I 
 
 I 
 
Y 
 
 I 
 
m 
 
THE YOUNG PEOPLE 
 
 OF 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMAS. 
 
 FOR YOUTHFUL READERS. 
 
 BY 
 
 AMELIA E. BARR. 
 
 " He who takes us from the smoke and stir of every-day toil, and laps us in 
 the Elysium of our boyish days — blood-stirring and hopeful — is a benefactor 
 to his species ; and to no mortal do we more owe this reminiscence and grati- 
 tude than to William Shakespeare." 
 
 NEW YORK : ^^ '^'^ i. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND C O M P A^"^ Y, '^ ^^'^ ^ ^^^^ 
 
 I, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET. 
 1882. 
 
,A" 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Among the things which make this age re- 
 markable is the excellence of its literature for 
 young people. The brightest intellects, the 
 most delicate fancies, the cleverest pencils, are 
 engaged in this service. Everything that is 
 lovely and of good report receives individuality, 
 and is set to allure into the paths of virtue and 
 nobleness. No more perfect and gracious types 
 of youthful life exist than the few scattered 
 (mainly) through Shakespeare's Historical Dra- 
 mas ; and surely they may most fitly introduce 
 young readers into that splendid world of the 
 imagination which the great poet created for us. 
 
 In bringing them to the front of each drama, 
 some characters not necessary to the youthful 
 
. PREFACE. 
 
 history or the action of the story have been 
 omitted ; but the text has always been used with 
 that reverent care which must result from forty 
 years of loving study of the Shakespearean plays. 
 
 L. I. 
 
 I 
 
CO NTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Arthur Plantagenet, Duke of Brittany . . 9 
 {King John.) 
 
 Historical Sketch of Prince Arthur of Brit- 
 tany 33 
 
 Edward Plantagenet, Son of King Henry VI . 41 
 
 ( Third Part of King Henry VL) 
 Historical Account of Edward, Son of Henry 
 
 VI 58 
 
 Edward V, and Richard, Duke of York, Sons 
 
 OF King Edward IV 79 
 
 (King Richard III.) 
 
 Historical Sketch of Edward and Richard 
 
 Plantagenet, Sons of King Edward IV . 99 
 
 Marcius, Son of Caius Marcius Coriolanus .111 
 
 (Coriolajms.) 
 Historical Sketch of Coriolanus . . .125 
 Guiderius and Arviragus, Sons of Cymbeline, 
 
 King of Britain 129 
 
 {Cy?nbeline.) 
 Historical Sketch of Cymbeline . . . .175 
 
5 CONTENTS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Boy Fool in King Lear i8i 
 
 {King Lear.) 
 The Story of Lear. Traditional Source of 
 
 THE Plot of the Play 220 
 
 Mamillius and Perdita, Children of Leontes, 
 
 King of Sicilia 239 
 
 {A Winter s Tale) 
 Origin of " A Winter's Tale " . . . .258 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 FACE PAGE 
 
 To Arthur Plantagenet 14 
 
 To Edward V, and Richard, Duke of York . 85 
 To Edward V, and Richard, Duke of York . 95 
 
 To GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS . . . . I33 
 
 To GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS . . .143 
 
 To The Boy Fool i8i 
 
 To The Boy Fool .214 
 
 To Mamillius and Perdita 251 
 
 The Illustrations are by Sir John Gilbert, from the 
 Staunton Shakespeare. 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET, 
 DUKE OF BRITTANY. 
 
PERSONS IN THE DRAMA. 
 
 John. — King of England. 
 
 Philip. — Kitig of F7-ance. 
 
 Arthur. — Duke of Brittany. 
 
 Lewis. — Dauphin of France. 
 
 Pandulph. — The Pope's Legate. 
 
 Hubert de Burgh. — Chamberlain to John. 
 
 Salisbury. \ 
 
 Pembroke. >• English Lords. 
 
 Bigot. ) 
 
 Faulconbridge. — A Friend of King Johns. 
 
 Constance. — Duchess of Brittany. Mother of A rthur. 
 
 Elinor. — Mother of King John. 
 
 Blanch. — John's Niece. 
 
 Attendants on Hubert de Burgh. 
 
 3 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET, 
 
 DUKE OF BRITTANY. 
 
 It must surely be a very pleasant thought 
 to young people that Shakespeare did not leave 
 the splendid world of his imagination without 
 children. It is true that, except in the play of 
 " King John," no very important part is as- 
 signed them ; but they have all a positive indi- 
 viduality, and the English historical dramas 
 contain some lovely types of boyhood — clear, 
 single charapters, full of a childish sincerity. 
 
 Indeed, Shakespeare has given us no lovelier 
 picture than that of the fair and unfortunate 
 Prince Arthur, upon whose fate the whole in- 
 terest of the drama of '' King John " turns ; and 
 an added pathos clmgs to the character, be- 
 cause it was drawn shortly after the death of 
 Shakespeare's only son, Hammet, and may have 
 been in some measure a transcription of the 
 
lO ARTHUR PLANTAGENET, 
 
 lost child's beauty and amiability, and of his 
 father's grief. 
 
 The Arthur of " King John " was the son 
 of Geffrey, the brother of Richard I, King of 
 England. He inherited the throne of Eng- 
 land both through the right of his father and 
 the will of his uncle ; but, upon the death of 
 Richard, John seized the throne. Then Con- 
 stance, the mother of Arthur, procured the 
 protection of Philip Augustus, King of France, 
 who pledged himself to maintain the cause of 
 the wronged prince, and the play opens with 
 the demand of Chatillon, the French Ambas- 
 sador, for Arthur's rights : 
 
 Chat. Philip of France, in right and true behalf 
 Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son, 
 Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim 
 To this fair island, and the territories ; 
 To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine : 
 Desiring thee to lay aside the sword. 
 Which sways usurpingly these several titles. 
 And put the same into young Arthur's hand, 
 Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. 
 
 K. John. What follows if we disallow of this? 
 
 Chat. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, 
 To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld. 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. U 
 
 K. John. Here have we war for war, and blood 
 for blood, 
 Controlment for controlment: so answer France. 
 
 Chat. Then take my king's defiance from my 
 mouth, 
 The furthest limit of my embassy. 
 
 K. John. Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace : 
 Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France ; 
 For ere thou canst report I will be there, 
 The thunder of my cannon shall be heard ; 
 So, hence ! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath, 
 And sullen presage of your own decay. 
 An honorable conduct let him have : — 
 Pembroke, look to it. Farewell, Chatillon. 
 
 During this scene Elinor, the mother of 
 King John and the grandmother of Arthur, 
 was present. She was an arrogant, bad woman, 
 who hated her daughter-in-law Constance, and 
 who scorned to make apologies, even to her 
 own conscience, for her cruelty and injustice. 
 John tried to justify his position. 
 
 Our strong possession, and our right, for us, 
 
 he exclaimed ; but Elinor answered, proudly : 
 
 Your strong possession much more than your right; 
 Or else it must go wrong with you and me. 
 
12 • ARTHUR PLANTAGENET, 
 
 The second act takes us into the very heat 
 of the conflict. The two armies met under the 
 walls of Angiers. With the French were Con- 
 stance and Arthur, Philip and the Dauphin, 
 and their ally the Archduke of Austria. With 
 the English were King John, his mother Eli- 
 nor, and his niece Blanch of Castile. Before the 
 walls of Angiers there was a stormy interview, 
 during which Elinor and Constance came to 
 words as sharp as blows. Their quarrel was 
 interrupted by the Dauphin, who impatiently 
 said : 
 
 Women and fools, break off your conference. 
 King John, this is the very sum of all — 
 England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, 
 In right of Arthur do I claim of thee : 
 Wilt thou resign them, and lay down thine arms ? 
 
 K. John. My life as soon : — I do defy thee, 
 France. 
 Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand ; 
 And, out of my dear love, I'll give thee more 
 Than e'er the coward hand of France can win : 
 Submit thee, boy. 
 
 Eli. Come to thy grandam, child. 
 
 Const. Do, child, go to it' grandam, child : 
 Give grandam kingdom, and it' grandam will 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 13 
 
 Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig: 
 There's a good grandam. 
 
 In this violent scene we get the first glimpse 
 of the lovely and loving nature of the boy 
 prince. He is pained and shocked at the quar- 
 rel between his grandmother and mother, and, 
 weeping, cries : 
 
 Arthur. Good my mother, peace ! 
 
 I would that I were low laid in my grave : 
 I am not worth this coil that's made for me. 
 
 The next movement in Arthur's fate ex- 
 hibits the poor boy as a mere puppet in the 
 hands of the two kings, to be used for their 
 mutual advantage. For they soon perceive 
 that nothing is to be gained by fighting, so 
 they become reconciled, and, to cement their 
 alliance, arrange a marriage between Philip's 
 son, the Dauphin Lewis, and John's niece, 
 Blanch of Castile. But it is not until the ar- 
 rangements have been completed that King 
 Philip remembers Constance and Arthur, and 
 asks : 
 
 K. Phi. Is not the Lady Constance in this troop } 
 I know she is not ; for this match, made up. 
 
H 
 
 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET, 
 
 Her presence would have interrupted much : 
 Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows. 
 
 Lewis. She is sad and passionate at your highness* 
 tent. 
 
 K. Phi. And, by my faith, this league, that we 
 have made. 
 Will give her sadness very little cure. 
 Brother of England, how may we content 
 This widow lady ? In her right we came ; 
 Which we, God knows, have turned another way, 
 To our owii vantage. 
 
 K. John. We will heal up all, 
 For we'll create young Arthur duke of Bretagne, 
 And earl of Richmond ; and this fair town 
 We'll make him lord of. Call the lady Constance; 
 Some speedy messenger bid her repair 
 To our solemnity. 
 
 William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, is 
 sent to give Constance this unwelcome invitation. 
 At first she will not credit the treason of the 
 King of France. "It is not so," she answers. 
 '' Gone to be married ! Gone to swear a peace ! 
 Gone to be friends ! It is not so." She has a 
 king's oath to the contrary ; she is sure that 
 Salisbury has misspoke or misheard ; and with 
 a terrified petulance she threatens Salisbury — 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 15 
 
 Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me, 
 
 For I am sick and capable of fears ; 
 
 Oppress 'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears; 
 
 A widow, husbandless, subject to fears; 
 
 A woman, naturally born to fears; 
 
 And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, 
 
 With my vex'd spirits I can not take a truce, 
 
 But they will quake and tremble all this day. 
 
 Salisbury is full of sympathy for the injured 
 prince and his mother, but it is the child only 
 that recognizes it. When Constance bids him 
 '' begone," and says, ^' she can not brook his 
 sight," the gentle-hearted Arthur is grieved 
 and saddened by all this discord of quarrel, 
 and says: 
 
 I do beseech you, madam, be content. 
 
 The next scene shows us the two kings in 
 the presence of Constance, whom they vainly 
 endeavor to reconcile to the alliance they have 
 made. The argument is interrupted by the 
 entrance of Pandulph, the Pope's Legate, who 
 brings an order to King John for the rein- 
 statement of Stephen Langton as Archbishop 
 of Canterbury. This order John absolutely re- 
 fuses to obey. He answers: 
 
l6 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET 
 
 No Italian priest 
 Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; 
 
 and Pandulph immediately , curses and excom- 
 municates him. This sentence at once breaks 
 the new-made peace, for Pandulph orders Philip : 
 
 On peril of a curse, 
 Let go the hand of that arch-heretic ; 
 And raise the power of France upon his head 
 Unless he do submit himself to Rome. 
 
 In the engagement which ensues the French 
 are defeated, and Arthur is taken prisoner by 
 John. We see the child next surrounded by 
 his grandmother Elinor, his uncle John, Hubert 
 de Burgh — John's chamberlain — and other Eng- 
 lish lords. The boy in his innocent helpless- 
 ness stands like a lamb among wolves. His 
 cruel, crafty uncle, indeed, bids him " not to 
 look sad," and promises — 
 
 Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will 
 As dear be to thee as thy father was; 
 
 but in this dreadful hour Arthur is not think- 
 ing of himself ; his one ejaculation of sorrow is 
 for his mother: 
 
 O, this will make my mother die with grief. 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 »7 
 
 Then, with this promise to be '' a father " to 
 the boy on his lips, John turns to Hubert de 
 Burgh, and, with subtile flatteries and promises, 
 prompts him to do the deed he is ashamed to 
 name. He is afraid to say too much, he is 
 afraid he does not say enough, but at last he 
 mutters : 
 
 K. John. Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw 
 thine eye 
 On yond' young boy : I'll tell thee what, my friend, 
 He is a very serpent in my way; 
 And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread 
 He lies before me : — Dost thou understand me ? 
 Thou art his keeper. 
 
 Hub. And I'll keep him so, 
 
 That he shall not offend your majesty. 
 
 K. John. Death. 
 
 Hub. My Lord.? 
 
 K. John. A Grave. 
 
 Hub. He shall not live. 
 
 K. John. Enough. 
 
 I could be merry now : Hubert, I love thee ; 
 Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee : 
 Remember. 
 
 Alas! poor Constance knows that her little 
 son has gone to death. Is he not in the power 
 
l8 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 of men ''fit for bloody villainy"? She enters 
 the presence of King Philip, Lewis, and Pan- 
 dulph in such distraction of grief as makes 
 them fear she '* utters madness and not sorrow." 
 " Grief," she cries: 
 
 Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
 Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words. 
 Remembers me of all his gracious parts. 
 
 My boy, my Arthur, my fair son ! 
 My life, my joy, my food, my all the world ! 
 My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure ! 
 
 Not once dares she to hope that she will see 
 him again on earth ; neither Philip nor Lewis 
 can offer her any comfort ; she turns to Pan- 
 dulph for the only consolation left her; and 
 in a tearful passion of tenderness cries : 
 
 Father Cardinal, I have heard you say 
 That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : 
 If that be true, I shall see my boy again ; 
 For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child, 
 To him that did but yesterday suspire, 
 There was not such a gracious creature born. 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 19 
 
 In the next act we are told that the '' Lady 
 Constance in a frenzy died " ; and history places 
 her death so soon after Arthur's captivicy that 
 we may well suppose it was hastened by grief 
 for the loss of this gracious child. 
 
 We next see Arthur a prisoner in North- 
 ampton Castle. Hubert de Burgh has received 
 orders to burn out his eyes, and, struggling 
 between an habitual service and a half-awak- 
 ened love and pity for his captive, he pre- 
 pares to obey them. The scene that follows 
 is one of incomparable beauty and pathos, and 
 would be almost too tragic if we did not feel 
 from the very first that Hubert will not touch 
 the boy's sight, *' for all the treasure that his 
 uncle owes." 
 
 SCENE. — Northampton. A Room in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Hubert and Two Attendants. 
 Hub. Heat me these irons hot ; and look thou stand 
 Within the arras; when I strike my foot 
 Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, 
 And bind the boy, which you will find with me, 
 Fast to the chair : be heedful : hence, and watch. 
 I Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the 
 deed. 
 
20 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! Fear not you : look 
 to 't. [Exeunt Attendants. 
 
 Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. 
 Enter Arthur. 
 
 Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert. 
 
 Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 
 
 Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 
 To be more prince) as may be. — You are sad. 
 
 Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 
 
 Arth. Mercy on me! 
 
 Methinks nobody should be sad but I : 
 Yet I remember, when I was in France, 
 Young gentlemen would be as sad as night. 
 Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,* 
 So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, 
 I should be merry as the day is long; 
 And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
 My uncle practices more harm to me : 
 He is afraid of me, and I of him: 
 Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son.^ 
 No, indeed, is't not ; And I would to heaven 
 I were your son, so you would love me, Hu- 
 bert. 
 
 Hub. [Aside.^ If I talk to him with his innocent 
 prate 
 
 * Here Arthur prettily asseverates by his baptismal rite, or his 
 Christening. 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 21 
 
 He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : 
 Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. 
 
 Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to- 
 day : 
 In sooth I would you were a little sick ; 
 That I might sit all night, and watch with you : 
 I warrant, I love you more than you do me. 
 
 Hub. \^Aside.'\ His words do take possession of 
 my bosom. — 
 Read here, young Arthur. {Showtfig a paper.) 
 
 [Aside.] How now, foolish rheum ! 
 Turning dispiteous torture out of doors ! 
 I must be brief, lest resolution drop 
 Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears. 
 Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ? 
 
 Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect; 
 Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes.'' 
 
 Hub. Young boy, I must. 
 
 Arth. And will you ? 
 
 Hub. And I will. 
 
 Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head 
 did but ache, 
 I knit my handkerchief about your brows 
 (The best I had, a princess wrought it me), 
 And I did never ask it you again : 
 And with my hand at midnight held your head; 
 And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, 
 
22 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time : 
 
 Saying, "What lack you?" and, "Where lies your 
 
 grief? " 
 Or, " What good love may I perform for you ? " 
 Many a poor man's son would have lain still, 
 And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you ; 
 But you at your sick service had a prince. 
 Nay, you may think my love was crafty love. 
 And call it cunning ; do, an if you will ; 
 If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill. 
 Why, then you must. — Will you put out mine eyes? 
 These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, 
 So much as frown on you ? 
 
 Hub. I have sworn to do it; 
 
 And with hot irons must I burn them out. 
 
 Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it ; 
 The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, 
 Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears. 
 And quench his fiery indignation 
 Even in the matter of mine innocence : 
 Nay, after that, consume away in rust. 
 But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 
 Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ; 
 An if an angel should have come to me, 
 And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, 
 I would not have believ'd him ; no tongue, but 
 
 Hubert's. 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 23 
 
 Hub. Come forth. [^Stamps. 
 
 Re-enter Attendants, luith Cords, Irons, etc. 
 Do as I bid you do. 
 
 Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me ; my eyes are 
 out, 
 Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 
 
 Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 
 
 Arth. Alas ! what need you be so boisterous 
 rough } 
 I will not struggle, I will stand stone still. 
 For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ! 
 Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away, 
 And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; 
 I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 
 Nor look upon the iron angerly : 
 Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, 
 Whatever torment you do put me to. 
 
 Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him, 
 
 I Attend. I am best pleas'd to be from such a 
 deed. \^Exeunt Attendants. 
 
 Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend ; 
 He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart ; — 
 Let him come back, that his compassion may 
 Give life to yours. 
 
 Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. 
 
 Arth. Is there no remedy 1 
 
 Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 
 
24 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 Arth. O heaven ! — that there were but a mote 
 in yours, 
 A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair. 
 Any annoyance in that precious sense I 
 Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, 
 Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 
 
 Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your 
 tongue. 
 
 Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 
 Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes ; 
 Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not, Hubert ! 
 Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue. 
 So I may keep mine eyes: O spare mine eyes; 
 Though to no use, but still to look on you ! 
 Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold. 
 And would not harm me. 
 
 Hub. I can heat it, boy. 
 
 Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with 
 grief, 
 Being create for comfort, to be us'd 
 In undeserved extremes: See else yourself; 
 There is no malice in this burning coal ; 
 The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out. 
 And strew'd repentant ashes on his head. 
 
 Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 
 
 Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, 
 And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert; 
 
ARTHUR FLAN TA GENET. 
 
 25 
 
 Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ; 
 And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight. 
 Snatch at his, master that doth tarre him on. 
 All things, that you should use to do me wrong. 
 Deny their office; only you do lack 
 That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, 
 Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. 
 
 Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes 
 For all the treasure that thine uncle owes: 
 Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, 
 With this same very iron to burn them out. 
 
 Arth. O, now you look like Hubert ! all this while 
 You were disguised. 
 
 Hub. Peace : no more. Adieu : 
 
 Your uncle must not know but you are dead : 
 I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. 
 And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure, 
 That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 
 Will not offend thee. 
 
 Arth. O heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert. 
 
 Hub. Silence; no more: Go closely in with me; 
 Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt. 
 
 In the next scene we are made aware of the 
 general discontent of the " distempered lords," 
 and barons of England, Avith John's govern- 
 ment; and it finds vent in a demand for Ar- 
 
26 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 thur's release from prison. The earls of Salis- 
 bury and Pembroke are the spokesmen on this 
 occasion, and they " heartily request " 
 
 Th' enfranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint 
 Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent 
 To break into this dangerous argument. — 
 If, what in rest you have, in right you hold, 
 Why then your fears (which, as they say, attend 
 The steps of wrong), should move you to mew up 
 Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days 
 With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth 
 The rich advantage of good exercise ? 
 That the time's enemies may not have this 
 To grace occasions, let it be our suit, 
 That you have bid us ask his liberty; 
 Which for our goods we do no further ask, 
 Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, 
 Counts it your weal, he have his liberty. 
 
 Even while Pembroke is speaking, Hubert 
 enters, and privately tells John that Arthur is 
 dead ; and the earls, noting Hubert's face and 
 John's changing color, suspect the news even 
 before the king says: 
 
 K. John. We can not hold mortality's strong 
 hand : — 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 27 
 
 Good lords, although my will to give is living, 
 The suit which you demand is gone and dead : 
 He tells us, Arthur is deceas'd to-night. 
 
 • *' Indeed," answers Salisbury, with that bit- 
 ter sarcasm which is the first expression of 
 subdued rage: 
 
 Salts. Indeed, we fear'd his sickness was past cure. 
 
 Pem. Indeed, we heard how near his death he was 
 Before the child himself felt he was sick : 
 This must be answered, either here, or hence. 
 
 K. John. Why do you bend such solemn brows 
 on me.'* 
 Think you I bear the shears of destiny.^ 
 Have I commandment on the pulse of life } 
 
 Salts. It is apparent foul play; and 'tis shame, 
 That greatness should so grossly offer it : 
 So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell. 
 
 Pem. Stay yet. Lord Salisbury ; I'll go with thee. 
 And find the inheritance of this poor child. 
 His little kingdom of a forced grave. 
 That blood which ow'd the breadth of all this isle. 
 Three foot of it doth hold ; Bad world the while ! 
 This must not be thus borne. 
 
 The departure of the angry lords is followed 
 by a messenger bringing news of the death of 
 
28 ARTHUR FLA NTA GENET. 
 
 John's mother, and of the landing of a large 
 French army in England under the Dauphin. 
 To these bad tidings are added the unfavorable 
 predictions of a prophet in Pomfret, and the 
 supernatural appearance of five moons in the 
 sky ; and Hubert tells John that, 
 
 Old men, and beldams, in the streets. 
 Do prophecy upon it dangerously: 
 Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths : 
 And when they talk of him, they shake their 
 
 heads. 
 And whisper one another in the ear. 
 
 Then John, like a craven, turns upon Hu- 
 bert, and seeks to throw upon him the whole 
 blame of Arthur's death — of that '' deed which 
 both tongues held too vile to name." He 
 orders Hubert out of his sight, whimpering: 
 
 My nobles leave me ; and my state is brav'd. 
 Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers. 
 
 And when Hubert confesses '' Young Arthur 
 is alive," John's feelings are purely selfish. 
 He cares not that he has escaped the sin of 
 murdering an innocent child, but he rejoices 
 because the news may bring back to his stand- 
 
ARTHUR PLANTA GENET. 29 
 
 ard the revolted and angry lords. " Doth 
 Arthur live?" he cries. 
 
 O, haste thee to the peers, 
 Throw this report on their incensed rage, 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 O, answer not; but to my closet bring 
 The angry lords, with all expedient haste; 
 I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast. 
 
 Unfortunately, while Hubert is with the 
 king, Arthur, distracted with fears, resolves to 
 make an effort to escape by leaping from the 
 walls of the castle. 
 
 Arth. The wall is high, and yet will I leap 
 down : — 
 Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not ! — 
 There's few, or none, do know me ; if they did. 
 This ship boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite. 
 I am afraid; and yet I'll venture it. 
 If I get down, and do not break my limbs, 
 I'll find a thousand shifts to get away: 
 As good to die, and go, as die and stay. 
 
 [Leaps down. 
 O me ! my uncle's spirit is in these stones — 
 Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones! 
 
 y 
 
30 
 
 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 n 
 
 While the poor little mangled body is still 
 beneath the walls, Salisbury and Pembroke find 
 it ; and Pembroke cries out : 
 
 O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty ! 
 The earth had not a hole to hide this deed ; 
 
 while Salisbury kneels before that ''ruin of 
 sweet life," and vows : 
 
 Never to taste the pleasures of the world, 
 Never to be infected with delight. 
 Nor conversant with ease and idleness, 
 'Till I have set a glory to this hand. 
 By giving it the worship of revenge. 
 
 At this moment Hubert, bearing the king's 
 message, that ''Arthur still lives," approaches 
 and finds them lamenting over the prince's 
 corpse. Bigot, Earl of Norfolk, asks him, pas- 
 sionately, "Who kill'd this prince?" and Hu- 
 bert answers : 
 
 'Tis not an hour since I left him well : 
 I honor'd him, I lov'd him ; and will weep 
 My date of life out, for his sweet life's loss. 
 
 Even John's stanch and unfaltering friend, 
 Philip Faulconbridge, abhors the deed, and tells 
 Hubert: 
 
 I 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 31 
 
 There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell 
 As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. 
 
 Hub. Upon my soul, — 
 
 Faul. If thou didst but consent 
 
 To this most cruel act, do but despair, 
 And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread 
 That ever spider twisted from her womb 
 Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be 
 A beam to hang thee on ; or would 'st thou drown 
 
 thyself. 
 Put but a little water in a spoon, 
 And it shall be as all the ocean, 
 Enough to stifle such a villain up. — 
 I do suspect thee very grievously. 
 
 Hub. If I in act, consent, or sin of thought 
 Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath 
 Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, 
 Let hell want pains enough to torture me ! 
 I left him well. 
 
 Faul. Go, bear him in thy arms. — 
 
 How easy dost thou take all England up ! 
 From forth this morsel of dead royalty, 
 The life, the right, and truth of all this realm 
 Is fled to heaven. 
 
 After Arthur's death John stumbles forward 
 through humiliations, treason, and defeat, to 
 
32 
 
 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 his own wretched end; and dies at last, the 
 victim of some monkish revenge, with a hor- 
 rible poison in his veins. 
 
 King David, many centuries before John 
 lived, declared that " bloody and deceitful men 
 should not live out half their days," and Shake- 
 speare puts into John's lips the same verdict 
 on a crafty, cruel life ; for when he was scorned 
 by his revolted lords, and terrified by foreign 
 invasion and supernatural prodigies, he whis- 
 pered to himself: 
 
 There is no sure foundation set on blood ; 
 No certain life achiev'd by others' death. 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 PRINCE ARTHUR OF BRITTANY. 
 
 Arthur of Brittany was but the heir to 
 a tragedy which had shadowed his mother's 
 whole life, and which claimed him also from 
 his very birth. For Constance, being- Duchess 
 of Brittany in her own right, had been even 
 in' her infancy the object of England's envy 
 and rapacity. iVt three years of age Henry 
 the Second took her by force, and contracted 
 her in marriage to his son Geffrey, thus in- 
 suring, as he thought, the duchy of Brittany 
 to his own posterity. For sixteen years she 
 was kept in a species of constraint — more a 
 hostage than a sovereign — but in her nineteenth 
 year the marriage was formally celebrated, and 
 she was recognized as Duchess of Brittany by 
 two acts of legislation, still preserved, and 
 bearing her own seal and signature. 
 
34 
 
 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 Geffrey, however, did not live long ; he 
 was killed at a tournament, and Arthur was 
 born shortly after his death, A. D. 1188. The 
 child's birth filled Brittany with joy. The 
 people insisted that he should be named Ar- 
 thur, after the famous hero of that country, 
 who, though dead for six centuries, was still 
 confidently expected to return ; and, in the 
 wonderful personal beauty of this son of Con- 
 stance, they saw with a fond credulity the ear- 
 nest of their hopes. 
 
 But Henry of England immediately de- 
 manded the custody of the child ; and, upon 
 Constance's spirited refusal, he invaded Brit- 
 tany, devastated the whole country with fire 
 and sword, and forcibly married Constance to 
 the Earl of Carlisle, conferring on him the 
 duchy of Brittany, to be held as a fief of the 
 English crown. However, as soon as Henry 
 died, the barons of Brittany rose in revolt, and 
 drove Chester and his English followers out 
 of the country. 
 
 Then Richard Coeur-de-Lion ascended the 
 English throne. One of his first deeds was to 
 contract the little prince Arthur, then only two 
 years old, in marriage with the daughter of 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 3c 
 
 Tancred, King of Sicily. Richard received on 
 this occasion a dowry of twenty thousand gold- 
 en oncii\ which the Sicilian king paid in ad- 
 vance ; and he at this time formally recog- 
 nized Arthur as " our most dear nephew, and 
 heir, if by chance we should die without 
 issue." 
 
 Therefore, when Richard did die w^ithout 
 issue, in A. D. 1199, Arthur was the legitimate 
 heir of all his dominions. But John produced 
 a testament by which Richard gave him the 
 crown of England. Then Constance placed 
 herself and Arthur under the guardianship of 
 Philip Augustus, King of France. Arthur being 
 then eleven years of age, Philip solemnly en- 
 gaged to maintain his rights against John, and 
 it is at this crisis in Arthur's fate that the 
 play of '' King John " opens. 
 
 Arthur, however, was but a puppet in the 
 hands of the crafty Philip, to be set up or 
 knocked down, as Philip desired to bully or 
 cajole John out of the territories of the house 
 of Anjou. In Arthur's person he had a hos- 
 tage whom he could put forward as an ally, 
 or degrade as a prisoner; and in the same 
 spirit, when he seized a fortress in the name of 
 
^6 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 Arthur, he demoHshed it, that he might lose 
 no opportunity of destroying a barrier to the 
 extension of his own frontier. The peace which 
 Shakespeare represents as being estabhshed by 
 the marriage of Blanch and Lewis is histori- 
 cally true; it took place May 22, A, D. 1200. 
 
 After the peace of A. D. 1200 Arthur re- 
 mained under the care of King Philip, in fear, 
 it is said, of the treachery of his uncle John. 
 Constance's grief may not have been overdrawn, 
 for she died the next year, and, therefore, did 
 not witness the wretched end of her beloved 
 son. And the peace between France and Eng- 
 land was broken within two years ; and once 
 again the unhappy Arthur was made to raise 
 the banner of war against his powerful uncle. 
 With a small force he marched against the 
 town of Mirebeau, where his grandmother 
 Elinor was stationed ; and John, who was in 
 Normandy, being apprised of the danger of his 
 mother, " used such diligence that he was upon 
 his enemies' necks ere they could understand 
 anything of his coming." The town was taken 
 by treachery, Arthur captured and sent a pris- 
 oner to the Castle of Falaise. 
 
 It was in this dark prison house that the 
 
ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 37 
 
 attempt was made to deprive Arthur of his 
 sight. But says Holinshed in his Chronicle, 
 '' through such resistance as he made against 
 one of the tormentors that came to execute 
 the king's command, and such lamentable words 
 as he uttered, Hubert de Burgh did preserve 
 him from that injury, not doubting but rather 
 to have thanks than displeasure at the king's 
 hands for delivering him of such infamy as 
 would have redounded unto his highness if the 
 young prince had been so cruelly dealt with. 
 Certain it is that in the year next ensuing he was 
 removed from Falaise into the Castle of Rouen, 
 out of which there was not any that would 
 confess that ever he saw him go alive. Some 
 have written that as he essayed to have es- 
 caped out of prison, and proving to climb over 
 the walls of the castle, he fell into the river 
 Seine and was drowned." 
 
 All things considered, it is most likely that 
 Arthur perished at Rouen. The darkest of the 
 stories connected with his death is that which 
 makes him, on the night of the 3d of April, 
 1203, awakened from his sleep, and led to the 
 foot of the Castle of Rouen, which the Seine 
 washed. There, say the French historians, he 
 
38 ARTHUR PLANTAGENET. 
 
 entered a boat, in which sate John, and Peter 
 de Maulac, his esquire. Terror took possession 
 of the unhappy boy, and he threw himself at 
 his uncle's feet ; but John with his own hand 
 slew his nephew, and the deep waters of the 
 river received his corpse. 
 
 The quarrel between the Pope and John 
 did not really take place until A. D. 1207, four 
 years after Arthur's death ; and the invasion 
 of England by the Dauphin until A. D. 1216; 
 but Shakespeare has leaped over the barriers 
 of time, and made the death of John, with its 
 attending circumstances of domestic revolt and 
 foreign invasion, rapidly follow the death of 
 Arthur. This was necessary in an historical 
 drama, where it would be as unreasonable to 
 expect absolute historical accuracy as it would 
 be to require an artist to give us the exact 
 relative positions of every bay and promontory. 
 We must remember the historical plays of 
 Shakespeare stand in the same relation to the 
 historic events they deal with that a landscape 
 painting does to a map. 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET, 
 
 SON OF KING HENRY VI. 
 
PERSONS IN THE DRAMA. 
 
 Henry VI. — King of England. 
 
 Edward. — Son of Henry VI. 
 
 Duke of York. — Protector. 
 
