprehensive about his duties as 
 manager, but in the end arranges the play as he likes. 
 The whole company seem thoroughly English, and perhaps 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 437 
 
 resemble or are drawn from some of Shakespeare's personal 
 acquaintances during his reported connection with the 
 London stage. There is certainly nothing classical about 
 them, and the names of Athens, Theseus, Hippolyta, etc., 
 sound strange in any sort of connection with them. London 
 or some lat^e English provincial town in Shakespeare's 
 time, full of mingled energ)^ fanc)-, and comparative 
 ignorance, would have been the natural home for tlaese 
 theatre -loving artisans. The allusion to Frenchmen's 
 beards would doubtless have well amused a London 
 audience, but is an obvious absurdity among ancient 
 Greeks. The next act and scene are in the wood before 
 indicated, near Athens, where an unnamed fairy meets the 
 mischievous imp Puck, nicknamed Robin Goodfellow, the 
 roguish yet obedient servant of Oberon, king of the fairies. 
 Puck, fortunately for mankind, though by nature full of 
 mischief, is always under Oberon's control, who with his 
 Queen Titania are friendly to the human race, and happily 
 free from the malevolence often attributed to fairies in 
 English and perhaps yet more in Scottish legends.^ The 
 unnamed fairy does not again appear, while Puck reveals 
 part of his mischievous nature which is well known to the 
 fair}-, though at first she does not recognise him. She 
 exclaims to him, as if describing herself and her duties : 
 
 " Over hill, over dale, 
 Through bush, through brier. 
 
 Over puk, over pale. 
 Through flood, through fire, 
 I do wander everywhere. 
 Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 
 And I serve the fairy queen. 
 To dew her orbs upon the gieen. 
 
 Farewell, thou lob of spirits : I'll be gone ; 
 Our queen and all her elves come here anon." 
 
 Puck, who knows all the fairy news and secrets, informs 
 her: 
 
 *' The king doth keep his revels here to-night. 
 Take heed the qaeea come not within his sight ; 
 For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, 
 
 " See Scotf s " Fair Maid of Perth." 
 
438 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Because that she as her attendant hath 
 A lovely boy, stol'n from an Irrdian king ; 
 And jealous Oberon would have the child 
 Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild ; 
 But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy. 
 Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. 
 And now they never meet in grove, or green. 
 
 But they do square. '' 
 
 The fairy recognises Puck, and exclaims, well knowing 
 his character and mischievous tricks : 
 
 " Either I mistake your shape and making quite, 
 Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite 
 Call'd Robin Goodfellow : are not you he 
 That frights the maidens of the villagery ; 
 Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern. 
 And bootless make the breathless housewife chum ; 
 And sometime make the drink to bear no barm ; 
 Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm ? 
 
 Are not you he ? " 
 
 Puck, proud instead of ashamed of his mischievous 
 tricks, readily admits some additional ones : 
 
 " Thou speak'st aright ; 
 I am that merry wanderer of the night. 
 I jest to Oberon, and make him smile 
 
 And sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl. 
 
 And when she drinks, against her lips I bob 
 
 And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale. 
 
 The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, 
 
 Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me ; 
 
 Then slip I, down topples she. 
 
 And falls into a cough ; 
 
 And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh.'' 
 
 He breaks off, exclaiming : 
 
 " Here comes Oberon," 
 
 and the fairy, dreading the present quarrel, exclaims : 
 " And here my mistress. Would that he were gone ! " 
 
 Oberon and Titania appear attended by their fairy 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 439 
 
 followers, and immediately dispute, the former angrily 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " 111 met by moonlight, proud Titania,'' 
 
 and she defiantly replies : 
 
 " What ! jealous Oberon. Fairies, skip hence : 
 I have forsworn his bed and company. " 
 
 Oberon indignantly rejoins : 
 
 "Tarry, rash wanton ! am not I thy lord?" 
 
 Titania makes a jealous reply : 
 
 " Then I must be thy lady : but I know 
 When thou hast stol'n away from fairy land." 
 
 Oberon equally jealous, and both sharing the feelings 
 of human nature, makes a counter accusation : 
 
 " How canst thou thus for shame, Titania, 
 Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, 
 Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ? 
 Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night 
 
 And make him with fair ^gle break his faith, 
 With Ariadne, and Antiopa ? " 
 
 It is remarkable that despite the alleged loves of 
 Oberon and Titania for Theseus and Hippolyta, those 
 powerful mortals, the rulers of the state, never mention 
 the fairy king and queen, nor are they ever brought in 
 contact with them. Like the sun and moon, Theseus seems 
 to rule in the day, and Oberon in the night. Titania 
 repels, or tries to repel, Oberon's reproaches in a beautiful 
 speech which, following common tradition, ascribes disas- 
 trous unnatural seasons, and many human misfortunes, to 
 the disputes of the fairies : 
 
 " These are the forgeries of jealousy : 
 And never since the middle summer's spring, 
 Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, 
 By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, 
 Or in the beached margent of the sea, 
 To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, 
 But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport. 
 
44° SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, 
 As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea 
 Contagious fogs ; which, falling in the land 
 Have every petty river made so proud. 
 That they have overborne their continents : 
 The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain. 
 
 The fold stands empty in the drowned field. 
 And crows are fatted with the murrain flock, 
 
 The human mortals want their winter here : 
 
 No n^ht is now with hymn or carol blest : 
 
 Therefore the moon, the governess of floods. 
 
 Pale in her anger, washes all the air, 
 
 That rheumatic diseases do abound : 
 
 And through this distemperature we see 
 
 The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts 
 
 Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, 
 
 And on old winter's thin and icy crown 
 
 An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds 
 
 Is, as in mockery set. The spring, the summer. 
 
 The childing autumn, angry winter, change 
 
 Their wonted liveries, and the 'mazed world. 
 
 By their increase, now knows not which is which. 
 
 And this same progeny of evil comes 
 
 From our debate, from our dissension : 
 
 We are their parents and original." 
 
 Oberon evidently sharing Titania's belief in so much 
 evil caused to the natural world by quarrels among the 
 fairies, rejoins, trying to lay the blame on her: 
 
 ' ' Do you amend it then ; it lies in you 
 Why should Titania cross her Oberon ? 
 I do but beg a little changeling boy, 
 To be my henchman." 
 
 Titania, wilful, obstinate, and apparently independent 
 of his control, proudly retorts : 
 
 " Set your heart at rest ; 
 The fairy land buys not the child of me. 
 His mother was a votaress of my order : 
 And in the spiced Indian air, by night, 
 Full often hath she gossip'd by my side. 
 And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands. 
 Marking the embarked traders on the flood ; 
 
 But she, being mortal, of that boy did die ; 
 And for her sake do I rear up her boy. 
 And for her sake I will not part with him." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 441 
 
 Oberon naturally dissatisfied with her answer, asks : 
 " How long within this wood intend you stay?" 
 
 and Titania haughtily replies : 
 
 " Perchance, till after Theseus' wedding-day. 
 If you will patiently dance in our round 
 And see our moonlight revels, go with us ; 
 If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts." 
 
 Oberon, disregarding this taunt of his jealous queen, 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Give me that boy, and I will go with thee," 
 
 and she proudly retorts : 
 
 " Not for thy fairy kingdom." 
 
 Then addressing her attendants, she exclaims : 
 
 " Fairies, away ! 
 We shall chide dovimright, if I longer stay. " 
 
 With these rather defiant words Titania departs with 
 her train, leaving Oberon disappointed, yet determined to 
 gain his point by a new artifice. He exclaims first to 
 
 himself: 
 
 " Well, go thy way ; thou shalt not from this grove 
 Till I torment thee for this injury." 
 
 Then addressing the ever active little Puck : 
 
 "My gentle Puck, come hither : thou remember'st 
 Since 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. 
 And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, 
 To hear the sea-maid's music." 
 
 This beautiful sight Puck well recollects, as he replies 
 " I remember," 
 
 and Oberon proceeds to enlighten as well as direct him : 
 
 ' ' That very time I saw (but thou could'st not) 
 Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
 Cupid all arm'd : a certain aim he took 
 At a fair vestal throned by the west. 
 And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 
 As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts ; 
 
442 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 
 
 Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon ; 
 
 And the imperial votaress passed on, 
 
 In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
 
 Yet mark'd 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 show'd thee once : 
 
 The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid 
 
 Will make or man or woman madly dote 
 
 Upon the next live creature that it sees. 
 
 Fetch me this herb ; and be thou here again 
 
 Ere the leviathan can swim a league." 
 
 Puck, always alert and ready, flies off on his mission. 
 It has been supposed that "the fair vestal throned by 
 the west" meant Queen Elizabeth, but this statement, 
 though perhaps true, has never been actually proved, 
 owing to so little being known of Shakespeare's personal 
 history. After Puck disappears Oberon alone reveals 
 his powers and intentions : 
 
 " Having once this juice 
 I'll watch Titania when she is asleep. 
 And drop the liquor of it in her eyes : 
 The next thing then she waking looks upon 
 (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull. 
 On meddling monkey, or on busy ape) 
 She shall pursue it with the soul of love : 
 And ere I take this charm from off her sight 
 (As I can take it with another herb) 
 I'll make her render up her page to me." 
 
 At this moment Demetrius appears, followed by 
 Helena, who loves him despite his dislike to her. The 
 fairy king, friendly, like his queen, to all mortals apparently, 
 or at least to all in this play, hides himself to hear 
 their conference. Demetrius vainly tries to repel Helena, 
 saying he does not love her, but Hermia, whom he is 
 seeking. He asks : 
 
 " Where is Lysander and fair Hermia ? 
 The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me. 
 Thou told'st me they were stol'n unto this wood ; 
 
 Hence ! get thee gone, follow me no more.' 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 443 
 
 The enamoured Helena replies : 
 
 " You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant," 
 
 and he asks : 
 
 " Do I entice you? do I speak you fair ? 
 Or rather, do I not in plainest truth 
 Tell you I do not nor I cannot love you ? " 
 
 and she again retorts : 
 
 " And even for that do I love you the more." 
 Demetrius replies in cold reproof: 
 
 " You do impeach your modesty too much, 
 To leave the city, and commit yourself 
 Into the hands of one that loves you not ; 
 To trust the opportunity of night 
 And the ill-counsel of a desert place." 
 
 To this reproach Helena makes an eloquent, affecting 
 
 answer : 
 
 ' ' Your virtue is my privilege : for that 
 It is not night when I do see your face, 
 Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, 
 For you in my respect are all the world : 
 Then how can it be said I am alone ? " 
 
 Still unmoved, Demetrius declares he will run off and 
 leave her " to the mercy of wild beasts," when she rejoins 
 pathetically : 
 
 " The wildest hath not such a heart as you. 
 Run when you will, the story shall be changed ; 
 Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase ; 
 The dove pursues the griffin ; the mild hind 
 Makes speed to catch the tiger : bootless speed, 
 When cowardice pursues and valour flies ! 
 
 We cannot fight for love, as men may do ; 
 
 We should be woo'd and were not made to woo." 
 
 He rushes off, and the infatuated Helena, as she 
 follows him, exclaims : 
 
 " I'll follow thee 
 To die upon the hand I love so well." 
 
 Oberon, when they are gone, exclaims, pitying Helena : 
 
 " Fare thee well, nymph : ere he do leave this grove. 
 Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love." 
 
444 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The magic power which this fairy king holds over 
 mortals, Shakespeare makes him always use benevolently, 
 despite the usual dread of fairies among the few be- 
 lievers in them. Puck now returns with the precious 
 flower, and Oberon resolves to use its influence with 
 both Titania and Demetrius, though for different objects. 
 Oberon almost omniscient, at least about his own race 
 on earth, thus directs Puck : 
 
 " I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, 
 Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, 
 Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, 
 With sweet musk -roses, and with eglantine : 
 There sleeps Titania some time of the night, 
 LuU'd in these flowers with dances and delight ; 
 
 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 shall know the man 
 
 By the Athenian garments he hath on. 
 
 Effect it with some care, that he may prove 
 
 More fond of her than she upon her love. 
 
 And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.'' 
 
 Puck promises obedience to these important directions, 
 and they part. The next scene introduces Titania with 
 her fairy attendants, who implicitly obey her orders, and 
 she, bent on enjoyment, exclaims to all around : 
 
 ' ' Come, now a roundel, and a fairy song : 
 
 And some keep back 
 
 The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders 
 At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep ; 
 Then to your offices, and let me rest." 
 
 An obedient fairy then sings while she reposes ; 
 
 " You spotted snakes with double tongue. 
 Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen ; 
 Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong ; 
 Come not near our fairy queen." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 445 
 
 The rest of the fairies then in chorus sing : 
 
 " Nightingale, with melody 
 Sing in our sweet lullaby ; 
 LuUa, luUa, lullaby ; lulla, luUa, lullaby ; 
 Never harm, 
 Nor spell nor charm, 
 Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
 So, good-night, with lullaby.'' 
 
 Another fairy again warns off all noxious insects from 
 disturbing the sleeping Titania : 
 
 " Weaving spiders, come not here ; 
 
 Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence ! 
 Beetles black, approach not near ; 
 Worm nor snail, do no offence.' 
 
 The chorus again invite the nightingale, and having 
 apparently banished all objectionable reptiles and insects, 
 the singing fairies depart, one remaining aloof as a sentinel, 
 while Oberon appears beside the sleeping Titania, and 
 squeezing the mysterious flower over her eyes, exclaims 
 prophetically : 
 
 " What thou see'st 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 thy eye that shall appear 
 When thou wakest, it is thy dear. 
 Wake when some vile thing is near." 
 
 Oberon then vanishes, and Lysander and Hermia 
 enter. He exclaims : 
 
 " Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood ; 
 And to speak truth, I have forgot our way ; 
 We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good. 
 And tarry for the comfort of the day. 
 
 Sleep give thee all his rest.'' 
 
 She replies : 
 
 " With half that wish the wisher's eyes be press'd," 
 
446 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and they sleep, when Puck enters, and making an unlucky 
 mistake, taking Lysander for Demetrius, exclaims : 
 
 " This is he, my master said, 
 Despised the Athenian maid ; 
 And here the maiden, sleeping sound. 
 
 Churl, upon thy eyes I throw 
 All the power this charm doth owe. 
 When thou wak'st let love forbid 
 Sleep his seat on thy eyelid : 
 So awake when I am gone ; 
 For I must now to Oberon." 
 
 He departs, and Demetrius now enters with Helena. 
 
 He, as before, repels her, and telling her not to follow, 
 
 goes off, while she deplores her fate, exclaiming : 
 
 ' Oh ! I am out of breath in this fond chase. 
 The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. 
 Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies ; 
 For she hath blessed and attractive eyes. 
 How came her eyes so bright ? Not with salt tears : 
 If so, my eyes are oftener wash'd than hers." 
 
 Then finding Lysander, but not Hermia, she asks : 
 
 " But who is here? Lysander ! on the ground ? 
 Dead? or asleep ? I see no blood, no wound. 
 Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake." 
 
 Lysander wakes, and under the new influence of the 
 magic juice, which Puck had dropped on his eyes by 
 mistake, instead of on Demetrius, immediately loves 
 Helena, and to her surprise threatens the absent 
 Demetrius, exclaiming : 
 
 " Oh ! how fit a word 
 Is that vile name to perish on my sword." 
 
 Helena replies : 
 
 " Do not say so, Lysander ; 
 What though he love your Hermia ? 
 Yet Hermia still loves you : then be content." 
 
 Lysander rejoins, to Helena's amazement : 
 
 ' ' Content with Hermia ! No : I do repent 
 The tedious minutes I with her have spent. 
 Not Hermia, but Helena I love : 
 Who will not change a raven for a dove ? " 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 447 
 
 Despite this flattering comparison Helena thinks he is 
 only mocking her, and indignantly asks : 
 
 " Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born ? 
 When at your hands did I deserve this scorn ? 
 Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, 
 That I did never, no, nor never can, 
 Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye. 
 But you must flout my insufficiency ? 
 
 O ! that a lady of one man refiis'd 
 Should of another therefore be abus'd.'' 
 
 She departs, and Lysander, left alone with the sleeping 
 Hermia, whom he loves no longer, exclaims : 
 
 " She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there ; 
 And never may's! thou come Lysander near." 
 
 Then devoted now to Helena, Lysander, quite under 
 the influence of the magic juice, adds with ardent resolu- 
 tion : 
 
 " And all my powers, address your love and might 
 To honour Helen, and to be her knight.' 
 
 He goes off leaving Hermia alone. Puck, in mistaking 
 him for Demetrius, had fully expected from Oberon's 
 directions to find Demetrius where he unluckily came 
 upon Lysander, the only blunder which this artful imp 
 makes in the whole play. Hermia wakes after Lysander 
 is gone, and fancying he is near, exclaims : 
 
 " Help me, Lysander, help me ! do thy best 
 To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast. " 
 
 Then evidently knowing this idea is only imagination, 
 she exclaims : 
 
 ^ " Ah me, for pity ! what a dream was here ! " 
 
 Then she calls to him, and at last perceives he is gone : 
 
 "Lysander ! what ! removed? Lysander ! lord ! 
 What ! out of hearing ? gone ? no sound, no word ? 
 
 Then I well perceive you are not nigh : 
 Either death or you I'll find immediately,'' 
 
 and with these words she follows him through the wood. 
 
448 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The next act and scene introduce the Athenian work- 
 men assembled in a wood, preparing for their strange 
 comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe. These men, as before 
 observed, though placed in Athens, are altogether English 
 both in names and characters.^ They are a party of play- 
 loving or stage-struck artisans, yet only the manager, 
 Peter Quince, a carpenter, and Nick Bottom, a weaver, have 
 much to say. The rest apparently are quite under their 
 directions or management. Quince, who eagerly expects 
 to produce a successful play, and tries to keep the others 
 up to their work, exclaims : 
 
 "Here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot 
 shall be our stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house ; and we will do it in 
 action as we will do it before the duke." 
 
 Bottom, evidently a conceited, as well as comic 
 personage, proposes improvements, and probably rather 
 troubles the manager, whom he thus addresses : 
 
 "Peter Quince, there are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe 
 that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; 
 which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that ? " 
 
 Snout, the tinker, and the tailor Starveling, agree with 
 Bottom, the former exclaiming, like an English peasant of 
 Shakespeare's time : 
 
 " By'r lakin, a parlous fear," 
 
 and the latter : 
 
 " I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done." 
 
 Bottom condescendingly suggests his own alterations, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 ' ' Not a whit : I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue : 
 and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords, and 
 
 ^ " It is possible that in the rude dramatic performance of these 
 handicraftsmen of Athens, Shakespeare was referring tp the plays and 
 pageants exhibited by the trading companies of Coventry, which were 
 celebrated down to his own time, and which he might very probably 
 have witnessed." — Howard Staunton's Notes to his edition of A 
 Midsummer Nights Dream. 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 449 
 
 that Pyramius is not killed indeed ; and, for the more belter assurance, tell 
 them, that 1, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver ; this will 
 put them out of fear." 
 
 Quince, either approving of these changes, or perhaps 
 anxious to please Bottom, agrees to them, when the latter 
 makes a new objection. Addressing all the company in 
 pompous fashion, Bottom says, evidently thinking that of 
 all present he knows best : 
 
 " Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves ; to bring in, God shield 
 us ! a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing ; and we ought to look to it. " 
 
 Snout the tinker agreeing exclaims : 
 
 "Therefore, another prologue must tell he is not a lion.'' 
 
 But Bottom, determined to have his own way, rejoins : 
 
 ' ' Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through 
 the lion's neck ; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the 
 same defect," 
 
 and he then dictates to his fellow-actors what the lion 
 personator should say in a meek voice : 
 
 '"■Ladies, fair ladies, I would wish you, I would request you, I would 
 entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble ; my life for yours. If you think I come 
 hither as a lion, it were pity of my life ; no, I am no such thing ; I am a man 
 as other men are,' " 
 
 then resuming his natural voice, Bottom adds : 
 
 " and there indeed let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is 
 Snug the joiner. " 
 
 This worthy apparently agrees all through with 
 Bottom, to whom Quince, the manager, also submits, and 
 they then make arrangements about the coming per- 
 formance. They decide that one of the actors should 
 represent a wall, through a chink of which Pyramus and 
 Thisbe are to whisper to each other, and Bottom suggests : 
 
 " Some man or other must present Wall ; and let him have some plaster, 
 or some loam about him to signify wall ; and let him hold his fingers thus," 
 
 Here Bottoni probably holds up his own for illustration, 
 thus concluding : 
 
 "and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisbe whisper." 
 
 2 F 
 
45° SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Quince, always ruled by his self-important colleague, 
 replies : 
 
 " If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother's son, 
 and rehearse your parts." 
 
 Puck now approaches unseen, and perceiving what they 
 are about, exclaims : 
 
 " What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here. 
 So near the cradle of the fairy queen ? 
 What ! a play toward ; I'll be an auditor ; 
 An actor too perhaps, if I see cause." 
 
 Quince, in his position as manager of the troupe, now 
 asksBottom to rehearse his part, and he begins as Pyramus, 
 addressing the heroine : 
 
 " ' Thisbe, the flowers of odious savours sweet, — ' " 
 
 This first mistake Quince corrects, exclaiming : 
 ' ' Odours, odours," 
 
 and Bottom resumes : 
 
 " ' So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisbe dear, 
 But hark, a voice ! stay thou but here awhile. 
 And by and by I will to thee appear.' " 
 
 Bottom withdraws, and Puck, planning a trick on him, 
 mockingly says to himself: 
 
 " A stranger Pyramus than e'er play'd here ! " 
 
 and departs. Flute, the bellows-mender, acting Thisbe, 
 asks: 
 
 " Must I speak now ? " 
 
 and Quince replies : 
 
 "Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes but to see a 
 noise that he heard, and is to come again." 
 
 Thisbe, thus directed, proceeds : 
 
 " ' Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue. 
 
 Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, 
 
 I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb,' " 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 451 
 
 Quince, troubled like other managers since his time 
 with the mistakes of actors, exclaims : 
 
 " ' Ninus' tomb,' man. Why, you must not speak that yet ; . . . . 
 Pyramus, enter; your cue is past; it is 'never tire.'" 
 
 Puck invisible enters, having put a donkey's head he 
 has procured somewhere on Bottom, who enters with 
 him, and Thisbe continues, not seeing him: 
 
 " ' ! As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire.' " 
 
 Bottom replies, never feeling the ass's head on him : 
 
 " ' If I were fair, Thisbe, I were only thine.'" 
 
 Quince now sees the donkey's head, and, terrified, 
 shouts to the terror of all the actors, who now perceive 
 the strange object before them : 
 
 " O monstrous ! O strange ! we are haunted. 
 Pray, masters ! fly, masters ! help ! " 
 
 All rush off, while Puck resolves on playing more 
 
 tricks, but is luckily restrained by Oberon's control from 
 
 doing serious harm, yet as a regular imp of mischief he 
 
 exclaims : 
 
 " I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round, 
 
 Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier : 
 Sometimes a horse I'll be, sometime a hound, 
 
 A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire ; 
 And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, 
 Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire at every turn." 
 
 Puck vanishes, and Bottom, left alone, has no idea 
 of what has happened, and is therefore completely 
 mystified. He exclaims in unsuspicious amazement : 
 
 "Why do they run away? this is the knavery of them to make me 
 afeard. " 
 
 Snout the tinker is the first to re-enter, exclaiming 
 in real fright: 
 
 " O Bottom, thou art changed ! what do I see on thee.'' 
 
 To this query Bottom, provoked, answers perhaps 
 with unconscious wit: 
 
 "What do you see? you see an ass-head of your own, do you?" 
 
452 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Quince re-enters frightened likewise, exclaiming : 
 
 " Bless thee, Bottom ! bless thee ! thou art translated," 
 
 and both he and Snout run away ; while Bottom, again 
 alone, puzzled and angry, fancies they are not really 
 frightened, but trying to make him so, and exclaims : 
 
 ' ' I see their knavery : this is to make an ass of me ; to fright me, if 
 they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can : I will 
 walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not 
 afraid." 
 
 He then sings in probably a rough, unmusical voice 
 a quaint song, mentioning some of the commonest English 
 small birds, all of which he might have seen and heard 
 near London, describing them briefly, yet correctly r 
 
 " ' The ousel-cock,' so black of hue. 
 With orange-tawny bill. 
 The throstle with his note so true, 
 The wren with little quill.' " 
 
 At his voice, likely loud and coarse, the fairy queen 
 wakes, thinking it lovely, and that the singer is the 
 perfection of beauty. She asks immediately : 
 " What angel wakes me from my flowery bed ? " 
 
 and Bottom, neither seeing nor hearing her, proceeds 
 with his rural ditty: 
 
 " ' The finch, the sparrow, and the lark. 
 The plain-song cuckoo gray, 
 Whose note full many a man doth mark.' " 
 
 Titania, delighted with his song, or perhaps only the 
 sound of it, exclaims eagerly : 
 
 " I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again : 
 Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note ; 
 So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ; 
 And thy fair virtue's force, perforce, doth move me. 
 On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee." 
 