 Edward. — Afterward Edward IV. 
 
 Clarence. \ 
 
 Richard. >• Sons of Duke of York. 
 
 Rutland. ; 
 
 Warwick, Lord. — First on the side of York, then of Lancaster, 
 
 Somerset. \ 
 
 Oxford. >• Lords of the Lancastrian Party. 
 
 Clifford. ) 
 
 Tutor. — To Rutland, young son of Duke of York. 
 
 Margaret of Anjou. — Queen of Henry VI. 
 
 Elizabeth Grey. — Queen of Edzuard IV. 
 
 Lady Bona. — Princess of France. 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET, 
 
 SON OF KING HENRY VI. 
 
 To this boy Shakespeare ascribes a manly 
 spirit, worthy of his famous grandfather, Hen- 
 ry V, and of his heroic mother, Margaret of 
 Anjou, a woman whom the old chronicle of 
 Hall describes as "excelling all other, as well 
 in beauty and favor as in wit and policy, and 
 in courage more like to a man than a woman." 
 But the child was unfortunate from his very 
 birth. His father, at the time, was suffering 
 from one of those attacks of insanity which at 
 intervals clouded his life ; the nobles were quar- 
 reling among themselves ; the people were on 
 the verge of rebellion. 
 
 The Duke of York had been made Protector 
 during Henry's illness, and when Henry re- 
 covered he was not inclined to relinquish his 
 power. Besides, he had a bitter quarrel with 
 
42 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 the Duke of Somerset, who was a favorite ad- 
 viser and friend of King Henry and Queen 
 Margaret ; and he had imprisoned him while 
 he was Protector. The King restored Somer- 
 set to all his old dignities, and the Duke of 
 York immediately raised an army to compel 
 Henry to dismiss Somerset from his councils 
 and deliver him up to justice. The great and 
 powerful Earl of Warwick espoused York's 
 quarrel, and Margaret, with all the warmth 
 and impetuosity of her nature, espoused the 
 cause of Somerset. To this rash interference 
 in the quarrel between York and Warwick 
 and Somerset, Philip de Comines, who knew 
 Margaret well, attributes all her misfortunes, 
 and the overthrow of the House of Lancas- 
 ter. 
 
 Her whole life afterward was a weariful 
 watch and battle for the rights of her husband 
 and son; for Henry was indeed far more fit- 
 ted for a pope than a king, and his weak char- 
 acter and '' bookish " rule '' pulled fair Eng- 
 land down." Then followed councils, quarrels, 
 treaties, and battles ; and sometimes the King's 
 party had the victory, and sometimes the Duke 
 of York's. But at the battle of Northampton 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 43 
 
 the royal forces were completely routed, and 
 the King taken prisoner. In order to make 
 peace, Henry then disinherited his son, and 
 agreed that after his death the Duke of York 
 should be king. 
 
 In this scene (Scene I, Act I, Third Part 
 of Henry VI) it is impossible not to sympathize 
 with Margaret and her son ; nor wonder, when 
 King Henry says 
 
 Be patient, gentle queen, 
 
 she should angrily reply — 
 
 Q. Mar. Who can be patient in such extremes? 
 Ah, wretched man ! 'would I had died a maid, 
 And never seen thee, never borne thee son, 
 Seeing thou hast prov'd so unnatural a father! 
 Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus.? 
 Hadst thou but loved him half as well as I ; 
 Or felt that pain which I did for him once ; 
 Or nourish'd him, as I did with my blood; 
 Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart -blood 
 
 there. 
 Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir, 
 And disinherited thine only son. 
 
 Prince. Father, you can not disinherit me : 
 If you be king, why should not I succeed.? 
 
44 
 
 EDWARD FLA NTA GENET. 
 
 K. Hen. Pardon me, Margaret ; pardon me, sweet 
 son ; 
 The earl of Warwick and the duke enforc'd me. 
 Q. Mar. Enforc'd thee ! Art thou king, and wilt 
 be forced ? 
 I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch ! 
 Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me, 
 And given unto the house of York such head. 
 As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. 
 
 Had I been there, which am a silly woman, 
 
 The soldiers should have toss'd me on their pikes, 
 
 Before I would have granted to that act. 
 
 The northern lords, that have forsworn thy colors. 
 Will follow mine, if once they see them spread ; 
 And spread they shall be. . . . 
 
 Come, son, let's away; 
 Our army's ready ; come, we'll after them. 
 
 K. Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. 
 Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already ; get 
 
 thee gone. 
 K. Hen. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with 
 
 me.'' 
 Q. Mar. Ay, to be murder'd by his enemies. 
 Prince. When I return with victory from the field 
 I'll see your grace : till then, I'll follow her. 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 45 
 
 The prince was then seven years of age ; 
 he had been with his mother through several 
 campaigns ; he knew what flight and exile 
 meant; he had witnessed the battles of Black- 
 heath and Northampton ; and we can scarcely 
 wonder that, under the circumstances, he elect- 
 ed to follow his faithful and heroic mother. 
 
 In the next scene, while the Duke of York 
 and his two sons, Edward (afterward Edward 
 IV) and Richard (afterward Richard III) are 
 discussing the expediency of taking the crown, 
 without waiting for Henry's death, a messen- 
 ger enters, and informs them that Margaret is 
 at hand with all the northern earls and lords, 
 and twenty thousand men. The battle which 
 ensued was a great victory for Margaret, but 
 it was sullied by the murder of ''sweet young 
 Rutland," the little son of the Duke of York, 
 who was slain by Lord Clifford as he was fly- 
 ing with his tutor over Wakefield Bridge. 
 
 The sketch of this child is but a slight one, 
 but it is a masterly portrait of the terror and 
 eloquence of a boy who had been all his little 
 life under priestly dictation, who had a natu- 
 ral fear of death, and who could have no con- 
 ception of the scenes in which his Lancastrian 
 
46 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 cousin Edward learned to defy his enemies, and 
 receive their daggers without flinching. 
 
 Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their 
 hands ? 
 Ah, tutor ! look where bloody Clifford comes ! 
 
 Enter Clifford afid Soldiers. 
 
 Clif. Chaplain, away ! thy priesthood saves thy 
 life. 
 As for the brat of this accursed duke, 
 Whose father slew my .father — he shall die. 
 
 Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. 
 Clif. Soldiers, away with him. 
 Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this innocent 
 child, 
 Lest thou be hated both of God and man. 
 
 \^Exii, forced off by Soldiers. 
 Clif. How now ! is he dead already } Or is it 
 fear 
 That makes him close his eyes.? I'll open them. 
 
 Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch 
 That trembles under his devouring paws ; 
 And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey. 
 And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. 
 Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, 
 And not with such a cruel threat'ning look. 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 47 
 
 ^■Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die; 
 Wi am too mean a subject for thy wrath ; 
 Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live. 
 
 Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy ; my father's 
 blood 
 Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should 
 enter. 
 Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again ; 
 He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. 
 
 Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives, and 
 thine, 
 Were not revenge sufficient for me ; 
 No, if I digg'd up thy forefather's graves, 
 And hung their rotten coffins up in chains. 
 It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. 
 
 Therefore — {^Lifting his hand. 
 
 Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death : 
 To thee I pray ; sweet Clifford, pity me ! 
 
 Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. 
 
 Rut. I never did thee harm : Why wilt thou slay 
 me 1 
 
 Clif. Thy father hath. 
 
 Rut. But 'twas ere I was born. 
 
 Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me ; 
 Lest, in revenge thereof — sith God is just — 
 He be as miserably slain as I. 
 
48 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 Ah, let me live in prison all my days; 
 
 And when I give occasion of offense, 
 
 Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. 
 
 Clip. No cause ? 
 Thy father slew my father; therefore die. 
 
 [Clifford stabs him. 
 
 Rut. DH faciant laudis summa sit ista tuce. 
 
 In the next act Margaret presents the young 
 prince to his royal father for knighthood. The 
 boy was then in his eighth year, and he had 
 personally shared all the dangers and priva- 
 tions of the campaign. 
 
 Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits ; 
 
 You promised knighthood to our forward son ; 
 Unsheath your sword, and dub him presently. 
 Edward, kneel down. 
 
 K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight ; 
 And learn this lesson — Draw thy sword in right. 
 
 Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly 
 leave, 
 I'll draw it as apparent to the crown. 
 And in that quarrel use it to the death. 
 
 But this scene of exultation is quickly fol- 
 lowed by the Lancastrian disaster on the field 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 49 
 
 of Towton — a disaster so great that the Prince 
 seeks out his father, and urges — 
 
 Fly, father, fly ! for all our friends are fled, 
 And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. 
 
 Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord, toward Berwick 
 post amain : 
 I Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds 
 
 Having the fearful flying hare in sight, 
 j With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath, 
 ' And bloody steel grasp *d in their ireful hands, 
 I Are at our backs ; and therefore hence amain. 
 
 This Yorkist victory firmly established Ed- 
 \ ward of York on the throne. King Henry was 
 ' imprisoned in the Tower, Margaret and the 
 I prince fled to France. Then King Edward of 
 England niakes proposals to marry the Lady 
 Bona, sister to the Queen of France, and War- 
 wick is sent to France to arrange the matter 
 with Louis. But while Warwick is upon this 
 mission King Edward falls in love with the 
 Lady Elizabeth Grey, and marries her; which 
 so offends Warwick that he makes peace with 
 Margaret, and goes over to the interests of the 
 House of Lancaster. 
 
 In their behalf he quickly raises an army, 
 3 
 
50 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 takes the crown from off King Edward's head, 
 and releases King Henry from his prison-cham- 
 ber in the Tower. Then Edward flies to Belgia, 
 and, '' with hasty Germans and blunt Holland- 
 ers " in his train, returns to England to fight 
 over asrain the battle for the crown. 
 
 In the mean time Margaret and her son 
 bring re-enforcements to Warwick from France ; 
 but just before they land is fought the battle 
 of Barnet ; and in it great Warwick is slain, 
 and Edward again victorious. Even this terri- 
 ble blow does not discourage the brave mother 
 and son. On the plains near Tewkesbury they 
 have a conference with the Duke of Somerset 
 and the Earl of Oxford, and to them Margaret 
 says: 
 
 Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, 
 But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. 
 What, though the mast be now blown overboard. 
 The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, 
 And half our sailors swallowed in the flood.? 
 Yet lives our pilot still: 
 
 Why, is not Oxford here another anchor? 
 
 And Somerset another goodly mast? 
 
 The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings? 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 51 
 
 And, though unskillful, why not Ned and I 
 
 For once allowed the skillful pilot's charge? 
 
 We will not from the helm to sit and weep; 
 
 But keep our course, though the rough wind say no, 
 
 From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck. 
 
 Why, courage, then! what can not be avoided, 
 'Twere childish weakness to lament or fear. 
 
 Prince. Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit 
 Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, 
 Infuse his breast with magnanimity. 
 And make him, naked, foil a man at arms. 
 I speak not this as doubting any here : 
 For, did I but suspect a fearful man, 
 He should have leave to go away betimes; 
 Lest, in our need, he might infect another, 
 And make him of like spirit to himself. 
 If any such be here, as God forbid ! 
 Let him depart, before we need his help ! 
 
 OxF. Women and children of so high a courage, 
 And warriors faint ! why, 'twere perpetual shame. 
 O, brave young prince ! thy famous grandfather 
 Doth live again in thee; long may'st thou live 
 To bear his image, and renew his glories ! 
 
 SoM. And he that will not fight for such a hope 
 Go home to bed, and, like the owl by day, 
 If he arise, be mock'd and wonder'd at. 
 
52 EDWARD PLANTAGENET, 
 
 Q. Mar. Thanks, gentle Somerset; sweet Oxford, 
 thanks. 
 
 Prince. And take his thanks, that yet hath noth- 
 ing else. 
 
 Then follows the battle of Tewkesbury, still 
 called "■ the bloody field." On it the last hopes 
 of the House of Lancaster were crushed with 
 the ^' gallant springing young Plantagenet." 
 Somerset, Oxford, Margaret, and Prince Edward, 
 are all taken prisoners, and brought into the 
 presence of King Edward, and his brothers 
 Clarence and Richard. King Edward orders 
 Oxford " to Hammes castle straight " ; and 
 cries : 
 
 For Somerset, off with his guilty head. 
 
 Q. Mar. So part we sadly, in this troublous 
 world. 
 To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. 
 
 K. Edw. Is proclamation made, that who finds 
 Edward 
 Shall have a high reward, and he his life.'* 
 
 Glo. It is : and lo, where youthful Edward comes. 
 \^E?tter Soldiers, 7vitk Prince Edward. 
 K. Edw. Bring forth the gallant, let us hear him 
 speak : 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 53 
 
 What, can so young a thorn begin to prick? 
 Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make, 
 For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects, 
 And all the trouble thou hast turn'd me to ? 
 
 Prince. Speak like a subject, proud ambitious 
 York ! 
 Suppose that I am now my father's mouth; 
 Resign thy chair, and where I stand, kneel thou. 
 Whilst I propose the self-same words to thee. 
 Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to. 
 Q. Mar. Ah, that thy father had been so resolv'd ! 
 Glo. That you might still have worn the petti- 
 coat. 
 And ne'er have stolen the breech from Lancaster. 
 
 Prince. Let ^sop fable in a winter's night; 
 His currish riddles sort not with this place. 
 
 Glo. By heaven, brat, I'll plague you for that 
 
 word. 
 Q. Mar. Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to 
 
 men. 
 Glo. For God's sake, take away this captive 
 
 scold. 
 Prince. Nay, take away this scolding crook-back 
 
 rather. 
 K. Edw. Peace, willful boy, or I will charm your 
 
 tongue. 
 Clar. Untutor'd lad, thou art too malapert. 
 
54 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 Prince. I know my duty, you are all undutiful: 
 Lascivious Edward — and thou perjur'd George,* 
 And thou misshapen Dick, I tell ye all, 
 ,1 am your better, traitors as ye are : — 
 And thou usurp'st my father's right and mine. 
 K. Edw. Take that, the likeness of this railer here. 
 
 \^Stabs him. 
 Glo. Sprawl'st thou.? take that, to end thy agony. 
 
 [Glo. stabs him. 
 Clar. And there's for twitting me with perjury. 
 
 [Clar. stabs him. 
 Q. Mar. O, kill me too ! 
 Glo. Marry, and shall. 
 K. Edw. Hold, Richard, hold, for we have done 
 
 too much. 
 Glo. Why should she live, to fill the world with 
 
 words ? 
 K. Edw. What ! doth she swoon } Use means 
 
 for her recovery. 
 Glo. Clarence, excuse me to the king my brother : 
 I'll hence to London on a serious matter; 
 Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news. 
 Clar. What.? What.? 
 Glo. The Tower, the Tower ! 
 Q. Mar. O Ned, sweet Ned ! speak to thy mother, 
 boy! 
 
 * George, Duke of Clarence. 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET, rr 
 
 Canst thou not speak ? — O traitors ! murderers ! 
 They that stabb'd Caesar shed no blood at all, 
 Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, 
 If this foul deed were by, to equal it. 
 He was a man ; this, in respect, a child ; 
 And men ne'er spend their fury on a child. 
 
 Butchers and villains ! bloody cannibals ! 
 How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd ! 
 You have no children, butchers ! if you had, 
 The thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse : 
 But, if you ever chance to have a child. 
 Look in his youth to have him so cut off. 
 As, deathsmen ! you have rid this sweet young 
 prince ! 
 K. Edw. Away with her; go bear her hence per- 
 force. 
 Q. Mar. Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me 
 here; 
 Here sfeeathe thy sword, I'll pardon thee my death: 
 What ! wilt thou not .? — then, Clarence, do it thou. 
 Clar. By heaven, I will not do thee so much 
 
 ease. 
 Q. Mar. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do 
 
 thou do it. 
 Clar. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not 
 do it.? 
 
56 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 Q. Mar. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself; 
 'Twas sin before, but now 'tis charity. 
 What ! wilt thou not ? Where is the devil's butcher, 
 Hard-favored Richard ? Richard, where art thou ? 
 Thou art not here : Murder is thy alms-deed ; 
 Petitioners for blood thou ne'er putt'st back. 
 
 K. Edw. Away, I say ; I charge ye, bear her hence. 
 
 Q. Mar. So come to you, and yours, as to this 
 prince ! 
 
 K. Edw. Where's Richard gone.? 
 
 Clar. To London, all in post ; and, as I guess. 
 To make a bloody supper in the Tower. 
 