 Bottom, who now sees her, but is either too confused 
 
 ' The blackbird. 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 453 
 
 by fairy influence, or too stupid by nature to show 
 surprise or admiration, never notices her appearance, 
 while stolidly answering, with a sort of dull or perhaps 
 modest shrewdness : 
 
 ' ' 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 neighbours will not make them friends. 
 Nay, I can gleek upon occasion." 
 
 Titania, full of fanciful admiration for what she 
 believes his combined sense and beauty, replies in 
 stupefied sincerity : 
 
 "Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful." 
 
 To this delightful tribute of admiration Bottom returns 
 a thoroughly practical, unsentimental reply, showing that 
 he is not in the least gratified by his lovely admirer : 
 
 ' ' Not so, neither ; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood I 
 have enough to serve mine own turn." 
 
 Titania, still enchanted by her idea of him, eagerly 
 rejoins : 
 
 " Out of this wood do not desire to go : 
 Thou shall 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'll 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. " 
 
 She summons four attendant sprites, Peas-blossom, 
 Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed, and thus directs them : 
 
 " 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 ; 
 
 Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. " 
 
454 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 The four little sprites, probably laughing secretly, 
 exclaim, saluting Bottom : 
 
 " Hail, mortal ! Hail ! Hail ! Hail ! " 
 
 Bottom, apparently not much surprised by either them 
 or Titania, asks their names, while one replies : 
 
 " Cobweb," 
 
 and Bottom rejoins in evident good humour: 
 
 " I shall desire you of more acquaintance : if I cut my finger, I shall make 
 bold with you. " 
 
 Then addressing another he asks : 
 " Your name, honest gentleman?" 
 
 and the fairy answers : 
 " Peas-blossom." 
 
 Bottom answers in a sort of joke : 
 
 " I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to 
 Master Peascod, your father. I shall desire you of more acquaintance too." 
 
 Then he asks a third : 
 
 " Your name, I beseech you, sir?" 
 
 and the sprite answers : 
 " Mustard-seed." 
 
 Bottom more interested by this fairy than by the other 
 two, cordially rejoins, as if in pleasant recollection : 
 
 " Good Master Mustard-seed, I know your patience well : that same 
 cowardly, giant-like oxbeef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house. 
 I promise you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you 
 more acquaintance, good Master Mustard-seed. " 
 
 Bottom might perhaps have also questioned Moth, 
 when Titania addresses the four sprites : 
 
 " Come, wait upon him ; lead him to my bower : 
 The moon methinks looks with a watery eye ; 
 And when she weeps, weeps every little flower," 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 455 
 
 then as if apprehending Bottom making some objection, 
 she imperatively adds : 
 
 " Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently." 
 
 Bottom, like a prisoner, and apparently stupefied, 
 departs with Titania and the fairies in silence ; while 
 the next scene introduces Oberon in another part of the 
 wood, wondering to himself if Titania is awakened, and 
 what sort of a creature she will then see first with whom 
 she must fall in love. Puck now appears, in evident de- 
 light, and, highly amused, thus relates what has happened : 
 
 ' ' My mistress with a monster is in love. 
 Near to her close and consecrated bower, 
 While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, 
 A crew of patches, rude mechanicals. 
 That work for bread upon Athenian stalls. 
 Were met together to rehearse a play 
 Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day. 
 The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort. 
 Who Pyramus presented in their sport, 
 Forsook his scene, and enter'd in a brake, 
 When I did him at this advantage take ; 
 An ass's nowl I fixed on his head : 
 
 When in that moment, so it came to pass, 
 Titania waked and straightway loved an ass." 
 
 Oberon, delighted, praises Puck's cleverness even before 
 his own, exclaiming : 
 
 " This falls out better than I could devise. 
 But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes 
 With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do ? " 
 
 Puck replies : 
 
 " I took him sleeping, that is finish'd too. 
 And the Athenian woman by his side ; 
 That, when he waked, of force she must be ey'd." 
 
 At this moment Demetrius and Hermia appear, Oberon 
 and Puck seeing them, remain hid or invisible hearing 
 what they say. Oberon exclaims : 
 
 " This is the same Athenian," 
 
456 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and Puck, perceiving his mistake, says : 
 
 " This is the woman ; but not this the man.'' 
 
 Demetrius now bitterly complains that Hermia loves 
 him not, while she fears he may have slain Lysander ; 
 and full of this idea, exclaims : 
 
 " It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him ; 
 So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim." 
 
 Demetrius, forgiving this terrible suspicion, and quite 
 in love with her, makes an affecting reply: 
 
 " So should the murder'd look, and so should I, 
 Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty ; 
 Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, 
 As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere." 
 
 Hermia, caring nothing for this compliment, exclaims : 
 
 ' ' What's this to my Lysander ? where is he ? 
 Ah ! good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me ? " 
 
 and he, full of jealousy, fiercely replies : 
 
 " I'd rather give his carcase to my hounds." 
 
 Hermia, from this savage answer, believing he has 
 killed her lover, retorts : 
 
 " Ilast thou slain him then? 
 Henceforth be never number'd among men ! " 
 
 She continues to reproach him, when he replies : 
 
 " I am not guilty of Lysander's blood, 
 Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell." 
 
 Hermia relieved, yet knowing Demetrius hates Lysander, 
 rushes away, exclaiming ; 
 
 " See me no more, whether he be dead or no,'' 
 
 and Demetrius then exclaims to himself : 
 
 ' ' There is no following her in this fierce vein : 
 Here therefore for a while I will remain," 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 45? 
 
 and evidently wearied, lies down and sleeps. Oberon, 
 blaming Puck for his mistaking the lovers, asks him : 
 
 " What hast thou done ? thou hast mistaken quite, 
 And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight." 
 
 Fortunately Oberon is always benevolent, while Puck, 
 though delighting in mischief, is quite under his orders, and 
 the fairy king proceeds : 
 
 " About the wood go swifter than the wind, 
 And Helena of Athens look thou find : 
 By some illusion see thou bring her here ; 
 I'll charm his eyes against she doth appear." 
 
 Puck, evidently anxious to make amends for his mistake, 
 and to please his master, eagerly replies, while flying off 
 on his delicate mission : 
 
 " I go, I go ; look how I go ; 
 
 Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow." 
 
 Oberon then proceeds to charm the sleeping Demetrius 
 with the magic juice, exclaiming, though with kind intent : 
 
 " Flower of this purple dye. 
 Hit with Cupid's archery, 
 Sink in apple of his eye. 
 When his love he doth espy, 
 JL,et her shine as gloriously 
 As the Venus of the sky. 
 When thou wak'st, if she be by, 
 Beg of her for remedy." 
 
 The swift Puck now returns, eager, obedient and, 
 anxious to make amends for his mistake, exclaiming : 
 
 " Captain of our fairy band, 
 Helena is here at hand ; 
 And the youth, mistook by me, 
 Pleading for a lover's fee." 
 
 Then more slyly than sympathising, the imp asks : 
 
 " Shall we their fond pageant see ? 
 Lord, what fools these mortals be ! " 
 
458 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Oberon, always kind, and fortunately in power, replies : 
 
 " Stand aside, the noise they make 
 Will cause Demetrius to awake." 
 
 and Puck, full of restrained mischief, retorts : 
 
 " Then will two at once woo one ; 
 That must needs be sport alone ; 
 And those things do best please me 
 That befal preposterously." 
 
 Lysander and Helena enter ; the latter knowing that 
 he really loves Hermia, distrusts his new love for herself, 
 which is alone caused by the love juice poured in mistake 
 by Puck upon him. He asks in amorous entreaty, beauti- 
 fully expressed : 
 
 " Why should you think that I should woo in scorn ? 
 Scorn and derision never come in tears : 
 Look, when I vow, I weep ; and vows so born, 
 In their nativity all truth appears." 
 
 Helena indignant, thinking that he only mocks her, 
 replies : 
 
 " You do advance your cunning more and more. 
 These vows are Hermia's ; will you give her o'er ? " 
 
 Lysander exclaims : 
 
 " I had no judgement when to her I swore," 
 
 <t 
 
 and Helena with spirit retorts : 
 
 " Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er," 
 
 and he replies, remembering the past : 
 
 " Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.'' 
 
 At this moment Demetrius awakes, now for the first 
 time in love with Helena, exclaiming : 
 
 " O Helen ! goddess, nymph, perfect, divine ! 
 To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne ? 
 
 When thou hold'st up thy hand. O ! let me kiss 
 This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 459 
 
 Helena, astonished at his sudden love, and believing 
 both the youths are mocking her, exclaims in confused 
 irritation : 
 
 " O spite ! I see you all are bent 
 To set against me for your merriment ; 
 
 Can you not hate me, as I know you do, 
 But you must join in souls to mock me too ! 
 
 You both are rivals, and love Hermia, 
 And now both rivals, to mock Helena. 
 
 None of noble sort 
 
 Would so offend a virgin, and extort 
 
 A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport." 
 
 Lysander, still under magic influence, also reproaches 
 Demetrius, exclaiming : 
 
 ' ' You are unkind, Demetrius : be not so ; 
 For you love Hermia ; this you know I know : 
 And here with all good will, with all my heart, 
 In Hermia's love I yield you up my part ; 
 And yours of Helena to me bequeath, 
 Whom I do love, and will do till my death." 
 
 Helena, distrusting both alike, remembering their former 
 conduct, exclaims indignantly : 
 
 " Never did mockers waste more idle breath," 
 
 while Demetrius exclaims : 
 
 " Lysander, keep thy Hermia : I will none : 
 If e'er I loved her, all that love is gone. 
 And now to Helen is it home return'd, 
 There to remain." 
 
 Lysander, disbelieving him, says to Helena : 
 " Helen, it is not so,'' 
 
 and Demetrius fiercely rejoins : 
 
 " Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, 
 Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear. 
 Look ! where thy love comes : yonder is thy dear." 
 
 Hermia appears, rejoicing at having found Lysander, 
 
46o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 and reproaching him for leaving her ; he now astounds her 
 also by replying in a scornful question : 
 
 " Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go?" 
 
 and she asks [^in reply, still loving him, and remembering 
 he loved her : 
 
 " What love could press Lysander from my side?" 
 
 Then he answers : 
 
 " Lysander's love, that would not let him bide. 
 Why seek'st thou me ? could not this make thee know. 
 The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so ? " 
 
 Hermia, amazed in her turn like Helena, exclaims in 
 wonder : 
 
 " You speak not as you think ; it cannot be," 
 
 while Helena, believing the whole three are plotting to 
 deceive her, exclaims with bitter indignation against all : 
 
 " Lo ! she is one of this confederacy. 
 Now I perceive they have conjoined all three 
 To fashion this false sport in spite of me." 
 
 and then eloquently yet sadly reproaches her former friend, 
 Hermia, pathetically recalling their early friendship : 
 
 " Injurious Hermia ! most ungrateful maid ! 
 
 Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd 
 
 To bait me with this foul derision ? 
 
 Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 We, Hermia, like two artiBcial 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 
 
 And will you rend our ancient love asunder, 
 To join with men in scorning your poor friend ? 
 Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, 
 Though I alone do feel the injury." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 461 
 
 Hermia, quite mystified by these unexpected re- 
 proaches, can only answer : 
 
 " I am amazed at your passionate words. 
 I scorn you not : it seems that you scorn me. " 
 
 Helena then accuses Hermia of setting Lysander 
 against her, and also of inducing Demetrius to pretend 
 to love her. Hermia cannot understand what she means, 
 while Helena, believing that she and the two young men 
 are in league against her, continues to reproach them, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 ' ' Make mouths upon me when I turn my back ; 
 Wink each at other ; hold the sweet jest up : 
 If you have any pity, grace, or manners, 
 You would not make me such an argument. 
 But, fare ye well : 'tis partly my own fault, 
 Which death or absence soon shall remedy." 
 
 Lysander and Demetrius now alike declare their love 
 for Helena, and Hermia is utterly confounded at the 
 former's sudden desertion of her, and vainly seeking 
 explanation, at length asks : 
 
 " What means, my love. 
 Am not I 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 ! — 
 In earnest, shall I say ? " 
 
 and Lysander replies in decisive words : 
 
 " Be certain, nothing truer : 'tis no jest, 
 That I do hate thee and love Helena." 
 
 This avowal infuriates Hermia against Helena, and 
 both ladies quarrel vehemently, despite their former friend- 
 ship. Hermia, more like an angry boy than a young lady, 
 declares that though shorter than her rival, she could yet 
 vanquish her in personal combat. Helena having called 
 her " a puppet," Hermia defiantly retorts : 
 
 " Puppet? why so ? Ay, that way goes the game. 
 Now I perceive that she hath made compare 
 Between our statures : she hath urged her height ; 
 
462 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 And with her personage, her tall personage, 
 
 Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him," 
 
 then finally challenging her rival : 
 
 " 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 ; 
 How low am I ? I am not yet so low 
 But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.'' 
 
 Helena, alarmed at her sudden fury, appeals to both 
 
 the young men for protection, exclaiming: 
 
 " I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, 
 Let her not hurt me : 
 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 is something lower than myself. 
 That I can match her." 
 
 Hermia, more touchy than ever about her appearance, 
 exclaims : 
 
 "Lower ! hark, again." 
 
 The more timid Helena again expostulates : 
 
 " Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. 
 I evermore did love you, Hermia, 
 Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong'd you ; 
 Save that, in love unto Demetrius, 
 I told him of your stealth unto this wood. 
 He foUow'd you ; for love I foUow'd him ; 
 But he hath chid me hence. 
 
 And now, so you will let me quiet go. 
 To Athens will I bear my folly back, 
 And follow you no further." 
 
 Hermia sharply answers : 
 
 " Why, get you gone. Who is't that hinders you ? " 
 
 and poor Helena replies : 
 
 " A foolish heart, that I leave here behind." 
 
 Hermia then asks : 
 
 " What ! with Lysander ? " 
 
 and Helena replies : 
 
 " With Demetrius." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 463 
 
 At these words Hermia is apparently in a rage, for 
 Lysander exclaims as if interfering : 
 
 " Be not afraid : she shall not harm thee, Helena," 
 
 and Demetrius for once agreeing with Lysander, adds : 
 
 " No sir; she shall not, though you take her part." 
 
 Helena, evidently afraid of her angry rival, exclaims : 
 
 " O ! when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd. 
 And though she is but little, she is fierce." 
 
 This unlucky personal allusion, probably a just one, 
 infuriates Hermia, who exclaims : 
 
 " Little again ! nothing but ' low ' and ' little' ! " 
 
 Then addressing the young men : 
 
 ' ' Why will you suffer her to flout me thus ? 
 Let me come to her." 
 
 But they, while separating the two ladies, now defy 
 each other, both in love with Helena, and depart, meaning 
 to fight a duel in another part of the wood. Helena also 
 departs in another direction, exclaiming to Hermia,: 
 
 ' ' Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray. 
 My legs are longer though, to run away. " 
 
 The angry yet amazed Hermia then exclaims to 
 herself: 
 
 " I am amazed, and know not what to say," 
 
 and then rushes off after Helena. When all four are gone, 
 Oberon sharply reproves Puck for making such mistakes 
 between the Athenian lovers, exclaiming : 
 
 " This is thy negligence : still thou mistak'st, 
 Or else committ'st thy knaveries wilfiiUy." 
 
 Puck protests that he meant to obey : 
 
 " Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. 
 Did not you tell me I should know the man 
 By the Athenian garments he had on ? 
 And so far blameless proves my enterprise. 
 That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes." 
 
464 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then as if unable to repress his natural love of 
 mischief, despite his loyalty to Oberon, he adds: 
 
 " And so far am I glad it so did sort, 
 As this their jangling I esteem a sport." 
 
 Oberon, knowing he can rule him, never notices the 
 imp's last words, which seem hardly consistent with 
 obedience, and proceeds to give him directions of a 
 mysterious, yet benevolent nature : 
 
 " Thou see'st these lovers seek a place to fight : 
 Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night ; 
 The starry welkin cover thou anon 
 With drooping fog as black as Acheron ; 
 And lead these testy rivals so astray. 
 As one come not within another's way. 
 Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, 
 Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong ; 
 And from each other look thou lead them thus, 
 Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep 
 With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep : 
 Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye ; 
 Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, 
 To take from thence all error with his might. 
 
 When they next wake, all this derision 
 Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision, 
 
 Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, 
 
 I'll to my queen and beg her Indian boy ; 
 
 And then I will her charmed eye release 
 
 From monster's view, and all things shall be peace." 
 
 Puck, though quite obedient, makes a singular reply, 
 intimating that Oberon has more power at night than in 
 the day : 
 
 " My fairy lord, this must be done with haste. 
 For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast. 
 And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger ; 
 At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there. 
 Troop home to churchyards : damned spirits all. 
 Already to their wormy beds are gone ; 
 For fear lest day should look their shames upon. 
 They wilfully themselves exile from light, 
 And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 465 
 
 Oberon, as if knowing the superiority of his fantastic, 
 harmless race, proudly rejoins : 
 
 " 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. 
 Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red. 
 Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams. 
 Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams." 
 
 Yet apparently wishing his will done by night, Oberon 
 adds : 
 
 " But, notwithstanding, haste ; make no delay ; 
 We may effect this business yet ere day." 
 
 He departs, and Puck, evidently exulting in his secret 
 powers, exclaims to himself: 
 
 " Up and down, up and down ; 
 I will lead them up and down : 
 I am fear'd in field and town, 
 Goblin lead them up and down." 
 
 Lysander enters, angrily exclaiming : 
 
 "Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.'' 
 
 Puck, doubtless well imitating Demetrius, now replies 
 as if ready for combat : 
 
 "Here, villain ! drawn and ready. Where art thou?" 
 
 Lysander rejoins ; 
 
 " I will be with thee straight," 
 
 and Puck replies : 
 
 " Follow me, then. 
 To plainer ground," 
 
 and departs, followed by Lysander, who only hears the 
 voice ; Demetrius then appears, equally eager to find 
 Lysander, and Puck leading him also astray, provokingly 
 says, imitating Lysander : 
 
 " Come, recreant ; come, thou child ; 
 I'll whip thee with a rod : he is defii'd 
 That draws a sword on thee." 
 2G 
 
466 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Demetrius in a rage retorts : 
 
 "Yea; art thou there?" 
 
 and Puck rejoins ; 
 
 " Follow my voice : we'll try no manhood here." 
 
 They depart, when Lysander re-enters, vainly seeking 
 Demetrius, and fancying he is fleeing from him, while he 
 himself, tired out lies down to sleep, threatening vengeance 
 on Demetrius the next morning. Puck, always invisible, 
 re-enters, followed by Demetrius, the latter vainly trying 
 to pursue what he believes to be his foe. Puck torments 
 them in turn, calling them both cowards alternately and 
 with the like result, for Demetrius, now as wearied as 
 Lysander, lies down to rest, calling at last to Puck, 
 who says : 
 
 " Come hither ; I am here." 
 
 Demetrius rejoins : 
 
 " Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou shalt buy this dear, 
 If ever I thy face by daylight see ; 
 Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me 
 To measure out my length on this cold bed ; 
 By day's approach look to be visited." 
 
 He sleeps, when Helena appears, weary with wan- 
 dering through the wood without seeing any one, 
 and also lies down and falls asleep, while the ever 
 watchful Puck exclaims to himself in jest, but not 
 allowed to do mischief: 
 
 " Yet but three ? Come one more ; 
 Two of both kinds make up four. 
 Here she comes, curst and sad : 
 Cupid is a knavish lad. 
 Thus to make poor females mad." 
 
 Hermia appears, complaining like Helena of weariness 
 exclaiming : 
 
 ' ' Never so weary, never so in woe, 
 
 Here will I rest me till the break of day, 
 Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 467 
 
 She lies down and sleeps, while Puck surveys the repos- 
 ing lovers whom he now knows aright. In obedience to 
 Oberon, and perhaps rather against his mischievous nature, 
 he addresses the sleeping Lysander, while dropping the 
 magic liquor on his eye, rather in the style of his king 
 when pouring the juice on Titania asleep : 
 
 " On the ground 
 Sleep sound : 
 I'll 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." 
 
 He then concludes his singular performance with com- 
 forting homely lines, probably well known in rural districts 
 during Shakespeare's time : 
 
 " And the country proverb known, 
 That every man should take his own 
 In your waking shall be shown : 
 Jack shall have Jill ; 
 Nought shall go ill ; 
 The man shall have his mare again. 
 And all shall be well." 
 
 He then departs, leaving the lovers all asleep, and un- 
 conscious of each other's presence. The next act and 
 scene revert to Titania with her fairies leading Bottom 
 through another part of the wood, while Oberon watches 
 them unseen. This shrewd, comic, yet ignorant man, 
 never shows surprise at his strange adventures, and would 
 seem dazed, or partly stupefied, yet never frightened ; 
 though aware of all around him. He seems neither pleased 
 nor angry, in fact takes everything easy, never says who he 
 is, shows no admiration for Titania, and though rather 
 amused with the little fairies, tells them to do ridiculous 
 things, as if he were really in a dream. Titania, quite 
 mystified, thinking Bottom everything that is charming, 
 
468 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 also seems more or less sleepy and dreamy throughout. In 
 fact no other of Shakespeare's plays represents so much 
 sleeping and dreaming as this beautiful yet fantastic 
 comedy. Titania, choosing some fresh place of repose, 
 though only lately awaked, addresses Bottom in dreamy 
 love: 
 
 " Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, 
 While I thy amiable cheeks do coy. 
 And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
 And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy." 
 
 Bottom, without noticing her, though close beside him, 
 stolidly asks : 
 
 "Where's Peas-blossom? Scratch my head, Peas-blossom. Where's 
 Monsieur Cobweb ? Monsieur Cobweb, good monsieur, get you 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. Where's Monsieur Mustard- 
 seed ? Give me your neaf, ' Monsieur Mustard-seed." 
 
 The little imp thus addressed, apparently pinches or 
 hurts Bottom's hand, who exclaims : 
 
 " Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur," 
 
 and then asks him to help Cobweb to scratch his head, 
 which likely enough is tickled with the donkey's hair, as he 
 naturally adds, little knowing what is on him : 
 
 " I must to the barber's, monsieur ; for methinks I am marvellous hairy 
 about the face, and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must 
 scratch." 
 
 Titania never perceives the truth, while her little 
 attendants doubtless enjoy the whole scene, but dare not 
 reveal or explain it to their mistress. When hearing 
 Bottom's complaining voice she asks tenderly, longing to 
 gratify him : 
 
 "What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?" 
 
 Bottom likely associating all music with a loud or 
 merry noise, immediately rejoins : 
 
 " I have a reasonable good ear in music; let's have the tongs and the 
 bones." 
 
 1 Fist. 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 469 
 
 Titania, perhaps not being able or willing to provide 
 this sort of entertainment, makes another suggestion : 
 
 " Or say, sweet love, what thou desir'st to eat." 
 
 Bottom, who under magic influence apparently has 
 some of the tastes as well as the head of a donkey, replies : 
 
 "Truly, a peck of provender. I could munch your good dry oats. Me- 
 thinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay : good hay, sweet hay, hath no 
 fellow." 
 
 Titania, apparently not prepared or inclined to offer 
 this food, says : 
 
 " I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 
 The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts." 
 
 But Bottom, preserving a donkey's taste, drowsily 
 replies : 
 
 "I had 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 upon me." 
 
 He sleeps, and Titania lovingly exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. 
 Fairies begone, and be all ways away." 
 
 They doubtless vanish at her order, and then fondling 
 
 Bottom, she exclaims : 
 
 " So doth the woodbine the sweet honey-suckle 
 Gently entwist ; the female ivy so 
 Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. 
 O ! how I love thee ; how I dote on thee ! " 
 
 and then sleeps beside him. Oberon advances, and Puck 
 enters, to whom the former says : 
 
 " Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight ? " 
 
 Puck doubtless laughs at the question and the sight 
 before him, but is too respectful to show much merriment, 
 while the fairy king proceeds : 
 
 " Her dotage now I do begin to pity " ; 
 
 He then tells Puck he has since seen Titania and 
 
470 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 obtained the coveted Indian boy from her. This curious 
 scene between the king and queen is not introduced, and 
 would seem hardly compatible with Titania's wilfulness, 
 but for Oberon's mysterious influence, owing to the magic 
 juice. It is evidently through its means that the bene- 
 volent fairy king has shown such power over both mortals 
 and fairies, and apparently Titania does not share this 
 power with him. Oberon then directs Puck, who, despite 
 late mistakes, has his full confidence : 
 
 ' ' And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp 
 From off the head of this Athenian swain, 
 That, he awaking when the other do. 
 May all to Athens back again repair, 
 And think no more of this night's accidents 
 But as the fierce vexation of a dream. 
 But first I will release the fairy queen." 
 