 So fell this brave young- prince, this noble 
 grandson of the great Henry V; a boy in 
 whom every personal and mental beauty were 
 united, but whose whole life was a stormy 
 scene of bloodshed and misfortune. 'Richard's 
 " bloody supper " in the Tower was the fitting 
 close to the cruel tragedy. He hastes to Lon- 
 don, and, entering the room of the weak but 
 saintly Henry, he stabs him : 
 
 " O God ! forgive my sins, and pardon thee ! " 
 
 are the last Avords of the last king of the 
 House of Lancaster ; while Richard mutters, 
 as he flings the dead body in another room : 
 
 I 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 57 
 
 King Henry, and the prince, his son, are gone: 
 Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest; 
 Counting myself but bad, till I be best. 
 
 Margaret's fate is announced at the close 
 of the play ; for Clarence asks : 
 
 What will your grace have done with Margaret? 
 Reignier, her father, to the king of France 
 Hath pawn'd the Sicils and Jerusalem, 
 And hither have they sent it for her ransom. 
 
 K. Edw. Away with her, and waft her hence- to 
 France. 
 
HISTORICAL ACCOUNT 
 
 OP 
 
 EDWARD, SON OF HENRY VI. 
 
 The war known in history as the " Wars 
 of the Roses " covered the whole space of 
 young Edward's life, and his history is inex- 
 tricably united with it. But the bitterness and 
 wrong which produced this war began long 
 before the birth of Edward ; in fact, England 
 owed to the vices of King Richard II the civil 
 war of King Henry VI. 
 
 Richard II inherited the throne through his 
 father, the Black Prince, eldest son of King Ed- 
 ward III. But his weakness and wickedness 
 stung his people into rebellion, and the crown 
 was taken from him and given to Henry, son 
 of the Duke of Lancaster, fourth son of Ed- 
 ward III. But, though Henry had gained the 
 crown by his popularity, he had no inherited 
 right to it ; for, setting aside Richard altogether. 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 59 
 
 the claim of the House of York came before 
 that of the House of Lancaster, York being 
 the tJiird, and Lancaster the fourth son of the 
 great Edward. 
 
 The House of Lancaster, however, being 
 very wealthy and powerful, kept possession of 
 the usurped scepter for three consecutive reigns 
 —namely, that of Henry IV, who forcibly seized 
 it, Henry V, his son, and Henry VI, his grand- 
 son—the three sovereigns who compose that 
 branch of the Plantagenet dynasty which is 
 called the Lancastrian. 
 
 But their sway was neither peaceful nor 
 uncontested; and from the time that Henry 
 VI ascended the throne, an infant but nine 
 months old, the country was one continual 
 scene of disorder and contention. Naturally 
 weak and timid, possessed of every mild and 
 endearing virtue, but totally deficient in every 
 quality necessary to the ruler of a great na- 
 tion, he became from his earliest childhood the 
 tool of ambitious and designing guardians and 
 ministers. 
 
 The measure of his misfortunes was com- 
 pleted by his marriage with Margaret of Anjou, 
 a princess of singular beauty and accompHsh- 
 
6o EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 ments, but of so masculine a spirit and so un- 
 yielding a temper that she increased the dis- 
 content felt toward Henry continually. 
 
 In the thirteenth year of his marriage with 
 Margaret, King Henry had a severe illness 
 which ended in imbecility of the most distress- 
 ing kind ; then the long-smothered contentions 
 between the rival houses were openly re- 
 kindled, for the Duke of York, being next in 
 order to the throne, was made "pi'otector and 
 defender of the realm " during the King's inca- 
 pacity. 
 
 At this critical juncture Edward Plantagenet 
 was born — "a child of infelicity and sorrow." 
 His birth gave little pleasure to the nation. 
 The distractions which had so long desolated 
 the kingdom were attributed, and most justly, 
 to the long minority of the King, and the pros- 
 pect of similar evils recurring in the person of 
 his son aroused a feeling of discontent, aggra- 
 vated by the imperious conduct of the Queen 
 and her favorite ministers — the Dukes of Suf- 
 folk and Somerset. 
 
 The power of the Duke of York was con- 
 tinually gaining ground ; he governed well and 
 wisely, and, notwithstanding the birth of an 
 
EDWARD FLA NTA GENET. 6l 
 
 eir, the great mass of the people remembered 
 till the prior right of his family to the throne, 
 is first act was to consign the care of the 
 King's person to Margaret, and enjoin her to 
 withdraw with him and the infant prince to 
 Hertford Castle. Margaret, however, soon re- 
 turned to the palace at Greenwich, where she 
 strengthened the Lancastrian party by holding 
 frequent secret meetings with the princes and 
 friends of the family. 
 
 When the little prince was in his sixth year 
 she took him with the King in progress through 
 the counties of Warwick, Stafford, and Cheshire, 
 I under pretense of benefiting his Majesty by 
 I change of air and sylvan sports. Her real ob- 
 ject was to display the beauty of the young 
 Prince of Wales, a child of singular promise, 
 and she caused him to distribute little silver 
 swans as his badge to all who pressed to look 
 upon him. This was the device of his renowned 
 ancestor, Edward HI, whose name he bore; 
 and so well were her impassioned pleadings in 
 his behalf seconded by the loveliness and win- 
 ning behavior of the little prince, that ten thou- 
 sand men wore his livery at the subsequent 
 battle of Blore-heath. 
 
62 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 «1| 
 
 For matters now came to a bloody issue. 
 The Duke of York, irritated to extremity by 
 the personal and political opposition of the 
 Queen, appealed to Parliament for a recogni- 
 tion of his right and title to the throne ; and 
 his claims, having been argued by the great 
 law-officers of the crown, were recognized by 
 the House of Lords. Reluctant to depose the 
 well-meaning, simple monarch, who was weak 
 both in body and mind, an act was passed to 
 the effect that Henry VI should retain the 
 scepter during his life, but that on his death 
 the succession should revert to the lawful heir, 
 the Duke of York. 
 
 The Queen was with the prince at Harlech, 
 in Wales, when this decision was communi- 
 cated to her ; and she was ordered at once to 
 return to London with her son. The tidings 
 roused all the energies of her nature ; the King 
 of Scotland was the son of a Lancastrian prin- 
 cess, and she fled to Scotland for assistance. 
 Here she was kindly entertained with the little 
 prince, and furnished with money and troops. 
 With these she crossed the Scottish border, 
 unfurled the banner of the Red Rose — the em- 
 blem of the House of Lancaster, as the White 
 
EDWARD PLANTACENET. 
 
 63 
 
 Rose was of York — and, strengthened by all 
 the chivalry of Northumberland, Cumberland, 
 Lancaster, and Westmoreland, was at the gates 
 of York before the leaders of the White Rose 
 party knew that she was in England. 
 
 Here Margaret won a great victory, which 
 she sullied by most unwomanly cruelty. The 
 Duke of York and his kinsman, the Earl of 
 Salisbury, were taken prisoners. York Avas 
 dragged in mockery to an ant-hill, and insult- 
 ingly placed there as on a throne ; he was 
 crowned with a diadem of knotted grass, while 
 his enemies deridingly exclaimed : " Hail ! king 
 without a kingdom. Hail ! prince without a 
 people." His head was presented on a lance 
 to the Queen, and by her command crowned 
 with a paper crown and put over the gates of 
 York, with the heads of Salisbury and other 
 of his adherents. His second son, Rutland, a 
 youth of singular beauty, flying from the fatal 
 spot with his tutor, was overtaken by Lord 
 Clifford, one of the friends of Margaret, and 
 stabbed, even while praying for mercy. 
 
 But, though the Duke of York was slain, 
 he left behind him three sons, Edward, Clar- 
 ence, and Richard ; and these three, goaded 
 
64 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 to desperation by the bitter insults heaped 
 upon their murdered father, and the slaughter 
 of their young brother Rutland, united with an 
 energy and zeal nothing could resist. 
 
 After many desperate conflicts Henry and 
 Margaret, and their son Prince Edward, fled 
 again to Scotland ; and Edward, the eldest son 
 of the murdered Duke of York, went to Lon- 
 don, and by the title of Edward IV was 
 crowned king, thus becoming the founder of 
 the Yorkist dynasty — the Lancastrian King 
 Henry VI, Margaret, and even the boy prince, 
 being attainted by Parliament, and all subjects 
 forbidden to hold communication with them. 
 
 Then Margaret went to France, to solicit 
 from Louis XI — that man without a human 
 sympathy — the help she could find nowhere 
 else. She obtained some ships and men, and 
 attempted to land on the coast of Northumber- 
 land. But a panic seized her foreign troops, 
 and they fled, leaving Margaret and her boy 
 almost alone. A storm arose, and a fisherman's 
 boat received the royal fugitives, while the 
 French ships were dashed to pieces on the 
 rocky coast of Bamborough. 
 
 Hope must have been an undying faculty 
 
 II 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 65 
 
 in Margaret's heart. Once more she obtained 
 help in Scotland, brought King Henry from 
 his hiding-place in Wales, and for the first time 
 parted with her son ; for, not Avishing to expose 
 his tender childhood to the hardships of a win- 
 ter campaign, she left him with friends at Ber- 
 wick, Her arms had only moderate success, 
 and in the spring, at the battle of Hexham, she 
 was completely defeated. At this battle the 
 prince was again by her side, and for some 
 time they wandered, cold and weary and hun- 
 gry, in the forest of Hexham. Here they were 
 plundered and threatened with death b}^ some 
 robbers, but, a quarrel ensuing among them 
 concerning the sharing of the booty, they found 
 an opportunity to escape. This adventure was 
 succeeded by another apparently as perilous, 
 though it led them to shelter and security ; for, 
 when both were nearly fainting with fatigue 
 and hunger, they were again accosted by a 
 robber, who with drawn sword was about to 
 slay them, when Margaret put out her hand 
 and presented to him the young prince, say- 
 ing : '' Friend, use your sword in a better 
 cause ; I now commit to your care the son of 
 your king." The man, charmed with her cour- 
 
66 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 age, and flattered by her confidence, secreted 
 her in a hut in the forest, and finally arranged 
 means of escape for her into Flanders. 
 
 Margaret was uncertain whether Henry was 
 alive or dead, as they had fled in different di- 
 rections; but it may be noticed here that she 
 always, excepting the few months in which she 
 sheltered him in Berwick, retained her son 
 with her. They shared victory and defeat to- 
 gether. The child, from his earliest years, 
 was used to cold and hunger and weariness, 
 to the fatigue of flight and forced marches, 
 to the sight of blood and battle. 
 
 Margaret was kindly received by the Duke 
 of Burgundy ; and her father gave her the 
 castle of Kuerere, near the town of St. Mi^ 
 chael, for her residence. Margaret now occu- 
 pied herself in superintending the education 
 of her son ; and Sir John Fortescue, who was 
 his tutor, wrote here, for the young prince's 
 use, his celebrated work on the Constitution 
 of England, Dc Laudibus Legiun AnglicB. 
 
 In the mean time King Henry, who had fled 
 from the battle of Hexham in a different direc- 
 tion from Margaret, fell into the hands of his 
 enemies. At first he found refuge among the 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 67 
 
 wilds of Westmoreland and Lancashire, and for 
 many months was concealed in various castles 
 and halls of these shires. But he was at length 
 betrayed by a monk, and as he sat at dinner in 
 Waddington Hall was taken prisoner by emis- 
 saries of Edward IV, his rival. 
 
 He was conducted to London in the most 
 ignominious manner, with his legs fastened to 
 the Avretched nag on which he was mounted, 
 and an insulting placard on his shoulders — a 
 retaliation, doubtless, of Margaret's insults to 
 the Duke of York, Edward IV's father. At 
 Islington he was led thrice round the pillory, 
 amid the jeers of the crowd ; and one ruffian 
 was base enough to strike him in the hour of 
 his misery. '' Forsooth, and forsooth ; ye do 
 foully to smite the Lord's anointed," was his 
 mild rebuke. 
 
 Margaret and the gallant little prince felt 
 this cruelty and indignity as the greatest ag- 
 gravation of their own loss and trials. But the 
 year 1469 saw the White Rose party divided 
 against itself, and the throne of Edward IV tot- 
 tering. Margaret and Prince Edward imme- 
 diately had a meeting with Louis of France 
 and other friends in order to consider on the 
 
68 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 best way of improving the crisis for the House 
 of Lancaster. Margaret was in a fever of hope. 
 The northern and midland counties were in 
 arms against King Edward, led by the Duke 
 of Warwick ; and in a few months Edward 
 was taken prisoner and sent to the stronghold 
 of Middleham Castle, under the wardship of 
 Warwick's brother, the Archbishop of York. 
 So England had at this time two kings, and 
 both of them in prison. 
 
 Edward, however, escaped, gathered an ar- 
 my, and compelled Warwick to fly to France. 
 Here he had an interview with Margaret and 
 her son, and offered to unite his immense power 
 and influence to the House of Lancaster; and, 
 to cement the union, a marriage was arranged 
 between Warwick's daughter, Anne, and the 
 boy prince, Edward. 
 
 Then Warwick returned to England, land- 
 ed at Dartmouth, and proclaimed his intention 
 of delivering King Henry from prison, declar- 
 ing his commission to be '' by the whole voice 
 and assent of the most noble Princess Marga- 
 ret, Queen of England, and the right high 
 and mighty Prince Edward." Warwick found 
 himself in a few days at the head of sixty thou- 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 69 
 
 sand men, the people crying everywhere : '' A 
 Henry ! A Henry ! " 
 
 Again Edward IV was obhged to fly to 
 Holland, and Warwick sent the Bishop of 
 Winchester to the Tower of London, to take 
 King Henry VI from his keepers, and " bring 
 him home to his palace at Westminster with 
 great reverence and rejoicing." 
 
 Margaret and Prince Edward immediately 
 made preparations to return to England. But 
 an evil fate persistently pursued this unfortu- 
 nate woman. They landed almost at the very 
 time when the Lancastrian cause was receiv- 
 ing its death-blow on the fatal heath of Bar- 
 net. Here Warwick was slain, and King Henry 
 again taken prisoner. When the news was 
 brought to them, Margaret fainted away ; but 
 the prince ^' soothed and caressed her with many 
 hopeful and courageous words," and she sought, 
 with all her company, the famous sanctuary of 
 BeauHeu Abbey. 
 
 Here they were soon visited by the fiery 
 young Duke of Somerset, and many other 
 Lancastrian nobles ; and they said " they had 
 already a good puissance in the field, and with 
 her presence, and that of the prince, would 
 
70 
 
 EDWARD PLANTAGENET, 
 
 soon draw all the northern and western coun- 
 ties to the banner of the Red Rose." Marga- 
 ret wished, however, to return to France ; but 
 '' the gallant young prince would not consent 
 to this ; both Somerset and he were deter- 
 mined still to keep war against their enemies." 
 So the whole party proceeded with this escort 
 of Lancastrian lords to Bath. 
 
 It was a peculiarity in Margaret's campaigns 
 that she always kept the place of her destina- 
 tion a profound secret. Owing to this caution, 
 and the entire devotion of the western coun- 
 ties to her cause, she had a large army in the 
 field ready to oppose Edward IV, while her 
 actual locality remained unknown to him. Ed- 
 ward advanced to Marlborough; Margaret and 
 Prince Edward retreated to Bristol, intending 
 to cross the Severn and make a junction with 
 Jaspar Tudor's army in Wales. Could this 
 have been effected, there might have been a 
 different tale to tell than that of the bloody, 
 dismal day of Tewkesbury ; but the men of 
 Gloucester had fortified the bridge, and would 
 not let her cross, either for threats or bribes. 
 
 Margaret and Prince Edward then passed 
 on to Tewkesbury. Edward was waiting for 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 71 
 
 them. They had marched thirty-seven miles 
 that day. Somerset led the advanced guard, 
 the Prince of Wales commanded the van, the 
 Earl of Devonshire the rearward. When the 
 battle was in order, Margaret and the prince 
 rode from rank to rank encouraging the men, 
 and promising large rewards if victory was 
 won. 
 