 He accordingly touches the eyes of the sleeping Titania 
 
 with the magic herb, an antidote to the former juice, saying 
 
 at the time : 
 
 " Be as thou wast wont to be ; 
 See as thou wast wont to see : 
 Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower 
 Hath such force and blessed power. 
 Now, my Titania ; wake you, my sweet queen." 
 
 She immediately wakes to a complete knowledge of 
 all around, while never referring to the Indian boy, the 
 former bone of contention between her and the fairy king, 
 and she asks, evidently quite reconciled to him : 
 
 " My Oberon ! what visions have I seen ! 
 Methought I was enamour'd of an ass." 
 
 Without explaining further, Oberon replies, perhaps 
 sarcastically, indicating the sleeping Bottom : 
 " There lies your love.'' 
 
 Titania astonished, and probably rather shocked, yet 
 not irritated as yet by the harmless deceit practised on 
 her, again asks him in wonder: 
 
 " How came these things to pass ?" 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 471 
 
 Then, evidently surveying Bottom with new and very 
 different feelings, adds naturally enough : 
 
 " O ! how mine eyes do loathe his visage now." 
 
 Oberon, as if anxious to postpone explanation, rejoins : 
 "Silence awhile." 
 
 and addressing Puck, says : 
 
 " Robin, take off this head." 
 
 He then tells Titania to call for music from the fairies, 
 adding : 
 
 " And strike more dead 
 Than common sleep of all these five the sense. " 
 
 and she, obeying, answers : 
 
 " Music, ho ! music ! such as charmeth sleep." 
 
 Music ensues, whether vocal, instrumental, or both is 
 not named, while Puck, taking off the donkey's head, 
 says with natural and excusable impudence : 
 
 " Now, when thou wak'st, with thine own fool's eyes peep.'' 
 
 Oberon, now obeyed by all around, exclaims : 
 
 " Sound, music ! Come, my queen, take hands with me. 
 And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. 
 Now thou and I are new in amity, 
 And will to-morrow midnight solemnly 
 Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly, 
 And bless it to all fair posterity." 
 
 Then kindly alluding to the four Athenian lovers, he 
 
 adds : 
 
 "There shall the pairs of faithfuMovers be 
 Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity." 
 
 Puck, ever alert and watchful, here exclaims : 
 
 " Fairy king, attend, and mark ; 
 I do hear the morning lark." 
 
 At this warning the fairies hasten to depart, Shake- 
 
472 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 speare evidently believing the idea that they are chiefly, 
 if not only, at night seen or known by mankind. Oberon, 
 as if rather melancholy at the dawn of day which to 
 mortals usually brings such relief, cheerfulness, and in- 
 terest, exclaims : 
 
 " Then, my queen, in silence sad. 
 Trip we after the night's shade ; 
 We the globe can compass soon. 
 Swifter than the wand'ring moon." 
 
 Titania, postponing all explanation of late events, yet 
 most anxious to hear it, rejoins : 
 
 " Come, my lord ; and in our flight 
 Tell me how it came this night 
 That I sleeping here was found 
 With these mortals on the ground." 
 
 They vanish, and then enter Duke Theseus with his 
 queen Hippolyta, Egeus, and all their train, preparing for 
 a hunt in this same eventful wood which is the scene 
 of so many interesting sights. Theseus and his Amazonian 
 consort take great delight in this sport. He, sending 
 for the forester, orders his hounds to be uncoupled, while 
 in the true spirit of an eager huntsman he addresses 
 Hippolyta : 
 
 " We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top. 
 And mark the musical confusion 
 Of hounds and echo in conjunction.'' 
 
 Perhaps few but eager hunting men would appreciate 
 such music, but Hippolyta as great a lover of hunting as 
 Theseus, thus recalls a delightful scene : 
 
 ' ' I was with Hercules and Cadmus once. 
 When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear 
 With hounds of Sparta ; never did I hear 
 Such gallant chiding ; for, besides the groves, 
 The skies, the fountains, every region near 
 Seem'd all one mutual cry : I never heard 
 So musical a discord, such sweet thunder." 
 
 Theseus, perhaps thinking his own hounds cannot 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 473 
 
 be surpassed by any others, retorts, detailing all their 
 merits : 
 
 " My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, 
 So flew'd, so sanded ; and their heads are hung 
 With ears that sweep away the morning dew ; 
 Crook-knee'd, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls ; 
 Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells, 
 Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
 Was never holloa'd to, nor cheered with horn. 
 In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly : 
 Judge when you hear." 
 
 Then perceiving the four sleeping Athenian lovers, he 
 asks : 
 
 " But soft ! what nymphs are these?" 
 
 Egeus, recognising the four, replies : 
 
 ' ' My lord, this is my daughter here asleep ; 
 And this, Lysander ; this Demetrius is ; 
 This Helena, old Nedar's Helena : " 
 
 and naturally adds : 
 
 ' ' I wonder of their being here together. " 
 
 Theseus always benevolent, and specially so on this 
 happy hunting morning, graciously exclaims : 
 
 " No doubt they rose up early to observe 
 The rite of May, and hearing our intent. 
 Came here in grace of our solemnity. 
 But speak, Egeus, is not this the day 
 That Hermia should give answer of her choice ?" 
 
 Egeus : 
 
 " It is, my lord." 
 
 Theseus then orders the huntsmen to awake the four 
 sleepers with their hunting horns. They all wake up at 
 this inspiriting sound, and Theseus kindly says : 
 " Good-morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past " ; 
 
 He then asks in good-humoured jest : 
 
 " Begin these wood-birds but to couple now ? " 
 
 This familiar mention of a Christian saint by a Pagan 
 
474 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 prince, centuries before the Christian era, is among the many 
 instances in which Shakespeare disregards chronological 
 accuracy, and shews his wish to make his plays the more 
 pleasing to English audiences, for whom they were almost 
 exclusively intended. Theseus' reference to St Valentine 
 among Pagan subjects at his remote period, would be far 
 more pleasing to English listeners, than allusion to classic 
 ideas, which the real Theseus would likely have made at 
 this moment. The four awakened lovers now kneel before 
 him, when he graciously says : 
 
 " I pray you all, stand up. 
 
 I know you two are rival enemies : " 
 
 and calmly asks them : 
 
 " How comes this gentle concord in the world, 
 That hatred is so far from jealousy. 
 To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity ? " 
 
 Lysander owns he cannot explain how he came into 
 the wood, but that his intention and Hermia's was to 
 escape from Athens together to some place free from its 
 laws. This admission irritates Hermia's father, Egeus, 
 who still desires that his daughter should wed Demetrius, 
 with or without her own consent, and begs to enforce the 
 law against his daughter and her lover. At this moment 
 however, Demetrius avows that by some unknown influence 
 his love to Hermia has gone, and that he now only loves 
 Helena, and declares he will be always faithful to her. 
 Egeus says nothing at this extraordinary announcement, 
 though it must have been a wonderful surprise to him, and 
 Theseus, wishing well to all, and wielding apparently 
 almost absolute power, exclaims in his usual calm and 
 considerate spirit : 
 
 " Fair lovers, you are fortunately met : 
 Of this discourse we more will hear anon." 
 
 Then addressing the silent Egeus, he says firmly : 
 
 " Egeus, I will overbear your will ; 
 For in the temple, by and by, with us 
 These couples shall eternally be knit : " 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 475 
 
 He then postpones the hunt, evidently much interested 
 in his young subjects welfare, exclaiming to all around : 
 
 " And for the morning now is something worn, 
 Our purposed hunting shall be set aside. 
 Away with us to Athens ; three and three, 
 We'll hold a feast in great solemnity. " 
 
 He departs with Hippolyta, Egeus, and his train, 
 leaving the four surprised yet gratified young lovers 
 together. After Helena and Hermia have expressed their 
 bewildered astonishment, Demetrius asks : 
 
 "Are you sure 
 That we are awake ? It seems to me 
 That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think 
 The duke was here, and bid us follow him?" 
 
 Hermia replies : 
 
 " Yea ; and my father." 
 
 Helena adding : 
 
 "And Hippolyta." 
 
 while Lysander says : 
 
 " And he did bid us follow to the temple." 
 
 Demetrius then 'rejoins : 
 
 ' ' Why then, we are awake. Let's follow him ; 
 And by the way let us recount our dreams. " 
 
 They then depart for Athens in obedience to Theseus' 
 command, and when they are gone. Bottom, who has been 
 unseen by all of them, also awakes from his mysterious 
 dream. He evidently has his head full of the play, 
 remembers his fellow-actor^, but has confused ideas, if 
 any, of the fairies, whom he never mentions. He first 
 exclaims, thinking his fellow-workmen are beside him : 
 
 " When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer ; my next is, ' Most fair 
 Pyramus,'" 
 
 then quite awakes, and seeing nobody, he calls out : 
 
 " Heigh-ho ! Peter Quince ! Flute, the bellows-tnender ! Snout, the 
 tinker ! Starveling ! " 
 
476 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then getting no answer, he goes on, partly rambling, and 
 partly reasoning with himself: 
 
 " God's my life ! stolen hence, and left me asleep. I have had a most rare 
 vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was ; man 
 is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream." 
 
 Bottom evidently remembers nothing clearly about 
 Titania and the fairies ; all his recollections are confused, 
 he is neither pleased nor frightened, but simply puzzled, 
 while clearly remembering his fellow-actors and their 
 intended play. As he vainly tries to recall the fairy 
 vision, he only gets more and more mystified. Unlike 
 superstitious people in his situation, he never attributes 
 his extraordinary dream to any evil power or influence, 
 and shows no alarm whatever as he goes on wonder- 
 ing : 
 
 " Methought I was, — there is no man can tell what, Methought I was, and 
 methought I had, — " 
 
 Here he seems to have some vague recollection quickly 
 
 lost: 
 
 "but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought 
 I had." 
 
 while in an amusing state of mental confusion, he pro- 
 ceeds : 
 
 ' ' The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand 
 is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what 
 my dream was." 
 
 Then a bright idea which he never in the play acts 
 upon, strikes his shrewd, though rather dull mind. Re- 
 membering Peter Quince's liking for plays, poems or 
 songs, he exclaims : 
 
 " I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream : it shall be called 
 Bottom's dream, because it hath no bottom ; and I will sing it in the latter end 
 of a play, before the duke." 
 
 He never carries out this intention, nor does he 
 tell his dream to Quince, which he apparently forgets, 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 477 
 
 otherwise Quince's conversation with him, and his com- 
 position on the subject, would have been most amusing. 
 But the whole vision of the fairies, even the beauty of 
 Titania, leaves nothing clear on Bottom's mind. He 
 knows he had an extraordinary dream, yet can recollect 
 nothing certain about it, and even his vague remembrance 
 would seem to get weaker and weaker through time, 
 and especially now when all his wits and senses are 
 devoted to acting the play before Duke Theseus. The 
 next scene is at Quince's house in Athens, in which 
 Flute, Snout, and Starveling are assembled with Quince 
 himself, and all the four wonder what has become of 
 Bottom, upon whom the success of their play mainly 
 depends. Flute pathetically exclaims : 
 
 " If he come not, then the play is marred : " 
 
 and asks : 
 
 " It goes not forward, doth it ? " 
 
 and Quince replies : 
 
 " It is not possible : you have not a man in all Athens able to discharge 
 Pyramus but he." 
 
 and Flute rejoins : 
 
 " No ; he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens." 
 
 Evidently Bottom, despite his conceit, is one of the 
 cleverest among them, and Quince replies: 
 
 ' ' Yea, and the best person too ; and he is a very paramour for a sweet 
 voice." 
 
 Flute here ventures to correct Mr Quince, observing : 
 " You must say ' paragon ' : a paramour is, God bless us ! a thing of naught." 
 
 Snug, the joiner, then enters, saying that Duke Theseus 
 is coming from the temple with lords and ladies, regret- 
 fully adding : 
 
 " If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men." 
 