 The battle was fought, and lost, on May 4, 
 147 1. There Margaret saw the last hopes of 
 Lancaster crushed with her " gallant springing 
 young Plantagenet." The following graphic 
 account of his death is from the chronicle of 
 Hall: 
 
 "After the field ended King Edward made 
 a proclamation that whosoever could bring 
 Prince Edward to him, alive or dead, should 
 have an annuity during his life, and the 
 prince's life to be saved. Sir Richard Croftes, 
 a wise and a valiant knight, nothing mistrust- 
 ing the King's former promise, brought forth 
 his prisoner, Prince Edward, being a good- 
 ly and well-featured young gentleman, whom, 
 when King Edward had well advised, he de- 
 manded of him how he durst so presumptu. 
 ously enter into his realm with banner dis- 
 
72 
 
 EDWARD PLANTA GENET. 
 
 played. The prince, being bold of stomach, 
 and of a good courage, answered, saying : ' To 
 recover my father's kingdom and heritage from 
 his father and grandfather to him.' At which 
 words King Edward said nothing, but with 
 his hand thrust him from him — or, as some say, 
 struck him with his gauntlet — whom inconti- 
 nent they that strode about, which were George, 
 Duke of Clarence, Richard, Duke of Gloster, 
 Thomas Marquis Dorset, and William Lord 
 Hastings, suddenly murdered, and piteously 
 mangled. His body was homely interred with 
 other simple corpses in the Church of the Mon- 
 astery of Black Monks in Tewkesbury." 
 
 The following day the news of her son's 
 death was taken to Margaret by her old enemy, 
 Sir William Stanley, and revealed to her in a 
 manner so brutal as to aggravate greatly the 
 bitterness of the blow. Margaret invoked the 
 most terrible maledictions on her son's mur- 
 derers and on Edward and his sons, which 
 hasty passionate words Stanley inhumanly re- 
 peated to Edward. At first Edward thought 
 of putting her to death ; but no Plantagenet 
 had ever shed the blood of a woman, and, after 
 forcing her to grace his triumph to London, he 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 73 
 
 incarcerated her in one of the most dismal 
 lodgings of the gloomy Tower. 
 
 The same night that Margaret was taken to 
 the Tower she was made a widow. " That 
 night," says Leland, " betw^een eleven and twelve 
 of the clock, was King Henry, being prisoner 
 in the Tower, put to death, the Duke of Glos- 
 ter, and divers of his men, being in the Tower 
 that night." Tradition points out an octagonal 
 room in the Wakefield Tower as the scene of 
 the midnight murder of Henry VI. It was 
 there that he had for five years eat the bread 
 of his sad and lonely affliction, a few learned 
 manuscripts and devotional books, and a little 
 bird, his only companions. 
 
 The imprisonment of Margaret was at first 
 very rigorous, but she was finally ransomed by 
 her tender-hearted father — the famous King 
 Rene — by the sacrifice of his inheritance of 
 Provence, which he ceded to Louis XI for 
 half its value, in order to deliver his beloved 
 child from captivity. 
 
 There is something very touching in the 
 
 deed which was wrung from the broken-hearted 
 
 woman who had so long defended the rights 
 
 of her husband and son. While they lived she 
 4 
 
74 
 
 EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 
 
 would rather have given up her hfe than have 
 reHnquished a claim they possessed ; but, when 
 they were gone, 
 
 " Ambition, pride, the rival names 
 Of York and Lancaster, 
 With all their long-contested claims — 
 What were they then to her?" 
 
 Almost as a matter of indifference she signed 
 the instrument — " I, Margaret, formerly in Eng- 
 land married, renounce all that I could pretend 
 to in England by the conditions of my mar- 
 riage, with all other things there, to Edward, 
 now King of England." And thus for ever ter- 
 minated a dispute which for twenty years had 
 filled the land with distraction and loss and 
 slaughter. 
 
 The poetic badges of this bloody civil war 
 are accounted for by Shakespeare in a splendid 
 scene in the Temple Gardens (First Part of 
 King Henry VI, Act II, Scene 4), in which 
 lords of the rival houses pluck red and white 
 roses as their emblems. But these emblems 
 were used long before the reign of Henry VI 
 as cognizances of the two dukedoms ; the badges 
 were then only revived, not adopted. Edmund, 
 
EDWARD PLANTAGENET. 75 
 
 Earl of Lancaster, the brother of Edward I, 
 has red roses emblazoned on his tomb ; and 
 Edward the Black Prince wears a coronet of 
 white roses in the portrait of him, which is 
 preserved in Richard II's missal, now in the 
 Harleian Collection. 
 
EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF 
 
 YORK, 
 
 SONS OF KING EDWARD IV. 
 
PERSONS IN THE DRAMA. 
 
 |- His Sons. 
 
 >• The King's Brothers. 
 
 English Lords. 
 
 Edward. — King of England. 
 
 Edward V. 
 
 Richard, Duke of York. 
 
 George, Duke of Clarence. 
 
 Richard, Duke of Gloster. 
 
 Duke of Richmond. — Afterward Henry VII. 
 
 Hastings. 
 
 Buckingham. 
 
 Rivers. 
 
 Grey. 
 
 Sir Robert Brakenbury. — Lieutenant of the Tozuer. 
 
 Sir James Tyrrel. — A Creature of Gloster'' s. 
 
 Son and Daughter of Clarence. 
 
 Elizabeth. — Queen of Edward LV. 
 
 Duchess of York. — Mother of Edward LV, Clarence, and 
 
 Richard. 
 Anne. — Wife to Richard of Gloster. 
 
EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF 
 
 YORK, 
 
 SONS OF KING EDWARD IV. 
 
 The play of "Richard III," which follows 
 that of " King Henry VI," is its necessary sequel. 
 Edward IV is now undisputed King of Eng- 
 land ; for, after the murder of Henry VI and 
 his son Edward, all the heirs of Edward III, 
 excepting those of the House of York, were 
 dead. But though the civil war w^as over, it 
 was followed by a domestic one in the reign- 
 ing family, which turned the royal palace into a 
 slaughter-house. 
 
 The three York brothers — King Edward VI, 
 George, Duke of Clarence, and Richard, Duke 
 of Gloster — feared each other; and Clarence, 
 doubted by Edward, and standing between 
 Richard and the throne, fell first. In that " mis- 
 erable night" before his murder, "so full of 
 
8o EDWARD F, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 fearful dreams, of ugly sights," and ''dismal ter- 
 ror," Clarence tells, shudderingly, how among 
 
 them there 
 
 Came wandering by 
 A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 
 Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud — 
 Clarence is come — -false, fleeting, perjiir'd Clarence, 
 That stabb'd me i7i the fucld by Tewkesbury j 
 Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments! 
 
 In the next act, one of the first scenes shows 
 us the mother and children of the murdered 
 Clarence. The little son of Clarence is a very 
 pretty picture of an innocent, credulous child. 
 His uncle Gloster has been at some trouble 
 to deceive him ; he has kissed and petted and 
 pitied him, and the boy will not believe there 
 is any guile beneath these kind appearances. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Enter the Duchess of York with a Son and Daugh- 
 ter of Clarence. 
 
 Son. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead.** 
 DucH. No, boy. 
 
 Daugh. Why do you weep so oft } and beat your 
 breast ; 
 And cry — O Clarence, my unhappy son! 
 
EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 8l 
 
 Son. Why do you look on us and shake your head, 
 And call us — orphans, wretches, castaways, 
 If that our noble father be alive ? 
 
 DucH. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both; 
 I do lament the sickness of the king. 
 As loath to lose him, not your father's death : 
 It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost. 
 
 Son. Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead. 
 The king my uncle is to blame for this : 
 God will revenge it; whom I will importune 
 With earnest prayers all to that effect. 
 
 Daugh. And so will I. 
 
 DucH. Peace, children, peace ! the king doth love 
 you well : 
 Incapable and shallow innocents, 
 You can not guess who caus'd your father's death. 
 
 Son. Grandam, we can ; for my good uncle Glos- 
 ter 
 Told me the king, provok'd to 't by the queen, 
 Devised impeachments to imprison him : 
 And when my uncle told me so, he wept. 
 And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek; 
 Bade me rely on him, as on my father, 
 And he would love me dearly as his child. 
 
 DucH. Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle 
 shape. 
 
82 EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 Son. Think you my uncle did dissemble, gran- 
 dam ? 
 DucH. Ay, boy. 
 Son. I can not think it. 
 
 Their sorrowful conversation is interrupted 
 by the distracted lamentation of Queen Eliza- 
 beth for the death of her husband, Edward IV, 
 whose decease follows hard on the murder of 
 his brother Clarence. Then Lord Rivers ad- 
 vises her — 
 
 Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, 
 Of the young prince your son : send straight for 
 
 him, 
 Let him be crowned : in him your comfort lives. 
 
 The young Prince of Wales was then thir- 
 teen years of age and at Ludlow, the ancient 
 home of the Princes of Wales. His brother 
 Richard, the young Duke of York, was eleven, 
 and was with his mother and grandmother in 
 the palace. These two boys Shakespeare has 
 drawn with exquisite skill ; the elder, Edward, 
 is dignified, earnest, and clear - seeing ; the 
 younger, Richard, is quick, keen, intelligent, and 
 a lively observer of persons and things. 
 
 
EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 83 
 
 We see him first in a room of the palace 
 anxiously waiting with his grandmother and 
 mother the arrival of his brother from Lud- 
 low. The Archbishop of York enters, and tells 
 
 them — 
 
 Last night, I heard, they lay at Stony- Stratford; 
 And at Northampton they do rest to-night: 
 To-morrow, or next day, they will be here. 
 
 DucH. I long with all my heart to see the 
 prince ; 
 I hope he is much grown since last I saw him. 
 
 Q. Eliz. But I hear, no; they say my son of 
 York 
 Hath almost overta'en him in his growth. 
 
 York. Ay, mother, but I would not have it so. 
 
 DuCH. Why, my young cousin? it is good to 
 
 grow. 
 York. Grandam, one night, as we did sit at 
 
 supper, 
 My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow 
 More than my brother; Ay, quoth my uncle Gloster, 
 Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace : 
 And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast, 
 Because sweet flowers are slow, and weeds make 
 
 haste. 
 DucH. 'Good faith, 'good faith, the saying did 
 
 not hold 
 
84 EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 In him that did object the same to thee : 
 
 He was the wretched'st thing, when he was young: 
 
 So long a growing, and so leisurely. 
 
 That, if his rule were true, he should be gracious. 
 
 York. Now, by my troth, if I had been remem- 
 ber'd, 
 I could have given my uncle's grace a flout, 
 To touch his growth, nearer than he touch'd mine. 
 DucH. How, my young York? I pr'ythee let me 
 
 hear it. 
 York. Marry, 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. 
 
 DucH. I pr'ythee, pretty York, who told thee 
 
 this } 
 York. Grandam, his nurse. 
 DucH. His nurse 7 why, she was dead ere thou 
 
 wast born. 
 York. If 'twere not she, I can not tell who told 
 
 me. 
 Q. Eliz. a parlous boy : Go to, you are too 
 
 shrewd. 
 Arch. Good madam, be not angry with the 
 
 child. 
 Q. Eliz. Pitchers have ears. 
 
Edward V's Entry into London. 
 
 Edward V, and Richard^ Duke of York. 
 
EDWARD F, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 85 
 
 But even before the Prince of Wales — now 
 Edward V — arrives his mother has become 
 alarmed, and fled to Sanctuary with her young- 
 est son. Her brother, the Earl of Rivers, has 
 been sent to prison by Gloster, and the mother- 
 heart of the poor queen divines that this is but 
 the beginning of the end. So, when the little 
 king arrives in London, he misses at once his 
 maternal uncle, and says to Gloster — 
 
 I want more uncles here to welcome me. 
 Glo. 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 ! 
 Prince. God keep me from false friends ! but 
 
 they were none. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 I thought my mother, and my brother York, 
 Would long ere this have met us on the way. 
 
 Then Lord Hastings enters, and informs 
 him — 
 
86 EDWARD F, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK, 
 
 The queen your mother, and your brother York, 
 Have taken sanctuary : The tender prince 
 Would fain have come with me to meet your grace, 
 But by his mother was perforce withheld. 
 
 Buckingham, a creature of Gloster's, then 
 desires Hastings to return to the Queen and ij 
 persuade her to '' send the Duke of York unto 
 his princely brother presently ; if she deny, from 
 her jealous arms pluck him perforce.'* 
 
 Prince. Good lords, make ail the speedy haste 
 you may. 
 Say, uncle Gloster, if our brother come. 
 Where shall we sojourn till our coronation? 
 
 Glo. Where it seems best unto your royal self. 
 If I may counsel you, some day, or two. 
 Your highness shall repose you at the Tower: 
 Then where you please, and shall be thought most fit 
 For your best health and recreation. 
 
 Prince. I do not like the Tower, of any place : — 
 Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord ? 
 
 Glo. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place; 
 Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified. 
 
 Prince. Is it upon record? or else reported 
 Successively from age to age, he built it ? 
 
 Buck. Upon record, my gracious lord. 
 
EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 87 
 
 Prince. But say, my lord, it were not regis- 
 ter'd ; 
 Methinks, the truth should live from age to age. 
 As 'twere retail'd to all posterity. 
 Even to the general all-ending day. 
 
 That Julius Ccesar was a famous man ; 
 With what his valor did enrich his wit. 
 His wit set down to make his valor live. 
 Death makes no conquest of this conqueror; 
 For now he lives in fame, though not in life. 
 I'll tell you what my cousin Buckingham. 
 
 Buck. What, my gracious lord .? 
 
 Prince. An if I live until I be a man, 
 I'll win our ancient right in France again. 
 Or die a soldier, as I lived a king. 
 
 Glo. Short summers lightly have a forward spring. 
 \Aside. 
 
 In the ensuing meeting between the broth- 
 ers, they are very finely contrasted. The young 
 Duke of York is bold, precocious, and inclined 
 to a boyish sauciness ; and evidently discerns 
 the danger he has neither the power to ward 
 off nor the wisdom to ignore. On the con- 
 trary, a sweet and tender gravity blends with 
 everything the little king says. How much 
 
88 EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 feeling and modesty there are in his reflection 
 on his father's death ! and in the censuring 
 question to his brother, what a dehcate re- 
 minder of propriety ! In his reply to Gloster, 
 referring to his dead uncles, what caution and 
 acuteness are shown by the equivocal words! 
 Indeed, the whole scene indicates a disposition 
 promising the most perfect manhood. 
 
 «i 
 
 Buck. Now, in good time, here comes the Duke 
 of York. 4 ^ 
 
 Prince. Richard of York ! how fares our loving 
 brother } 
 
 York. Well, my dread lord ; so must I call you now. 
 
 Prince. Ay, brother; to our grief, as it is yours; 
 Too late he died that might have kept that title, 
 Which by his death hath lost much majesty. 
 
 Glo. How fares our cousin, noble lord of York? 
 
 York. I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord, 
 You said that idle weeds are fast in growth : 
 The prince my brother hath outgrown me far. 
 
 Glo. He hath, my lord. 
 
 York. And therefore is he idle } 
 
 Glo. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so. 
 
 York. Then is he more beholden to you than I. 
 
 Glo. He may command me, as my sovereign; 
 But you have power in me, as in a kinsman. 
 
EDWARD F, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 89 
 
 York. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger. 
 
 Glo. My dagger, little cousin.^ With all my heart. 
 
 Prince. A beggar, brother .? 
 
 York. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give ; 
 And, being but a toy, which is no grief to give. 
 
 Glo. a greater gift than that I'll give my cousin. 
 
 York. A greater gift ! O, that's the sword to it } 
 
 Glo. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. 
 
 York. O, then, I see, you'll part but with light 
 gifts : 
 In weightier things you'll say a beggar, nay. 
 
 Glo. It is too weighty for your grace to wear. 
 
 York. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. 
 
 Glo. What, would you have my weapon, little 
 lord } 
 
 York. I would, that I might thank you as you 
 call me. 
 
 Glo. How .? 
 
 York. Little. 
 
 Prince. My lord of York will still be cross in 
 talk ; — 
 Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him. 
 
 York. You mean, to bear me, not to bear with 
 me : — 
 Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me ; 
 Because that I am little, like an ape. 
 He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders. 
 
go EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 Buck. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons ! 
 To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, 
 He prettily and aptly taunts himself: 
 So cunning, and so young, is wonderful. 
 
 Glo. My gracious lord, will it please you pass 
 along ? 
 Myself, and my good cousin Buckingham, 
 Will to your mother ; to entreat of her 
 To meet you at the Tower, and welcome you. 
 
 York. What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord } 
 
 Prince. My lord protector needs will have it so. 
 
 York. I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower. 
 
 Glo. Why, what should you fear.? 
 
 York. Marry, my uncle Clarence's angry ghost; 
 My grandam told me he was murder'd there. 
 
 Prince. I fear no uncles dead. 
 
 Glo. Nor none that live, I hope. 
 
 Prince. An if they live, I hope, I need not fear. 
 But come, my lord, and, with a heavy heart, 
 Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. 
 