4T8 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Flute, with the same feehngSj and vexed about die 
 absent Bottom, exclaims : 
 
 " O sweet bully Bottom ! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his 
 life ; he could not have 'scaped sixpence a day : an the duke had not given 
 him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged; he would have 
 deserved it ; sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing." 
 
 Bottom now appears to the general joy, asking : 
 " Where are these lads ! where are these hearts?" 
 
 and Quince eagerly exclaims in cordial welcome : 
 " Bottom ! O most courageous day ! O most happy hour ! " 
 
 Bottom, important and mysterious, exclaims : 
 
 " Masters, I am to discourse wonders, but ask me not what ; for if I tell 
 you, I am no true Athenian. I will tell you every thing, right as it fell out." 
 
 Quince naturally replies : 
 " Let us hear, sweet Bottom.'' 
 
 But the latter, always cool and practical, evidently 
 more intent on the coming play than anything else, 
 cautiously rejoins : 
 
 "Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the duke hath dined." 
 
 Then, addressing the other actors, he gives explicit 
 directions : 
 
 ' ' 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 short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisbe 
 have clean linen, and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they 
 shall hang out for the lion's claws." 
 
 He then adds advice peculiarly suitable even to 
 modern Greeks or Italians : 
 
 ' ' 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." 
 
 Probably they wish to hear more from Bottom about 
 his late adventures, but he concludes, saying : 
 
 " No more words ! away ! go ; away ! " 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 479 
 
 and all depart, evidently alike intent on the coming 
 performance. No mention is made of Bottom's dream 
 during the rest of this play. He never asks Quince to 
 write a ballad about it, as he had intended, when its 
 recollection was fresh in his mind. This is truly to be 
 regretted, as a most amusing scene might have been 
 described of Bottom's narrating his thoughts and recollec- 
 tions to Quince, with the latter's questions and comments ; 
 and perhaps an attempted ballad. Bottom, however, like 
 his fellow-actors, is quite absorbed in the coming play at 
 the palace. Even the incident of the donkey's head that 
 had so frightened the others is never again mentioned, 
 which is extraordinary, as Bottom was wearing it when 
 hr^ friends last saw him, and they would surely have 
 wisKed to know how he obtained, and how he got rid of 
 it. In fact the beautiful dream has apparently quite 
 vanished from Bottom's recollection, the beauty, grace, 
 and compliments of Titania produce no apparent int 
 pression whatever on one whose common-sense, energy,^ 
 and even self-conceit are alike devoted to making hirt^^Ht 
 and his fellow-players do their best before their patronis- 
 ing Athenian ruler. The next and last act is in the 
 palace of Theseus, where Hippolyta wonders at the 
 curious tale of the four Athenian lovers ; her surprise 
 elicits a remarkable and beautiful reply from Theseus, 
 in words often quoted by the poet's admirers: 
 
 ' ' Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, 
 Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
 More than cool reason ever comprehends. 
 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. " 
 
 This language would indicate that Egyptian beauty, 
 afterwards so dangerously attractive in Cleopatra, was 
 despised at Athens, while that of the Grecian Helen was 
 thought perfection. Theseus, whom Shakespeare inspires 
 
48o SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 with so much of his own philosophic power and ideas, 
 then gives a beautiful if somewhat fantastic description 
 of poetic genius and enthusiasm : 
 
 " 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 form of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name." 
 
 Hippolyta seems unable or unwilling to continue this 
 sort of conversation, yet takes a lively interest in the four 
 lovers who enter together. Theseus greets them with 
 a most cordial welcome, and abandoning philosophic 
 thoughts at this festive time, seems bent on giving 
 pleasure and gratification to all around on the joyous 
 occasion of his own approaching marriage. As a short 
 time has to elapse before this great event, Theseus 
 summons Philostrate, whom he terms, " our usual manager 
 of mirth," and impatiently asks him : 
 
 "What abridgement have you for this evening? 
 What masque, what music ? How shall we beguile 
 The lazy time, if not with some delight ? " 
 
 Philostrate gives him a list of proposed entertainments, 
 being evidently thought a judge of such performances, 
 but indirectly recommends the play of Pyramus and 
 Thisbe, thus comically describing it: 
 
 ' ' A play there is, my lord, some ten words long. 
 Which is as brief as I have known a play ; 
 But by ten words, my lord, it is too long. 
 Which makes it tedious ; for in all the play 
 There is not one word apt, one player fitted. 
 And tragical, my noble 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 at once interested as Philostrate probably 
 wished, asks : 
 
 " What are they that do play it 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 481 
 
 and Philostrate, who likely knows all about Quince and 
 his company, replies: 
 
 " Hard-handed men, that work in Athens here, 
 Which never labour'd in their minds till now. 
 And now have toil'd their unbreathed memories 
 With this same play, against your nuptial." 
 
 Theseus exclaims : 
 
 "And we will hear it." 
 
 Philostrate, who though himself amused at this play, 
 seems afraid that Theseus may be disappointed in it, 
 rejoins : 
 
 ' ' 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 stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain, 
 To do you service." 
 
 These words interest Theseus all the more, as Philo- 
 strate likely meant they should, and he resolves to hear 
 the play, ordering the actors to appear, while he asks 
 the ladies present to take their places as listeners, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 "I will hear that play." 
 
 adding expressly in words worthy of a benevolent ruler : 
 
 " For never any thing can be amiss. 
 When simpleness and duty tender it. 
 Go bring them in, and take your places, ladies." 
 
 Hippolyta, however, not anticipating much pleasure 
 from Philostrate's words, and not understanding his 
 meaning as well as Theseus does, exclaims : 
 
 " I love not to see wretchedness o'ercharged. 
 And duty in his service, perishing." 
 
 Theseus answers : 
 
 "Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing," 
 
 and she rejoins : ^ 
 
 " He (Philostrate) says they can do nothing in this kind." 
 2 H 
 
482 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Theseus, resolved to hear the play, and wishing to 
 
 gratify even his humblest subjects, replies in instructive 
 
 words : 
 
 " The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. 
 Our sport shall be to take what they mistake : 
 And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect 
 Takes it in might, not merit. 
 
 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. " 
 
 Hippolyta, hardly sharing apparently Theseus's en- 
 lightened and politic thoughts, makes him no reply, and 
 Philostrate in his duty as master of the ceremonies now 
 introduces the players. Peter Quince begins the prologue, 
 one worthy of himself, and luckily, before a very good- 
 natured audience : 
 
 " 'Ifwe offend, it is with our good will. 
 
 That you should think, we come not to offend. 
 
 But with good will. To show our simple skill. 
 
 That is the true beginning of our end. 
 
 Consider then we come but in despite. 
 
 We do not come as minding to content you. 
 
 Our true intent is. All for your delight. 
 
 We are not here. That you should here repent you. 
 
 The actors are at hand ; and, by their show. 
 
 You shall know all that you are like to know.' " 
 
 Theseus exclaims, but in good-humour : 
 
 " This fellow doth not stand upon points.'' 
 
 Lysander, who, now friendly with Demetrius, watches 
 the play with him, answers merrily, alluding to Quince : 
 
 " He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt ; he knows not the stop. A 
 good moral, my lord; it is not enough to speak, but to speak true." 
 
 Hippolyta evidently not much pleased or amused, 
 observes rather scornfully : 
 
 " Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder ; a 
 sound, but not in government." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 483 
 
 Theseus, willing to make the best of it, says ; 
 
 " His speech was like a tangled chain ; nothing impaired, but all dis- 
 ordered. Who is next ? " 
 
 All the five actors now appear in silence, while Quince 
 continues : 
 
 " Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show ; 
 But wonder on till truth make all things plain. 
 This man is Pyramus, if you would know ; 
 This beauteous lady Thisbe is, certain. 
 This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present 
 Wall, that vile Wall, which did these lovers sunder ; 
 And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content 
 To whisper, at the which let no man wonder. 
 This man with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn, 
 Presenteth Moonshine ; for, if you will know. 
 By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn 
 To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo. 
 This grisly beast, which by name Lionhight, 
 The trusty Thisbe, coming first by night, 
 Did scare away, or rather did affright ; 
 And as she fled, her mantle she did fall. 
 Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. 
 Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall. 
 And finds his trusty Thisbe's mantle slain : 
 Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, 
 He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast ; 
 And Thisbe, tarrying in mulberry shade. 
 His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, 
 Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain, 
 At large discourse, while here they do remain." 
 
 Quince, Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine go out, and 
 Theseus wonders if the Lion is to speak, when Demetrius, 
 a young man perhaps accustomed to better acting than 
 what is before him, sarcastically says : 
 
 "No wonder, my lord; one lion may, when many asses do." 
 
 " Wall " then says that through his chinks the lovers 
 Pyramus and Thisbe are to whisper. 
 
 "In this same interlude it doth befall 
 That I, one Snout by name, present a wall ; 
 
 This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone doth show 
 That I am that same wall ; the truth is so ; 
 And this the cranny is, right and sinister. 
 Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper." 
 
484 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Theseus, at once practical and indulgent, here asks : 
 " Would you desire lime and hair to speak better ? " 
 
 Demetrius only answers : 
 " It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord." 
 
 and Theseus, evidently interested, rejoins : 
 
 " Pyramus draws near the wall : silence ! " 
 
 Bottom, then representing the young hero Pyramus, 
 expecting to meet Thisbe, exclaims : 
 
 " I fear my Thisbe's promise is forgot. 
 And thou, O wall ! O sweet ! O lovely wall ! 
 That stand'st between her father's ground and mine ; 
 Show me thy chink to bUnk through with mine eyes." 
 
 Snout obligingly holds up his fingers, and Pyramus 
 proceeds : 
 
 " Thanks, courteous wall : Jove shield thee well for this." 
 
 Then disappointed, the comic lover loses his temper : 
 
 " But what see I ? No Thisbe do I see. 
 O wicked wall ! through whom I see no bliss ; 
 Curs'd be thy stones for thus deceiving me ! " 
 
 Theseus, always good-natured, yet perhaps roused by 
 Bottom's angry voice, observes : 
 
 " The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again." 
 
 Bottom, for a moment abandoning his part in his 
 eagerness to defend or explain the play, rather bluntly 
 answers : 
 
 " No, in truth, sir, he should not. ' Deceiving me ' is Thisbe's cue ; she is 
 to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will fall 
 pat as I told you. Yonder she comes." 
 
 Thisbe accordingly appears, and she and Pyramus 
 whisper to each other through Snout's fingers, and agree 
 to meet the next day at Ninus' tomb. The three actors 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 485 
 
 then depart for a time, while the spectators apparently are 
 all indulgent or try to be, except Hippolyta, who with 
 some reason cannot resist exclaiming : 
 
 " This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard." 
 
 Theseus, still making the best of it, says : 
 
 " The best in his kind are but shadows, and the worst are no worse, if 
 imagination amend them," 
 
 to which sensible observation she rather sharply replies : 
 "It must be your imagination then, and not theirs." 
 
 Theseus, still indulgent to the strange nonsense intended 
 to please them, replies : 
 
 " If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass 
 for excellent men." 
 
 The Lion and Moonshine now enter, the former tries 
 to reassure the female part of the audience, while they are 
 likely laughing at his absurdity : 
 
 " ' You, ladies, yon, whose gentle hearts do fear 
 
 The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, 
 May now perchance both quake and tremble here, 
 When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. 
 Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am. ' " 
 
 Theseus good-naturedly observes : 
 
 "A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience." 
 
 The young men, Demetrius and Lysander, are more 
 critical, the former saying : 
 
 "The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw." 
 
 and the latter : 
 
 "This lion is a very fox for his valour." 
 
 Theseus rejoins in the same good-humoured strain : 
 " True ; and a goose for his discretion." 
 
486 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Demetrius wittily replies : 
 
 ' ' Not so, my lord ; for his valour cannot carry his discretion ; and the fox 
 carries the goose," 
 
 and Theseus rejoins : 
 
 ' ' His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour ; for the goose carries 
 not the fox. It is well ; leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the 
 moon." 
 
 Moonshine now says : 
 
 " This lantern doth the horned moon present ; 
 Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be." 
 
 Theseus, perhaps a little out of patience, here exclaims : 
 
 "This is the greatest error of all the rest. The man should be put into 
 the lantern ; hovf is it else the man i' the moon?" 
 
 Demetrius rather scornfully answers this query : 
 
 "He dares not come there for the candle; for you see, it is already in 
 snuff.' 
 
 Hippolyta, who of all others least likes this strange 
 exhibition, exclaims : 
 
 " I am aweary of this moon ; would he would change ! " 
 
 Theseus, more patient, rejoins : 
 
 " It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane ; but 
 yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time." 
 
 And Lysander, perhaps more impatient, says : 
 "Proceed, Moon," 
 
 " An that I have to say, is, to tell you that the lantern is the moon ; I, the 
 man in the moon ; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush ; and this dog, my dog." 
 
 and the player continues : 
 
 " An that I have to say, is, to t 
 I in the moon ; this thorn-bush, 
 
 Demetrius, who likely thinks he understands theatrical 
 ' Anger. (See Howard Staunton's Note.) 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 487 
 
 arrangement better than the present performers, here 
 exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Why, all these should be in the lantern ; for they are in the moon. But, 
 silence ! here comes Thisbe." 
 
 This heroine enters to keep her appointment with 
 Pyramus, and not finding him, exclaims : 
 
 " 'This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love ? ' " 
 
 Here the lion roars, and Thisbe naturally runs away. 
 This ridiculous scene amuses all beholders, and is therefore 
 a success. Demetrius exclaims : 
 "Well roared, Lion.'' 
 
 Theseus : 
 
 "Well run, Thisbe," 
 
 and even Hippolyta adds, 
 
 "Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace." 
 
 Here the lion tears Thisbe's mantle and departs, when 
 Theseus, as if comparing the beast to a cat killing mice, 
 exclaims encouragingly : 
 "Well moused. Lion." 
 
 Pyramus enters, exclaiming, in doubtless the softest 
 tones that Bottom can assume : 
 
 " ' Sweet m6on, I thank thee for thy sunny beams, 
 I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright, 
 For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams, 
 I trust to taste of truest Thisbe's sight.' " 
 
 Then changing from sentimentality to tragic alarm, 
 of course all the more comic in such a performer : 
 
 "'But stay, O spite ! 
 
 But mark, poor knight, 
 What dreadful dole is here ! 
 
 Eyes, do you see ? 
 
 How can it be ? 
 O dainty duck ! O dear ! 
 
488 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Thy mantle good, 
 
 What ! stain'd with blood ! 
 
 Approach, ye Furies fell ! 
 
 O Fates, come, come ; 
 
 Cut thread and thrum ; 
 
 Quail, crush, conclude, and quell ! ' " 
 
 Theseus and Hippolyta now both seem interested or 
 touched by Bottom's efforts to be tragic, the former 
 exclaiming : 
 
 "This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a 
 man look sad," 
 
 and the latter, becoming more favourable to the play, adds : 
 " Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man," 
 
 and Pyramus proceeds : 
 
 " ' O ! wherefore. Nature, didst thou lions frame. 
 Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear ? 
 
 Come, tears, confound ; 
 Out, sword, and wound 
 The pap of Pjnramus. 
 
 Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. 
 
 Now am I dead. 
 
 Now am I fled ; 
 Now die, die, die, die, die." 
 
 He pretends to be dead, and the spectators make their 
 different jokes on this amusing absurdity. Demetrius 
 remarks wittily : 
 
 "No die, but an ace, for him ; for he is but one." 
 
 Lysander retorts : 
 " Less than an ace, man, for he is dead ; he is nothing." 
 
 Theseus, in good-humoured sarcasm, observes : 
 "With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover." 
 
 Thisbe enters, and Hippolyta observes, as if wearied : 
 " I hope she will be brief." 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 489 
 
 Thisbe, seeing Pyramus lying motionless, exclaims : 
 
 "Asleep, my love? 
 
 What, dead, my dove ? 
 O Pyramus, arise ! 
 
 Speak, speak ! Quite dumb ? 
 
 Dead, dead ! A tomb 
 Must cover thy sweet eyes. 
 
 These lily lips. 
 
 This cherry nose, 
 These yellow cowslip cheeks, 
 
 Are gone, are gone. 
 
 Lovers, make moan ! 
 His eyes were green as leeks. 
 
 Tongue, not a word : 
 
 Come, trusty sword ; 
 Come blade, my breast imbrue : 
 
 And farewell, friends ; 
 
 Thus Thisby ends : 
 Adieu, adieu, adieu." 
 
 Thisbe then seems to die beside her lover, and Theseus 
 observes : 
 
 " Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead." 
 
 Demetrius says: 
 
 " Ay, and Wall too," 
 
 when Bottom, coming to life, and full of importance, partly 
 gratified, yet anxious for more applause, says, putting his 
 words wrong as before : 
 
 " No, I assure you ; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it 
 please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance ' between two of 
 our company?" 
 
 Theseus, who has probably heard enough of the play 
 already, and knows that Hippolyta has yet resolved to be 
 gracious, replies good-humouredly : 
 
 " No epilogue, I pray you ; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse ; 
 for when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed." 
 
 I According to Mr Staunton, this was an Italian dance. 
 
490 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 He then adds, doubtless much to Bottom's delight : 
 
 " Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in 
 Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy : and so it is, truly, and 
 very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask : let your epilogue 
 alone." 
 
 Then ensues a dance of clowns, probably a very comic 
 
 performance ; but during the whole scene Helena and 
 
 Hermia say not a word, while Demetrius and Lysander, 
 
 whose remarks on the play were rather disparaging, never 
 
 say anything at its conclusion. They probably secretly 
 
 ridicule the whole affair, but make the best of it to please 
 
 the indulgent Duke Theseus, and restrain themselves from 
 
 fault-finding. Quince, Bottom, and the rest, however, have 
 
 certainly good reason to be well satisfied, as the applause 
 
 of Theseus is of more consequence to them than any 
 
 amount of praise from the others. He now addresses all 
 
 around : 
 
 " The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve ; 
 Lovers, to bed ; 'tis almost fairy time. 
 I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn 
 As much as we this night have overwatch'd. 
 This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled 
 The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. 
 A fortnight hold we this solemnity, 
 In nightly revels, and new jollity." 
 
 All depart, and Puck alone appears, it being now fairy 
 
 time, in the deserted hall of the palace. This wonderful 
 
 imp, so naturally mischievous, but luckily under Oberon's 
 
 authority, exclaims to himself as if revealing the philosophy 
 
 or belief of the fairy race : 
 
 ' ' Now the hungry lion roars. 
 
 And the wolf behowls the moon ; 
 Whilst the heavy ploughman snores. 
 All with weary task fordone. 
 
 Now it is the time of night 
 
 That the graves, all gaping wide, 
 Every one lets forth his sprite, 
 
 In the church-way paths to glide : 
 And we fairies, that do run 
 
 From the presence of the sun. 
 Following darkness like a dream. 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 491 
 
 Now are frolic ; not a mouse 
 Shall disturb this hallow'd house : 
 I am sent with broom before, 
 To sweep the dust behind the door." 
 
 At these words Oberon and Titania with their train 
 enter, and the fairy king exclaims, showing his usual 
 friendly spirit towards mortals, though his race was often 
 thought hostile to them : 
 
 "Through the 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.'' 
 
 Titania, now agreeing with him, then says in the same 
 kind spirit : 
 
 " First, rehearse your song by rote, 
 To each word a warbling note ; 
 Hand in hand, with fairy grace, 
 Will we sing, and bless this place." 
 
 Then ensue a song and dance, while Oberon thus 
 addresses his fairy subjects, advising all to be friendly to 
 Duke Theseus, his bride, and the Athenian lovers: 
 
 " Now, until the break of day 
 Through this house each fairy stray 
 To the best bride-bed will we, 
 V^Thich by us shall blessed be ; 
 And the issue there create 
 Ever shall be fortunate. 
 So shall all the couples three 
 Ever true in loving be ; 
 And the blots of Nature's hand 
 Shall not in their issue stand : 
 Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, 
 Nor mark prodigious, such as are 
 Despised in nativity. 
 Shall upon their children be. 
 With this fairy-dew consecrate, 
 Every fairy take his gait. 
 And each several chamber bless 
 Through this palace with sweet peace ; 
 And the owner of it blest 
 Ever shall in safety rest." 
 
492 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 Then, as if remembering his power is chiefly if not only 
 in the night season, the fairy monarch concludes : 
 
 " Trip away ; 
 Make no stay ; 
 Meet me all by break of day." 
 
 With this beautiful yet fantastic benediction, Oberon 
 and all his fairies vanish, except Puck, who lingers behind 
 to utter a few words apparently intended for an English 
 theatrical audience, as the final close of the singular and 
 lovely dream they have witnessed. These words are not 
 in Puck's former sly, mischievous style, and are likely 
 meant to propitiate and gratify the listeners. 
 
 " If we shadows have offended. 
 Think but this and all is mended, 
 That you have but slumber'd here 
 While these visions did appear. 
 And this weak and idle theme. 
 No more yielding but a dream, 
 Gentles, do not reprehend : 
 If yoo pardon, we will mend. 
 And, as I am an honest Puck, 
 If we have unearned luck 
 Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue. 
 We will make amends ere long ; 
 Else the Puck a liar call : 
 So good-night unto you all 
 Give me your hands, if we be friends, 
 And Robin shall restore amends." 
 
 It is to be hoped that the requested clapping of hands 
 usually greeted these last words of Puck in London 
 theatres. Thus ends this beautiful play in which, with 
 Puck's exception, all the fairies are represented as friendly 
 to mankind. It may seem strange that though Oberon 
 and Titania accuse each other of loving Theseus and 
 Hippolyta at the beginning of the play, yet during its 
 course the fairies are always invisible, Emd neither the duke 
 nor his bride ever mentions Oberon and Titania. The 
 mortals of high and low degree exert themselves in the 
 daytime, while at night the fairies appear always friendly 
 to them, but none of these human beings seem aware of 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 493 
 
 their existence, or at least they never mention them. In 
 the fairies' behaviour to mankind this play presents a 
 delightful contrast to what is usually alleged in ancient 
 legends, traditions, or popular belief. Sir Walter Scott 
 often mentions fairies as being very wayward, capricious, and 
 generally dreaded.^ The White Lady of Avenel in " The 
 Monastery " seems entirely devoted to one human family, 
 and to be thus rather an exception to the fairy race. Yet 
 the fear of fairies especially by night seems to have been 
 the usual result of most legends or traditions about them, 
 and this apprehension has never entirely disappeared from 
 rural sequestered districts, even in Great Britain and Ireland. 
 But in this attractive play the fairies seem beneficent 
 spirits ; though only appearing at night, they take a kindly 
 interest in human beings, while exercising a wonderful 
 power over many of Nature's creations. Flowers and 
 insects seem alike under their control. From the former 
 they extract potent juice, using it for human benefit, 
 while they expel all harmful specimens of the latter from 
 the presence of their queen. Puck alone to some extent 
 represents the prevalent association of fairies with spite or 
 mischief, but is always under control. Between the 
 characters of Theseus, the human ruler and the fairy 
 king, there seems some points of resemblance in conduct 
 and character. They are alike friendly and kind to all in 
 their power, and, in different ways, promote their general 
 happiness. Theseus and Hippolyta make a few classic 
 allusions as if to confirm their being really Greeks, while 
 the comic characters of Bottom and the other actors seem 
 thoroughly English throughout. They resemble suburban 
 workmen and artisans in the immediate neighbourhood 
 of London. They are evidently delighted with theat- 
 rical performances, and the feelings and knowledge of 
 Shakespeare's period are likely represented without much 
 exaggeration. All the birds that Bottom sings about — 
 blackbird, wren, finch, sparrow, thrush, lark and cuckoo — 
 
 1 See " The Fair Maid of Perth." 
 
494 SHAKESPEARE STUDIED 
 
 are still among the most common in England, and seen 
 near London. Naturalists will perceive that Bottom knows 
 them well. The blackbird's "orange, tawny bill," the 
 common thrush's sweet voice, the wren's little quill, and 
 " the plain-song cuckoo grey," are to this day, despite guns, 
 traps, and every new invention to destroy birds, still to be 
 found every spring and summer around London as well as 
 in most English counties. Milton, when describing the 
 plays of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson as among the chief 
 attractions of a city, especially a London life, writes : 
 
 " Then to the well-trod stage anon 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
 Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. " ^ 
 