 The short conversation which ensues, on the 
 departure of the princes, between Gloster and 
 Buckingham, well indicates their true feelings 
 toward the doomed children : 
 
 Buck. Think, you, my lord, this little prating 
 York 
 
EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 91 
 
 Was not incensed by his subtle mother 
 
 To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously ? 
 
 Glo. 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. 
 
 Then follows the execution of Rivers, Grey, 
 Hastings — nobles likely to interfere with Rich- 
 ard's scheme for making himself king; and, 
 through Buckingham's assistance, the mayor 
 and citizens are finally induced to offer Glos- 
 ter the crown, which he accepts, after a great 
 deal of pretended reluctance, saying: 
 
 Cousin of Buckingham — and you 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. 
 
 The first result of this usurpation is an or- 
 der confining the princes closely to the Tower, 
 and forbidding their mother and friends to visit 
 them. Act Fourth opens with a meeting of 
 Queen Elizabeth and theii grandmother and 
 aunt before the Tower, and the refusal of 
 the Heutenant, Sir Robert Brakenbury, to ad- 
 mit them. 
 
92 EDWARD F, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 Brak. .... By your patience, 
 
 I may not suffer you to visit them ; 
 The king hath strictly charg'd the contrary. 
 
 Q. Eliz. The king ! Who's that ? 
 
 Brak. I mean, the lord protector. 
 
 Q. Eliz. The Lord protect him from that kingly 
 title ! 
 Hath he set bounds between their love and me.? 
 I am their mother: who shall bar me from them.? 
 
 DuCH. I am their father's mother ; I will see them. 
 
 Anne. Their aunt I am in law, in love their 
 mother ; 
 Then bring me to their sights; I'll bear thy blame, 
 And take thy office from thee, on my peril. 
 
 Brak. No, madam, no, I may not leave it so ; 
 I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. 
 
 How sad and woful were the presenti- 
 ments of these wretched women is shown by 
 the aged grandmother urging the boys' mother 
 to seek her own safety. " Go thou to Sanctu- 
 ary," she says. 
 
 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, 
 And each hour's joy wreck'd with a week of teen. 
 
 I 
 
EDWARD r, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 93 
 
 Q. Eliz. Stay yet ; look back, with me, unto the 
 Tower. — 
 Pity, yon ancient stones, those tender babes, 
 Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls ! 
 Rough cradle for such little pretty ones ! 
 Rude ragged nurse ! old sullen playfellow 
 For tender princes, use my babies well ! 
 
 Buckingham, who had not feared to follow 
 all Gloster's bloody ways, so far, hesitates, 
 however, when Gloster suggests the murder of 
 his nephews. '' Give me some breath," he asks, 
 
 — some little pause, dear lord, 
 Before I positively speak in this. 
 
 Then King Richard, telling himself disdain- 
 fully that '* High-reaching Buckingham grows 
 circumspect," calls a page, and asks him if he 
 knows any one " whom corrupting gold 
 
 Would tempt into a close exploit of death ? " 
 
 The page suggests Sir James Tyrrel, "a 
 discontented gentleman, whose humble means 
 match not his haughty mind." 
 
 K. Rich. I partly know the man ; Go, call him 
 hither, boy — 
 
94 EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK, 
 
 Is thy name Tyrrel ? 
 
 Tyr. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient sub- 
 ject. 
 K. Rich. Art thou indeed ? 
 
 Tyr. Prove me, my gracious lord. 
 
 K. Rich. Dar'st thou resolve to kill a friend of 
 
 mine 1 
 Tyr. Please you ; but I had rather kill two ene- 
 mies. 
 K. Rich. Why, then thou hast it ; two deep ene- 
 mies. 
 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. 
 
 Tyr. Let me have open means to come to them. 
 And soon I'll rid you from the fear of them. 
 
 K. Rich. Thou sing'st sweet music. Hark, come 
 hither, Tyrrel ; 
 Go, by this token : — Rise, and lend thine ear : 
 
 [ Whispers. 
 There is no more but so ; say, it is done. 
 And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it. 
 Tyr. I will dispatch it straight. 
 
 The consummation of this bloody tragedy 
 Tyrrel tells himself in the Third Scene of the 
 Fourth Act. 
 
EDWARD V,AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 95 
 
 Enter Tyrrel. 
 Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody act is done ; 
 The most arch deed of piteous massacre 
 That ever yet this land was guilty of. 
 Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did suborn 
 To do this piece of ruthless butchery, 
 Albeit they were flesh 'd villains, bloody dogs, 
 Melting with tenderness and mild compassion. 
 Wept like two children, in their death's sad story. 
 O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes, — 
 Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another 
 Within their alabaster innocent arms : 
 Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
 Which, in their sumjuer beauty, kiss'd each other. 
 A book of prayers on their pillow lay j 
 Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind j 
 But, O, the devil — there the villain stopp'd : 
 When Dighton thus told on — we smothered 
 The 77iost replenished sweet work of Nature, 
 That, from the prime creation, e'er she franid. — 
 Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse; 
 They could not speak; and so I left them both, 
 To bear thi^ tidings to the bloody king. 
 
 Enter King Richard. 
 And here he comes : — All health, my soverign lord ! 
 K. Rich. Kind Tyrrel ! am I happy in thy news ? 
 
96 EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in 
 charge 
 Beget your happiness, be happy then, 
 For it is done. 
 
 K. Rich. But didst thou see them dead.^ 
 
 Tyr. I did, my lord. 
 
 K. Rich. And buried, gentle Tyrrel.? 
 
 Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried 
 them ; 
 But where, to say the truth, I do not know. 
 
 K. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after sup- 
 per, 
 When thou shalt tell the process of their death. 
 Meantime, but think how I may do thee good 
 And be inheritor of thy desire. 
 Farewell, till then. 
 
 Tyr. I humbly take my leave. 
 
 K. Rich. The son of Clarence have I penn'd up 
 close ; 
 His daughter meanly have I 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. 
 
EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 97 
 
 But even while he speaks a messenger en- 
 ters, bringing tidings that his old ally Buck- 
 ingham is fled to Richmond, with whom are 
 also Dorset, Morton, and a host of other pow- 
 erful confederates. Indeed, he soon finds that 
 he has no friends left but those " who are friends 
 for fear"; for "every man's conscience is a 
 thousand swords, to fight against that bloody 
 homicide." 
 
 The armies of Richard and Richmond meet 
 for one decisive battle on the field of Bos- 
 worth ; but, at the midnight before the fatal 
 day, Richard receives awful assurance of the 
 death and disaster awaiting him. First the 
 ghost of Prince Edward, son of Henry VI, 
 comes to him and says: 
 
 Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! 
 Think how thou stabb'dst me in my prime of youth 
 At Tewkesbury ; Despair, therefore, and die ! 
 
 Then the ghost of Henry VI appears, saying: 
 
 When I was mortal, my anointed body 
 
 By thee was punched full of deadly holes : 
 
 Think on the Tower, and me; Despair, and die! 
 
 Henry VI bids thee despair and die. 
 5 
 
98 EDWARD r, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 The Ghost of Clarence rises. 
 Ghost. Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! 
 I, that was wash'd to death with fulsome wine, 
 Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray'd to death ! 
 To-morrow in the battle think of me, 
 And fall thy edgeless sword ; Despair, and die ! 
 
 Ghosts of the two young Princes rise. 
 
 Ghosts. Dream on thy cousins smothered in the 
 Tower ; 
 Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, 
 And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death ! 
 Thy nephews* souls bid thee despair, and die. 
 
 The ghosts of his murdered queen, Anne^ 
 and of his friend Buckingham, fill up the aw- 
 ful measure of a denunciation which makes 
 even Richard's conscience cry out — ' I 
 
 Guilty ! Guilty ! 
 I shall despair. — There is no creature loves me ! 
 And, if I die, no soul will pity me. 
 
 Within a few hours Richard falls, fighting 
 desperately, on Bosworth field ; and the kind 
 of pity he anticipated is all that he receives — 
 
 ". . . . the bloody dog is dead." 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 EDWARD AND RICHARD PLANTACxENET, 
 SONS OF KING EDWARD IV. 
 
 It was in the very darkest hour of the last 
 struggle of the House of York for the crown 
 of England that Edward Plantagenet, son of 
 Edward IV, was born. Warwick, after his re- 
 conciliation with the House of Lancaster, had 
 just entered London, Edward the King had fled 
 to Holland, and Queen Elizabeth, with her three 
 daughters, had taken refuge in a strong gloomy- 
 building called the Sanctuary, which stood at 
 the end of St. Margaret's churchyard. 
 
 Here, on the ist of November, A. D. 1470, 
 the long - hoped - for heir of York was born. 
 " Never before had Westminster Sanctuary re- 
 ceived a royal guest, and little was it ever 
 deemed a Prince of Wales would first see light 
 
lOO EDWARD r, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 within walls that had hitherto only sheltered 
 homicides, robbers, and bankrupts. But the 
 revolution for Edward's restoration was as rapid 
 as that of his deposition. On Easter Sunday 
 Edward gained the battle of Barnet, in which 
 Warwick was killed ; and then Elizabeth re- 
 tired to the Tower until her husband on the 
 field of Tewkesbury put down for ever the 
 hopes of the House of Lancaster. 
 
 The little Richard, Duke of York, was born, 
 about two years after his brother, at Shrews- 
 bury, 1472, and the earliest event of importance 
 in his short life was his marriage with Anne 
 Mowbray, the infant heiress of the duchy of 
 Norfolk. St. Stephen's Chapel, where the cere- 
 mony was performed, January, A. D. 1477, was 
 splendidly hung with arras of gold on this oc- 
 casion. The King, the young Prince of Wales, 
 and the three princesses, Elizabeth, Mary, and^ 
 Cicely, were present; the Queen led the littk 
 bridegroom, who was not five years old, and! 
 her brother. Earl Rivers, led the baby bride,] 
 scarcely three years old. The innocent and ill- 
 fated infants then married verified the old Eng-J 
 lish proverb, which says,- 
 
 "Early wed, early dead." 
 
EDWARD V,AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK, loi 
 
 King Edward IV died at Westminster April 
 9, 1483, the Prince of Wales being then in his 
 thirteenth year. He was at Ludlow Castle pre- 
 siding over his principality of Wales, and pur- 
 suing his studies under the care of his accom- 
 plished uncle Rivers. Elizabeth sat at the first 
 council after the death of her husband, and 
 proposed that the young king should be es- 
 corted to London with a powerful army. Hast- 
 ings, prompted by jealousy of the Queen's fam- 
 ily, contradicted this prudent measure, asking, 
 insolently, " against whom the young sover- 
 eign was to be defended ? Who were his foes ? 
 Not his vaKant uncle, Gloster ! Not Stanley, 
 or himself ! " He finished by vowing " that 
 he would retire from court if the young king 
 was brought to London surrounded by sol- 
 diers." 
 
 Elizabeth gave up her precaution with tears ; 
 and her maternal forebodings received only too 
 sad confirmation when, at midnight, on the 3d 
 of May, tidings were brought her that the Duke 
 of Gloster had intercepted the young king with 
 an armed force. In that hour of agony she 
 however remembered that, while she could 
 keep her second son in safety, the life of the 
 
102 EDWARD V.AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 young king was secure. " Therefore," says 
 Hall, *'she took her young son, the Duke of 
 York, and her daughters, and went out of the 
 palace of Westminster into the Sanctuary, and 
 there lodged in the Abbot's place ; and she and 
 all her children and company were registered 
 as Sanctuary persons." 
 
 The apartments of the Abbot of Westmin- 
 ster are nearly in the same state, at the pres- 
 ent hour, as when they received Elizabeth and 
 her train of young princesses. The noble hall, 
 now used as a dining-room for students of 
 Westminster School, was, doubtless, the place 
 where Elizabeth seated herself in her despair, 
 as the old chronicle says, " alow on the rush- 
 es, all desolate and dismayed." The Princess 
 Mary had died a year before, but Elizabeth 
 took into Sanctuary with her the Duke of 
 York, aged eleven ; the Princesses Elizabeth, 
 aged seventeen ; Cicely, aged fifteen ; Anne, 
 aged eight ; Katherine, aged four ; and a babe 
 called Bridget. 
 
 The 4th of May had been appointed for the 
 young king's coronation, but his false uncle 
 did not bring him to London until that day. 
 Then Edward V entered the city surrounded 
 
EDWARD V,AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 103 
 
 by officers of the Duke of Gloster's retinue. 
 At the head of the posse rode Gloster him- 
 self, habited in black, with his cap in his hand, 
 " ofttimes bowing low, and pointing out his 
 nephew (who wore the royal mantle of purple 
 velvet) to the homage of the citizens." 
 
 At first Edward V was lodged with the Bish- 
 op of Ely, but Gloster soon had him transferred 
 to the regal apartments in the Tower. His next 
 object was to get possession of his brother, the 
 Prince Richard ; and, after a long and stormy 
 debate in council, it was decided that, " as 
 children could commit no crime for which an 
 asylum was needed, the privileges of Sanctuary 
 could not extend to them, therefore, the Duke 
 of Gloster, who was now recognized as lord 
 protector, could possess himself of his nephew 
 by force, if he pleased.'* 
 
 The Archbishop of Canterbury was unwill- 
 ing that force should be used, and he went 
 with a deputation of temporal peers to per- 
 suade Elizabeth to surrender her son. Very 
 sorrowfully she delivered the poor child, say- 
 ing : " These children are safe while they be 
 asunder. Notwithstanding, I here deliver him, 
 and his brother's life with him, into your 
 
104 EDWARD F, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. \ \ 
 
 hands ; and of you I shall require them before 
 God and man." Then, drawing the child to 
 her, she said : ^' Farewell ! mine own sweet 
 son ! God send you good keeping ! Let me 
 kiss you once ere you go, for God knoweth 
 when we shall kiss together again!" And_, 
 therewith ''she kissed and blessed him, and 11 
 turned her back and wept, leaving the poor, 
 innocent child weeping as fast as herself." 
 "Then," says Sir Thomas More, "they brought 
 the young duke into the star-chamber, where 
 the lord protector took him in his arms with 
 these words : * Now welcome, my lord, with 
 all my very heart ! ' He then brought him to 
 the bishop's palace at St. Paul's, and from 
 thence honorably through the city to the young 
 king at the Tower, out of which they were 
 never seen abroad." 
 
 Among the gloomy range of fortresses be- 
 longing to the Tower, tradition points out the 
 Portcullis tower as the scene of the murder 
 of the young princes. " Forthwith," says Sir 
 Thomas More, "they were both shut up, and 
 all their people removed but only one, called 
 Black > Will, or Will Slaughter, who was set to 
 serve them, and four keepers to guard them. 
 
EDWARD V,AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 105 
 
 The young king was heard to say, sighingly, 
 ' I would mine uncle would let me have my 
 life, though he taketh my crown.' After which 
 time the prince never tied his points, nor any- 
 thing attended to himself, but with that young 
 babe, his brother, lingered in thought and heav- 
 iness till the traitorous deed delivered them 
 from wretchedness." 
 
 During Richard's progress to the North in 
 September, 1484 — the September following the 
 young Edward V's entry into London in May — 
 Richard one night roused Sir James Tyrrel 
 from his pallet-bed in his guard-chamber and 
 ordered him to go to London and destroy the 
 royal children. Sir Robert Brakenbury refused 
 to co-operate, but he gave up the keys of the 
 Tower for one night to Tyrrel. 
 
 " Then Sir James Tyrrel devised that the 
 princes should be murdered in bed ; to the 
 execution thereof he appropriated Miles For- 
 est, one of their keepers, a fellow bred in mur- 
 der; and to him he joined one John Dighton, 
 his own horse-keeper, a big, broad, square 
 knave. All their other attendants being re- 
 moved from them, and the harmless children 
 in bed, these men came into their chamber, 
 
lo6 EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 and suddenly lapping them in the clothes, 
 smothered and stifled them till thoroughly dead ; 
 then laying out their bodies in the bed, they 
 fetched Sir James to see them, who caused the 
 murderers to bury them at the stair foot, deep 
 in the ground, under a heap of stones. 
 
 " But when the news was first brought to 
 the unfortunate mother, yet being in Sanctuary^ 
 that her two sons were murdered, it struck to 
 her heart like the sharp dart of death ; she 
 swooned and fell to the ground, and there lay 
 in great agony, yet like to a dead corpse 
 And after she was revived and come to her 
 memory again she wept and sobbed, and with 
 pitiful screeches filled the whole mansion. Her 
 breast she beat, her fair hair she tore, and call 
 ing by name her sweet babes, accounted her- 
 self mad when she delivered her younger son 
 out of Sanctuary for his uncle to put him to 
 death, . . . and when in a few months Richard 
 unexpectedly lost his only son, the child for 
 whose advancement he had steeped his soul in 
 crime. Englishmen declared that the cries of 
 the agonized mother to God for vengeance had 
 been heard." 
 