 A Midsummer - Nights Dream seems to specially 
 abound with Shakespeare's sweetest "wood-notes." The 
 singular association of English artisans with Greek char- 
 acters and localities seems to indicate the great interest 
 which ancient Greek names, poetry, and historical incidents 
 have always aroused among learned Europeans.^ Egeus, 
 Hippolyta, Theseus, and the four Athenian lovers would 
 immediately attract a learned audience, while the intro- 
 duction with English names of a weaver, joiner, tinker, etc., 
 would at once amuse the more ignorant. In fact, this 
 extraordinary play was in many respects eminently suited 
 to an English and especially a London audience. Even 
 to this day, despite the great number and high merit of 
 subsequent dramas, it is still performed and appreciated 
 by all well-educated hearers, and adorned with better 
 
 1 Milton's Allegro. 
 
 ^ " The civilisations of the Greek and Roman peoples represented 
 at the time of the re-awakening of the European mind, the highest 
 efforts of the race in almost every department of intellectual activity, 
 and it was inevitable that the mental qualities of these peoples, and 
 of the Greeks in particular, should excite the wonder and admiration 
 of men after the long period of intellectual stagnation through which 
 the world has passed" (Kidd's "Social Evolution," Chapter X., 
 
 p. 2SI.) 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 495 
 
 theatrical accessories than at any previous time. It is 
 also published in several separate editions apart from 
 Shakespeare's other plays, thus proving its enduring charm 
 ^and popularity during the present enlightened time. Its 
 rfiarming account of fairies, very friendly, rather than 
 spiteful or dangerous to mankind, always has a pleasing 
 feet on romantic and thoughtful minds, yet evidently 
 /a great dread of fairies has usually attended belief in 
 I them, from the earliest ages, and in most countries. None, 
 (however, can fear either Oberon or Titania ; but on the 
 (lontrary, most people would long to meet or see them, 
 by day or night, and in whatever places they could 
 Dossibly be met. Shakespeare, however, contrives that no 
 ing takes place between his fairies and the mortals, 
 except in the case of T Vtttnm, ii l i u ii itupid nr yfup rfird 
 mind, seems incapable of making any revelation. During 
 the whole play the fairies seem as invisible well-wishers, 
 chiefly appearing at night, while they are not mentioned 
 even by the four sentimental Athenian lovers. Yet these 
 four, wandering by night through a fairy-haunted wood, 
 might be reasonably supposed to take some interest in 
 fairy existence ; but they are entirely absorbed in their 
 own love affairs, and seem quite unconscious of the secret.^^ 
 influences around them. The mixture of the most practical, 
 realistic, commonplace, if not vulgar people, with the most i 
 refined and fantastic personages and ideas, makes this 
 play in some respects the most remarkable of all Shake-/ 
 speare's comedies. It has almost always the happy effeet 
 of inspiring cheerfulness as well as interest among its^ 
 readers. When we remember the many noble tragedies 
 in which Shakespeare's genius has excited, touched, and 
 captivated sympathetic minds, the delightful effect of this / 
 exquisite play is all the more valuable and welcome to > 
 those who can appreciate its real merits as well as its 
 peculiarly attractive power. 
 
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 " Mr. Canning possesses claims to consideration that justly 
 belong to but few of his predecessors in the field." — MORNING 
 Post, Ju-m 23rd, 1884. 
 
 REVOLTED IRELAND, 1798 AND 1803. 
 W. H. Allen & Co. 
 
 From Mr. Lecky, Author of "History of England in the 
 Eighteenth Century," &c. &c. 
 
 "Athen»um Club.— Mr. Lecky begs to thank Mr. Albert 
 Canning very sincerely for his kind present, and he has been 
 reading it with great pleasure and admiration." 
 
 " Amongst recent books and pamphlets relating to Ireland one 
 of the most useful is the Hon. A. S. G. Canning's 'Revolted 
 Ireland.' Mr. Cannings clear and dispassionate inquiry is of 
 great value just now. The application of the historical lesson to 
 the present political situation is plain and legible on every page," 
 —Saturday Review, June 19<A, 1887. 
 3 
 
WORKS BY THE HON. ALBERT S. G. CANNING 
 
 "It is interestlug to turn to the instructive and impartial 
 pages of Mr. Canning. His little book ' Revolted Ireland ' is that 
 rare but almost unique thing in literature— a sketch in Irish 
 history unooloured by religious or political partisanship. It will 
 be read with profit."— SCOTSMAN, September XUh, 1886. 
 
 LITERARY INFLUENCE IN BRITISH HISTORY. 
 
 W. H. AliEN & Co. 
 
 " This is a useful compendium on an interesting subject. Mr. 
 Canning's brief summary will be found extremely convenient."— 
 Publisher's Czeodlab, Noverriber 15th, 1889. 
 
 "The soundness of Mr. Canning's judgment, his nice sense of 
 historical' perspective, and his neat literary style make his work 
 enjoyable in no comxaon degree."— Scotsman, August 9th, 1889. 
 
 "The ^writer's modest hope that his book may be useful to 
 readers not familiar with larger works on the subject is not 
 perhaps unreasonable. There are passages in it which such a 
 reader may read with profit."— THE SPECTATOB, November 11th, 
 1889. 
 
 "No page of this book is open to anything but praise." 
 —Glasgow Hebaid, August, 12th 1889. 
 
 "This volume will be foimd eminently useful, and it is certainly 
 written in a pleasant and lucid style." — PUBLIC OPINION, January 
 10th, 1890. 
 
 "The tone of the book is very impartial, and the literary 
 judgments seem to us remarkably sound.'' — The Tablet, August 
 31st, 1889. 
 
 "We find page after page of suggestive remarks and 
 biographical touches, which stimulate thought and contribute to 
 genuine literary enjoyment." — Belfast Northern Whig, October 
 nth, 1889. 
 
 " The author reviews in bright, entertaining style representa- 
 tive literature of every period of English history." — Livebpool 
 Courier, February &th, 1890. 
 
 THOUGHTS ON RELIGIOUS HISTORY. 
 
 Eden, Remington & Co., King Street, Covent Garden, London. 
 
 " Mr. Canning is always a thoughtful and instructive writer. 
 The passages that he collects from the works of great writers on 
 the position of the Jew^s in history are full of interest." — The 
 Observer, August 2nd, 1891. 
 
 ?, 
 
WORKS BY THE HON. ALBERT S. G. CANNING 
 
 " Mr. Canning is evidently a fair-minded man, and writes in a 
 spirit of eharity. He strives to deal even-handed justice to each 
 party as it passes under review."— The Scotsman, August ^d, 
 1891. 
 
 "Mr. Canning's workmanship is eminently scholarly and 
 thoughtful."— The People, August 2nd, 1891. 
 
 ' ' The work is characterised by a rare impartiality and an 
 obvious desire to take wide views, and paint both the sunshine 
 and shadow of religious history." — The Jewish Chkonicle, 
 October 2nd, 1891. 
 
 " The picturesque and entertaining style of this scholarly work 
 is the more striking because of the dispassionate comparison of 
 conflicting authorities, and the painstaking research, the actual 
 hard study and reflection that have necessarily been bestowed on 
 its production."— Whitehall Review, September 2Gth, 1891. 
 
 " A sensible and evenly-balanced summary of the world's 
 religions. It shows with much clearness and judgment the 
 relations in which Paganism, Christianity, and Mohammedanism 
 stood to each other in the past, and the place of Judaism in the 
 march of religious progress. Mr. Canning is certainly sincere, 
 honest, and thoughtful in his appreciations of the faiths of the 
 past and present." — The Graphic, October 1891. 
 
 " There is really a good deal of information to be derived from 
 this little book."— The Wobld, A-agust 1891. 
 
 "The evils of intolerant dogmatism are dispassionately 
 criticised, while the writer is singularly free from the extrava- 
 gance and captiousness so commonly associated with the criticism 
 of religion."— Manchester Guardian, July 28th, 1891. 
 
 WORDS ON EXISTING RELIGIONS : 
 A HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
 
 W. H. Allen & Co., Limited. 
 
 " Full of sincere appreciation of the m,any elements of truth in 
 various ancient and modern religious systems. " — THE GUARDIAN, 
 May 2ith. 1893. 
 
 "Mr. Canning, a most fair-minded and impartial writer, has 
 evidently read widely, and has collected in his pages many im- 
 portant and useful facts. "-RECORD, July 28th, 1893. 
 
 "The book is evidently the result of much labour and wide 
 reading, and the author shows considerable skill and discrimina- 
 tion in drawing from his somewhat numerous authorities. 
 Though writing from a professedly Christian standpoint, he 
 4 
 
WORKS BY THE HON. ALBERT S. G. CANNING 
 
 deals fairly and systematically with the other religions that he 
 touches upon. The attention which has latterly been devoted to 
 the comparative study of religion is one of the most remarkable 
 featui-es of the thought of the century, and those who are curious 
 to know what the results of that study of them are, will find 
 them admirably summarised in Mr Canning's book." — SCOTSMAN, 
 March 20th, 1893. 
 
 "Gives a very just and sympathetic survey of the world's 
 religions."— Daily Chronicle, April 8th, 1893. 
 
 " These thoughtful and instructive essays will do something 
 to popularise this wider and nobler view." — Bbadfobd Obsebvee, 
 May 5th, 1893. 
 
 " An interesting and instructive volume, characterised by pro- 
 found thought and great research." — Belfast News Letter, 
 April 12th, 1893. 
 
 THE DIVIDED IRISH. 
 
 W. H. Allen & Co. 
 
 " One cannot but admire the tone of charity and justice which 
 pervades this w^ork from beginning to end." — The National 
 Observer, September 1894. 
 
 "One of the most valuable bocJis which the present year has 
 produced."— Irish Times, November 23rd, 1894. 
 
 " We can heartily recommend a perusal of this work, for Mr 
 Canning shows that he has a great grasp on his subject by his 
 lucidity, his shrewdness, and his fairness." — PUBLIC Opinion, 
 July 1894. 
 
 " This book is one which every one should read who wants to 
 understand Irish political movements, and the parts played in 
 history by Irish political factions. "—The Scotsman, July 1894. 
 
 " Mr Canning's book may be commended to all Englishmen 
 who want to understand Irish history, and to all Irishmen Wiho 
 care for the amelioration of their country." — Manchester 
 Guardian, August 1894. 
 
 " Mr Camiing treats of ' Divided Ireland ' up to date and from 
 all points of view ; in doing so he has consulted a large number of 
 authorities of most diverse opinions, so that this re-issne of his 
 book will be fotmd really helpful by all interested in the relations 
 of England and its sister island." — Publishers' Cikoulab, 
 July 28th, 1894. 
 
 5 
 
WORKS BY THE HON. ALBERT S. G. CANNING 
 
 EELIGIOUS DEVELOPMENT : 
 A HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
 
 "W. H. Al,LBN & Co. 
 
 " The political aspects of the question are considered from an 
 impartial Christian standpoint, and we recognise the general 
 value of Mr. Canning's mode of treatment." — THE Guabdian. 
 
 " "We heartily commend the work to all thoughtful and dis- 
 criminative readers." — PUBLIC OPINION. 
 
 "Distinguished throughout by the impartiality of a sincere 
 inquiry, and it will be read with profit by everyone interested in 
 its subject."— Scotsman. 
 
 " This thoughtful and dispassionate survey of the growth and 
 influence of religious thought may be read with interest and 
 profit by all students of history." — Libebty Bevtew. 
 
 "A studious, comprehensive, conscientious, Christian-spirited 
 book."— Whitehall Review. 
 
 HISTORY IN FACT AND FICTION : 
 
 A LITERARY SKETCH. 
 
 Smith, Elder & Co. 
 
 "The work will be read with interest and profit." — SCOTSMAN. 
 January 1897. 
 
 "I do not think I ever saw the difficulties of the Eastern 
 Question in so clear a light as I did after reading the short 
 chapter which Mr Canning devotes to it." — PALL Mall Gazette, 
 January 1897. 
 
 " We recommend ' History in Fact and Fiction as a valuable 
 work."— Public Opinion, February 1897. 
 
 " Excellent reading for all sorts and conditions of men is liber- 
 ally provided." — The People, February 1897. 
 
 " The title gives but a faint idea of the main theme of a most 
 interesting work." — LIVERPOOL Courier, Jwne 1897. 
 
 "Mr Canning's knowledge of modern literature is so wide 
 that he is able to criticise almost every well-known name for 
 purposes of illustration." — SCHOOL Guardian, August 1897. 
 
 "People who have no time to plod through the great histories, 
 if they take up this book will gain much historical knowledge." 
 —Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper, February 1897. 
 6