 Tyrrel, the instigator of the murder, was 
 
 k 
 
EDWARD V, AND RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK. 107 
 
 condemned for some minor Yorkist plot as late 
 as A. D. 1502, and gave the particulars of the 
 cruel deed before his execution. His evidence 
 is now fully corroborated by the discovery of 
 the children's bones under the stairs of the 
 Record-Office in 1664. For Richard's first pang 
 of conscience regarded the unchristian manner 
 ui which his victims had been buried ; and he 
 ordered the bodies to be lifted and laid in hal- 
 lowed ground. The priest of the Tower found 
 no spot so secret, and so sacred, as the en- 
 trance to his own chapel, in which service was 
 performed every day. But he died soon after 
 he had transferred the bodies, and the secret 
 of the princes' grave was not discovered till 
 an alteration of the chapel into a depot for 
 papers revealed it, in the reign of Charles II — 
 the old chapel being now known as the Rec- 
 ord-Office. 
 
MARCIUS, 
 
 SON OF CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS. 
 
PERSONS INTRODUCED. 
 
 Caius Marcius Coriolanus. — A Noble Roman. 
 CoMiNius. — General against the Volscians. 
 Menenius Agrippa. — Friend to Coriolanus. 
 Young Marcius. — Son to Coriolanus. 
 AuFiDiUS. — General of the Volscians. 
 VoLUMNiA. — Mother to Coriolanus. 
 ViRGlLiA. — Wife to Coriolanus. . 
 Valeria — Friend to Virgilia, 
 
 I 
 
MARCIUS, 
 
 SON OF CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS. 
 
 "The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Ro- 
 mans, done into English by Thomas North," is 
 still the best and most robust translation of 
 Plutarch we have ; and from this book Shake- 
 speare took the story of Coriolanus ; and just 
 as the character was handed down he has 
 copied it. 
 
 Coriolanus brings before us the better days 
 of the first military greatness of the Roman 
 people. The monarchy has given way to a 
 republic, but the aristocratic and democratic 
 elements are still at war; and the play is full 
 of the struggle of the two powers — patricians 
 and plebeians, senate and people, consuls and 
 tribunes. In this struggle Coriolanus, in the 
 might of his passions, surpasses even the heroes 
 of the heroic age. But Shakespeare has taken 
 
I 
 
 1 1 2 MARCIUS. 
 
 pains to make this exceptional pride and pas 
 sion possible by giving him a mother glowing 
 with patriotism, and who has centered all her 
 love, pride, and strength in making her only 
 son the chief hero and ruler of his country. 
 She trains him for dangers and ambitions ; and 
 is well pleased *^ to let him seek danger where 
 he was like to find fame." 
 
 When Caius Marcius is introduced to us 
 he is in the height and glory of his life. If 
 he can control his passions, he is loved and, 
 prized by all ; senators stand bare-headed be- 
 fore him, soldiers follow him to battle gladly 
 — he is their god ! But, when he is angry, all 
 his good qualities disappear ; he disdains his 
 enemies without cause, and they insult him 
 without reason ; and the lesson Plutarch ex- 
 tracts from his example is, "that the Muse has 
 imparted nothing finer to mankind than the 
 taming of Nature by moderation and wisdom." 
 
 In the opening of the play we see him in one 
 of his extravagantly haughty moods. There 
 has been a severe famine in Rome, to relieve 
 which corn has been sent from Sicily ; and 
 Caius Marcius has aroused the populace to 
 fury by a proposition to sell instead of to give 
 
MARCIUS. 1 i 2 
 
 it to them. A mutinous crowd of citizens de- 
 clare him '' chief enemy to the people," and 
 cry — 
 
 Let us kill him, and we'll have corn at our own 
 price. 
 
 1 CiT. Would you proceed especially against Caius 
 Marcius ? 
 
 2 CiT. Against him first ; he's a very dog to the 
 commonalty. 
 
 1 CiT. Consider you what services he has done 
 for his country? 
 
 2 CiT. Very well ; and could be content to give 
 him good report for 't, but that he pays himself with 
 being proud. . . . He did it to please his mother, 
 and to be partly proud ; which he is, even to the 
 altitude of his virtue. . . . He hath faults, with sur- 
 plus, to tire in repetition. 
 
 Menenius Agrippa, a friend of Caius Mar- 
 cius, then addresses the people ; but his reason- 
 ing is interrupted by Caius Marcius himself. 
 He disdains the populace far too much to give 
 them good words. If the nobility would only 
 permit him, he would 
 
 make a quarry 
 With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high 
 As I could pick my lance. 
 
114 MARCIUS. 
 
 His tremendous scorn and passion absolutely 
 silence the mob, and, when he bids them 
 
 Go, get you home, you fragments ! 
 
 they have no answer. 
 
 The scene is terminated by the entrance of 
 a messenger bringing- word that Rome's ene- 
 mies, the Volsces, are in arms ; and Marcius 
 adds: 
 
 The Volsces have much corn ; tiake these rats thither, 
 To gnaw their garners; 
 
 1 
 
 and the citizens steal away. For himself, Mar 
 cius is full of joy. The Volsces have a leader 
 called Aufidius, whose nobility and valor even 
 Marcius can envy. If he were not Marcius, 
 he could wish to be Aufidius, for Aufidius is 
 " a lion that he is proud to hunt." 
 
 The third scene introduces us to the home 
 of the great soldier. The Roman houses at 
 this time were very simple — a number of rooms 
 all opening into a court. This court, or atrium, 
 was the sanctuary of the dwelling, the place of 
 the hearth and the domestic deities ; in short, 
 the home-room of the family. For these rea- 
 sons it was, even at this early date, roofed 
 
MARCIUS. 
 
 115 
 
 over. Benches, chairs, and couches stood in 
 it; simple seats, low, and without backs, not 
 unfrequently made of bronze, with rude orna- 
 mental designs. 
 
 In such a room we first see the mother and 
 wife of Caius Marcius. They are sitting sew- 
 ing, and talking about the war with the Voices, 
 and the absence and danger of the beloved son 
 and husband. The haughty, daring temper of 
 the mother, Volumnia, is finely contrasted with 
 the modest sweetness and tender solicitude of 
 the wife, Virgilia. Volumnia begs her daughter- 
 in-law to sing, and make herself more comfort- 
 able in the absence of her husband. For 
 herself, she says : 
 
 When yet he was but tender-bodied, I was pleased 
 to let him seek danger where he was like to find 
 fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he 
 returned, his brows bound with oak.* 
 
 ViR. But had he died in the business, madam ? 
 how then ? 
 
 Vol. Then his good report should have been my 
 son ; I therein would have found issue. Hear me 
 profess sincerely : Had I a dozen sons, each in my 
 
 * A garland of oak-leaves was the reward of those who 
 saved the life of a Roman citizen. 
 
1 1 6 MARCIUS. 
 
 love alike, and none less dear than thine and my 
 good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly 
 for their country, than one voluptuously surfeit out 
 of action. 
 
 At this point in their discourse they are 
 apprised that a Roman lady called Valeria, 
 who is a friend of Virgilia's, has come to visit 
 them. This lady is afterward described as — 
 
 The noble sister of Publicola, 
 The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle, 
 That's curded by the frost from purest snow, 
 And hangs on Dian's temple. 
 
 I 
 
 But Virgilia, full of anxious thoughts, is not 
 inclined to see her, and wishes to retire. ^' In- 
 deed, you shall not," answers Volumnia, who 
 can expect from her son nothing but victory. 
 "Methinks," she cries — 
 
 Methinks, I hear hither your husband's drum; 
 See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair; 
 As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him : 
 Methinks, I see him stamp thus, and call thus, — 
 Come on, you cowards, you were got in fear, 
 Though you were born in Rome : His bloody brow 
 With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes; 
 
 j 
 
MARCIUS. 11- 
 
 Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow 
 Or all, or lose his hire. 
 
 ViR. His bloody brow ! O, Jupiter, no blood ! 
 
 Vol. Away, you fool ! it more becomes a man 
 Than gilt his trophy :— Tell Valeria 
 We are fit to bid her welcome. 
 
 ViR. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! 
 
 Vol. He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee, 
 And tread upon his neck. 
 
 Enter Valeria. 
 
 Val. My ladies both, good day to you. 
 
 Vol. Sweet madam — 
 
 ViR. I am glad to see your ladyship. 
 
 Val. How do you both .? you are manifest house- 
 keepers .? What are you sewing here } A fine spot, 
 in good faith. — How does your little son .? 
 
 ViR. I thank your ladyship ; well, good madam. 
 
 Vol. He had rather see the swords, and hear a 
 drum, than look upon his schoolmaster. 
 
 Val. O' my word, the father's son: I'll swear, 
 'tis a very pretty boy. O' my troth, I looked upon 
 him o' Wednesday half an hour together; he has 
 such a confirmed countenance. I saw him run after 
 a gilded butterfly, and when he caught it, he let it 
 go again ; and after it again ; and over and over he 
 comes, and up again ; catched it again : or whether 
 
Il8 MARCIUS. 
 
 his fall enraged him, or how 'twas, he did so set 
 his teeth, and tear it; O, I warrant, how he mam- 
 mocked it! 
 
 Vol. One of his father's moods. 
 
 Val. Indeed la, 'tis a noble child. 
 
 Shakespeare has thrown over this little scene 
 the very spirit of antiquity. Valeria, like a 
 courtly lady, knows that nothing can better 
 please the mother and grandmother than to 
 talk about and praise the young Marcius; and 
 an admirable picture she draws of the boy, 
 who would " rather see the swords and hear a 
 drum than look upon his schoolmaster." And 
 could any two words convey better the idea of 
 a self-willed child than Valeria's description 
 of his appearance — " he has such a confirmed 
 countenance?'' The boyish passion in which he 
 '^ mammocked " the gilded butterfly is but the 
 mimic of the father, "fluttering the Volscians 
 about, like an eagle in a dove-cote " — while the 
 grandmother can think of no higher compli- 
 ment than to proudly pronounce the child to 
 have been in "one of his father's moods." 
 
 In this war with the Volsces, Caius Marcius 
 performs prodigies of valor; but the proud 
 conqueror rejects all gifts and rewards. 
 
MARCIUS. 1 IQ 
 
 I have some wounds upon me, and they smart 
 To hear themselves remember'd, 
 
 he says. The only favor he desires is the free- 
 dom of a poor man who has been kind to him. 
 
 I sometime lay, here in Corioli, 
 At a poor man's house; he used me kindly: 
 
 . I request you 
 To give my poor host freedom. 
 
 It is, moreover, agreed, that from this time 
 for ever — ''for what he did before Corioli" — 
 he shall be called, '' with all the applause and 
 clamor of the host," Caius Marcius Coriolanus 
 — and by the name of Coriolanus, Caius Mar- 
 cius is henceforward known. 
 
 In the Second Act (Scene III) he is induced 
 to stand for the consulate ; but as soon as he 
 comes in contact with the people for their suf- 
 frages he betrays his contempt for them, and 
 their opinions. They have justice enough to 
 elect him for his services ; but his scorn and 
 insolence are so apparent that the Tribunes 
 and he come to bitter words, and one of them 
 calls him '' traitor." From that moment, like a 
 Hon, he lashes himself into a fury, and in the 
 
1 20 MARCIUS. 
 
 excitement that follows is condemned to be 
 thrown from the Tarpeian Rock. However, he 
 is permitted another hearing, and it is at this 
 time he utters that grand patriotic prayer — 
 
 The honor'd gods 
 Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice 
 Supplied with worthy men ! plant love among us ! 
 Throng our large temples with the shows of peace, 
 And not our streets with war! 
 
 But to the populace he is as haughty as ever ; 
 he " will not buy their mercy at the price of 
 one fair word ; " and he is sentenced to per- 
 petual exile — '' never more to enter Rome's 
 gates." His last words are a defiance. " I 
 banish you," he cries — 
 
 despising. 
 For you, the city, thus I turn my back : 
 There is a world elsewhere. 
 
 Then Coriolanus offers his services to the 
 Volsces, and at the head of their armies devas- 
 tates the Roman territory, until Rome itself is 
 at his mercy. His revenge seems to be as 
 strong as his pride. The petitions of his friend 
 Cominius, who urges their '' old acquaintance, 
 
MARCIUS. 121 
 
 and the drops that they had bled together,' 
 he absolutely refuses. He will be nameless 
 "till he has forg'd himself a name i' the fire of 
 burning Rome." Menenius, " whom he called 
 father," is ordered "away." Wife, mother, 
 child, he will not know ; " his affairs are ser- 
 vanted to others"; and any fresh embassies 
 and suits he will lend no ear unto. 
 
 But, as he tells himself that he is firm in 
 this resolution, his wife and mother approach, 
 his mother leading the young Marcius by the 
 hand. Then he feels that he is " not of strong- 
 er earth than others." His wife's "doves' 
 eyes, which can make gods forsworn," plead 
 with him. His mother bows, 
 
 As if Olympus to a molehill should 
 In supplication nod: 
 
 His young boy 
 
 Hath an aspect of intercession, which 
 Great nature cries, Deny not. 
 
 It is so easy to imagine this child, with his 
 bold, "confirmed countenance," holding the 
 hand of his majestic grandmother, dressed in 
 the white gown bordered with purple, and the 
 
1 22 MARCIUS, 
 
 golden ball or boss, which Roman boys wore, 
 hanging from his round, bare throat, mingling 
 that ''aspect of intercession" with a curious, 
 eager, daring look, that makes the proud, un- 
 happy father pray — 
 
 The god of soldiers. 
 With the consent of supreme Jove, inform 
 Thy thoughts with nobleness, and stick i' the wars 
 Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw. 
 And saving those that eye thee! 
 
 1 
 
 That's my brave boy ! 
 
 Then Volumnia, in a speech of sublime elo- 
 quence, pleads for the safety of Rome, and 
 wins from her angry son the peace which all 
 the swords of Italy could not have purchased. 
 It is nearly word for word from Plutarch, with 
 the charm of meter superadded. Its last argu- 
 ment is- 
 
 This boy that cannot tell what he would have, 
 But kneels, and holds up hands, for fellowship, 
 Does reason our petition with more strength 
 Than thou hast to deny 't. 
 
 Yet this boy had shown during the argu- 
 ment, in one quick little speech of defiance, 
 
MARCIUS. 123 
 
 how perfect a mimic of his uncontrollable 
 father he was ; for, when his grandmother 
 and mother vow that only over their bodies 
 shall Coriolanus march to assault his native 
 city, the child says — 
 
 A shall not tread on me ; 
 I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight. 
 
 And Coriolanus yields, though conscious that 
 such yielding is mortal to him. 
 
 O my mother, mother ! O ! 
 You have won a happy victory to Rome : 
 But, for your son, — believe it, O, believe it. 
 Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, 
 If not most mortal to him. 
 
 His prophecy is rapidly verified. His old 
 rival and enemy, Aufidius, accuses him before 
 the lords of Antium of having given up — 
 
 For certain drops of salt your city of Rome 
 (I say your city) to his wife and mother. 
 
 In the contention that follows, Coriolanus breaks 
 out into one of his passionate rages, and dies 
 under the swords of the Volscian lords. 
 
 An American poet — Walt Whitman — says 
 
124 
 
 MARCIUS. 
 
 I 
 
 that Coriolanus is incarnated, uncompromising 
 feudalism in literature (" Democratic Vistas," 
 p. 8i). But Coriolanus is not altogether a po- 
 litical play; for, though it is the history of a 
 struggle between patricians and plebeians, it 
 is also the history of a struggle between Corio- 
 lanus and his own self. And it is not the 
 Roman people who bring about his destruc- 
 tion ; it is his own haughty pride and passionate 
 self-will. The lesson that Shakespeare teaches 
 us in Coriolanus is the lesson Plutarch found 
 there — "the Muse has imparted nothing finer 
 to mankind than the taming of Nature by 
 moderation and wisdom." 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 CORIOLANUS. 
 
 The story of Coriolanus must be founded 
 upon legend or tradition ; for its date is given 
 at the 260th, or, according to some, at the 290th 
 year of Rome, at least 500 years before Plu- 
 tarch wrote. Livy, the Roman historian, wrote 
 the story a century earlier ; but in no essen- 
 tial point does it differ from that of Plutarch. 
 It must be noted, also, that some historians say 
 that Coriolanus, though he joined the enemies 
 of Rome, died honored and beloved among 
 them ; and that even among his own people 
 his memory was reverenced. 
 
 Shakespeare did not probably know this ver- 
 sion ; if he had, he would not have adopted it ; 
 for he had to show that the false step Corio- 
 lanus took, and his proud resentment, hurried 
 him upon a course which brought evils worse 
 than the Tarpeian Rock. 
 
PERSONS IN THE DRAMA. 
 
 Cymbeline. — King of Britain. 
 
 Cloten. — Son to the Queen by a former Husband. 
 
 Leonatus Posthumus. — Husband to Imogen. 
 
 Belarius. — A Banished Lord^ disguised tinder the name of Morgan. 
 
 GuiDERius. ) Sons to Cymbeline, disguised under the names of 
 
 Arviragus. f Polydore and Cadwal, supposed sons of Belatius. 
 
 Lucius. — General of the Roman Forces. 
 
 Pisanio. — Servant to Posthumus. 
 
 Queen. — Wife to Cymbeline. 
 
 Imogen. — Daughter to Cymbeline by a former Queen. 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS, 
 
 SONS OF CYMBELINE, KING OF BRITAIN. 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS, 
 
 SONS OF CYMBELINE, KING OF BRITAIN. 
 
 The "marvelous drama" of Cymbeline be- 
 longs to the heathen times of the aboriginal 
 Britons ; but to that bright period of it when 
 Roman civilization had exerted over the peo- 
 ple a wide and beneficent influence. In it 
 Leonatus is made to boast at Rome of his 
 "accomplished countrymen" as — 
 
 Men more order'd, than when Julius Caesar 
 
 Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage 
 
 Worthy his frowning at : Their discipline 
 
 (Now mingled with their courages) will make known 
 
 To their opposers, they are people such 
 
 That mend upon the world. 
 
 Holinshed afforded Shakespeare materials 
 for the first part of the play — namely, the dis- 
 pute about the tribute-money, and the war be- 
 
130 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 tween Britain and Rome. He tells us that 
 Cymbeline began to reign in the nineteenth 
 year of the Emperor Augustus, and that both 
 Cymbeline and his sons Guiderius and Arvi- 
 ragus are mentioned as historical characters. 
 Cymbeline was one of the most powerful and 
 wealthy of the ancient British kings. His cap- 
 ital was Camalodunum, now either Maldon or 
 Colchester. It was the first Roman colony in 
 Britain, and a place of great magnificence ; 
 therefore the supposition of luxury in dress 
 and in household arrangements is not unnatu- 
 ral in the play. Roman luxury speedily fol- 
 lowed Roman colonization ; and, besides, Cym- 
 beline and his ancestors were constantly in 
 commercial intercourse with the Greeks and 
 Phoenicians. 
 
 It is very likely that Cymbeline's palace 
 had all the characteristics of a Roman villa, 
 and therefore the play opens in " the garden 
 behind Cymbeline's palace " without violating 
 any probability. In this garden two gentle- 
 men of the court are discussing the marriage 
 of Imogen, the daughter of Cymbeline, with 
 Leonatus, a noble youth, reared under the 
 special care and protection of the King, who 
 
 i 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 131 
 
 had given him " all the learnings that his time 
 could make him the receiver of"; and who 
 lived at the court, '' most prais'd, most lov'd ; 
 a sample to the youngest." 
 
 But this marriage had been clandestine, and 
 had greatly angered Cymbeline ; for Imogen 
 was the heiress of his throne, and he wished 
 to unite her with Cloten, the son of his queen 
 by a former marriage ; a braggart inheriting 
 from his mother the basest and most degrad- 
 ing vices; ''a thing too bad for bad report"; 
 
 while Leonatus is 
 
 a creature such 
 
 As to seek through the regions of the earth 
 
 For one his like, there would be something failing 
 
 In him that should compare. 
 
 2 Gent. I honor him 
 
 Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me, 
 
 Is she sole child to the king.' 
 
 1 Gent. His only child. 
 He had two sons (if this be worth your hearing, 
 Mark it), the eldest of them at three years old, 
 
 r the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery 
 Were stolen ; and to this hour no guess in knowledge 
 Which way they went. 
 
 2 Gent. That a king's children should be so con- 
 
 vey'd, 
 
132 
 
 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 I 
 
 So slackly guarded ! and the search so slow, 
 That could not trace them ! 
 
 1 Gent. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, 
 Or that the negligence may well be laughed at, 
 Yet is it true, sir. 
 
 2 Gent. I do well believe you. 
 
 These two princes had really been stolen 
 by a faithful and famous warrior of Cymbe- 
 line's court, called Belarius, who, by valuable 
 services, had well deserved the favor of his 
 king. But suddenly Cymbeline's anger fell 
 upon the guiltless hero. Two villains swore 
 falsely that he had made a treacherous league 
 with the Romans, and Cymbeline deprived him 
 of his possessions and banished him. 
 
 The old soldier, unable to get justice, de- 
 termined, at least, to have revenge. He car- 
 ried off the two sons of Cymbeline with the 
 help of their nurse ; her he married, and he 
 brought up the boys as his own children, in a 
 solitary cavern in the mountains of Wales. In 
 this seclusion he trained them to hunting and 1 1 
 all manly exercises, and they grew up true, 
 simple, brave, inspired with a mixed spirit 
 of strength and gentleness, of modesty and 
 
Hail, Heaven ! 
 
 Cuiderius and Arviragtu. 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 133 
 
 ambition, the "sweetest companions in the 
 world." 
 
 We are first introduced to the youths in 
 the Third Scene of the Third Act, than which 
 there are few finer things in Shakespeare. The 
 breath of the old innocent world is over it, the 
 thoughts and feelings of generous youth, and 
 the wisdom of a good old age. 
 
 SCENE III. — Wales. A Mountainous Country^ with 
 
 a Cave. 
 
 Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 
 
 Bel. a goodly day not to keep house, with such 
 Whose roof 's as low as ours. Stoop, boys : this gate 
 Instructs you how t* adore the heavens, and bows you 
 To a morning's holy office : the gates of monarchs 
 Are arch'd so high that giants may get through 
 And keep their impious turbans on, without 
 Good morrow to the sun. — Hail, thou fair heaven ! 
 We house i* the rock, yet use thee not so hardly 
 As prouder livers do. 
 
 Gui. Hail, heaven! 
 
 Arv. Hail, heaven ! 
 
 Bel. Now, for our mountain sport. Up to yon hill : 
 Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, 
 When you above perceive me like a crow, 
 
134 
 
 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 That it is place which lessens and sets off; 
 And you may then revolve what tales I have told you, 
 Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war; 
 This service is not service, so being done, 
 But being so allow'd ; to apprehend thus. 
 Draws us a profit from all things we see; 
 And often, to our comfort, shall we find 
 The sharded beetle in a safer hold 
 Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O ! this life 
 Is nobler, than attending for a check; 
 Richer, than doing nothing for a bribe; 
 Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk : 
 Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, 
 Yet keeps his book uncross'd.* No life to ours. 
 Gui. Out of your proof you speak : we, poor un^ 
 fledg'd. 
 
 Have never wing'd from view o' the nest ; nor know not 
 What air 's from home. Haply, this life is best. 
 If quiet life be best; sweeter to you, 
 That have a sharper known ; well corresponding 
 With your stiff age ; but unto us it is 
 A cell of ignorance, traveling abed, 
 A prison for a debtor, that not dares 
 To stride a limit. 
 
 * " Yet keeps his book uncross'd." The tradesman's book 
 was crossed when the account was paid. In old writers the 
 allusion to this circumstance is frequent. 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 133 
 
 Arv. What should we speak of, 
 
 When we are old as you? when we shall hear 
 The rain and wind beat dark December, how 
 In this our pinching cave shall we discourse 
 The freezing hours away ? We have seen nothing : 
 We are beastly : subtle as the fox for prey ; 
 Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat : 
 Our valor is, to chase what flies ; our cage 
 We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird. 
 And sing our bondage freely. 
 
 Bel. How you speak 
 
 Did you but know .the city's usuries, 
 And felt them knowingly : the art o' the court, 
 As hard to leave, as keep ; whose top to climb 
 Is certain falling, or so slippery that 
 The fear 's as bad as falling : the toil of the war, 
 A pain that only seems to seek out danger 
 r the name of fame and honor ; which dies i* the 
 
 search. 
 And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph. 
 As record of fair act; nay, many times, 
 Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse. 
 Must court'sy at the censure. — O, boys ! this story 
 The world may read in me : my body's mark'd 
 With Roman swords, and my report was once 
 First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me ; 
 And when a soldier was the theme, my name 
 
1,6 GUIDE RI US AND ARVJRAGUS, 
 
 il 
 
 Was not far off: then was I as a tree, 
 
 Whose boughs did bend with fruit ; but, in one night, 
 
 A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, 
 
 Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves. 
 
 And left me bare to weather. 
 
 Gui. Uncertain favor! 
 
 Bel. My fault being nothing (as I have told you 
 oft) 
 But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd 
 Before my perfect honor, swore to Cymbeline 
 I was confederate with the Romans : so, 
 Follow'd my banishment; 
 
 But, up to the mountains; 
 This is not hunter's language. — He that strikes 
 The venison first shall be lord o' the feast ; 
 To him the other two shall minister, 
 And we will fear no poison, which attends 
 In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. 
 
 [^Exeunt Gui. and Arv. 
 How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature ! 
 These boys know little they are sons to the king ; 
 Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. 
 They think they are mine ; and, though train'd up 
 
 thus meanly 
 I' the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit 
 The roofs of palaces ; and nature prompts them, 
 
 « 
 
 t 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 137 
 
 In simple and low things, to prince it, much 
 
 Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, — 
 
 The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom 
 
 The king, his father, called Guiderius, — Jove! 
 
 When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell 
 
 The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out 
 
 Into my story: say, — "Thus mine enemy fell; 
 
 And thus I set my foot on 's neck ; " even then 
 
 The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, 
 
 Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture 
 
 That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal 
 
 (Once Arviragus) in as like a figure, 
 
 Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more 
 
 His own conceiving. Hark ! the game is rous'd ! — 
 
 Cymbeline ! heaven, and my conscience, knows 
 
 Thou didst unjustly banish me; whereon 
 
 At three, and two years old, I stole these babes, 
 
 Thinking to bar thee of succession, as 
 
 Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile, 
 
 Thou wast their nurse ; they took thee for their 
 
 mother, 
 And every day do honor to her grave : 
 Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd. 
 They take for natural father. — The game is up. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 At this very hour Imogen, the unknown 
 
 sister of the two boys, is approaching their 
 
138 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 cave, in the disguise of a page. She has been 
 driven to this course by the persecution fol- 
 lowing her contempt for the Queen's son, Clo- 
 ten, and her love for her husband, Leonatus. 
 There is nothing in this love but what is beau- 
 tiful and worthy of honor. They have grown 
 up together; it is a love of all their life-time 
 that unites them. Their marriage in the temple 
 of Jupiter was an act of self-defense against the 
 cruel, selfish ambition of Imogen's stepmother; 
 but the King, her father, being thoroughly un- 
 der the influence of his wicked queen, banishes 
 Leonatus, and confines Imogen. 
 
 Imogen is one of the most lovely and art- 
 less characters which Shakespeare imagined. 
 Her appearance sheds warmth, fragrance, and 
 brightness over the whole drama. She yields 
 to her father's anger with filial duty, but she 
 is ever faithful to her husband. In her part- 
 ing sorrow she forgets what she had intended 
 to say. She would have told him at what 
 time she " was in heaven " praying for him ; at 
 what hours he *' could encounter her with ori- 
 sons." When he is away she thinks only of 
 him. She wears his letters next her heart. 
 Before she opens them, she prays with touch- 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 139 
 
 ing gladness for " good news." Going to bed 
 at midnight, she thinks of him, and kisses his 
 bracelet, and at night she weeps when she re- 
 members him " 'twixt clock and clock." Neither 
 the anger of her father, the falseness of her step- 
 mother, nor the insolence of the rude Cloten, 
 makes her complain ; she is patient, joyous, in- 
 genuous, bears no resentment for injuries ; nor 
 do suffering and trouble press too heavily on 
 her. 
 
 At length her position at her father's court 
 becomes intolerable ; Pisanio, her servant, ad- 
 vises her to seek her husband in Rome, and 
 for this end to enter the service of Lucius, 
 the Roman general in Britain, in the service of 
 a page. " Lucius, the Roman, comes to Mil- 
 ford-Haven to-morrow," he urges her, and — 
 
 Now, if you could wear a mind 
 Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise 
 That which, t' appear itself, must not yet be 
 But by self-danger, you should tread a course 
 Pretty, and full of view : yea, haply, near 
 The residence of Posthumus. 
 
 Forethinking this, I have already fit 
 
 ('Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all 
 
140 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS, 
 
 That answer to them : . 
 
 'fore noble Lucius 
 Present yourself, desire his service. . 
 
 he's honorable, 
 
 And, doubling that, most holy. 
 
 Imo. Thou art all the comfort 
 
 The gods will diet me with. Pr'ithee, away : 
 There's more to be considered ; but we'll even 
 All that good time will give us. 
 
 In this disguise of a page, Imogen is espe] 
 cially charming,, because she is quite unable to 
 lay aside her sweet feminine nature. In addi- 
 tion, this friend gives her a box, which he re- 
 ceived from the Queen, and which he assures 
 her, if she be sick, contains a medicine to 
 " drive away distemper." 
 
 SCENE Yl.— Before the Cave of Belarius. Enter 
 Imogen in Boy's Clothes. 
 
 Imo. I see, a man's life is a tedious one; 
 I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together 
 Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick,. 
 But that my resolution helps me. — Milford, \ 
 
 When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, 
 Thou wast within a ken. O Jove ! I think 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 141 
 
 Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, 
 Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me 
 I could not miss my way : will poor folks lie, 
 That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis 
 A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, 
 When rich ones scarce tell true : to lapse in fullness 
 Is sorer than to lie for need ; and falsehood 
 Is worse in kings than beggars. — My dear lord! 
 
 Now I think on thee. 
 My hunger's gone ; but even before, I was 
 At point to sink for food. — But what is this.-* 
 Here is a path to it : 'tis some savage hold : 
 I were best not call ; I dare not call ; yet famine, 
 Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. 
 Plenty, and peace, breeds cowards; hardness ever 
 Of hardness is mother. — Ho ! Who's here } 
 If anything that's civil, speak ; if savage. 
 Take, or lend. — Ho! — No answer.? then I'll enter. 
 Best draw my sword ; and if mine enemy 
 But fear the sword like me, he'll scarcely look on't. 
 Such a foe, good heavens! 
 
 Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 
 
 Bel. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman, 
 and 
 Are master of the feast : Cadwal, and I, 
 Will play the cook and servant ; 'tis our match : 
 
142 
 
 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 I 
 
 % 
 
 The sweat of industry would dry, and die, 
 
 But for the end it works to. Come ; our stomachf 
 
 Will make what's homely, savory : Weariness 
 
 Can snore upon the flint, when rusty sloth 
 
 Finds the down pillow hard. — Now, peace be here. 
 
 Poor house, that keep'st thyself! 
 
 Gui. I am thoroughly weary. 
 
 Arv. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. 
 
 Gui. There is cold meat i' the cave : we'll browse 
 on that 
 Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. \ 
 
 Bel. Stay: come not 
 
 [Looking in. 
 But that it eats our victuals, I should think 
 Here were a fairy. 
 
 Qui. What's the matter, sir.i* 
 
 Bel. By Jupiter, an angel ! or, if not, 
 An earthly paragon ! — Behold divineness 
 No elder than a boy ! 
 
 Enter Imogen. 
 
 Imo, Good masters, harm me not: 
 Before I enter'd here, I call'd; and thought 
 To have begg'd, or bought, what I have took. Good 
 
 troth, 
 I have stolen nought ; nor would not, though I had 
 
 found 
 Gold strew'd o' the floor. Here's money for my meat : 
 
Guiderius, Arviragus, and Imogen. 
 
 Guiderius and A rviragus. 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 143 
 
 I would have left it on the board, so soon 
 As I had made my meal, and parted 
 With prayers for the provider. 
 
 Gui. Money, youth? 
 
 Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt! 
 As 'tis no better reckoned, but of those 
 Who worship dirty gods. 
 
 Imo. I see, you are angry. 
 
 Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should 
 Have died, had I not made it. 
 
 Bel. Whither bound .^ 
 
 Imo. To Milford-Haven. 
 
 Bel. What's your name.'* 
 
 Imo. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who 
 Is bound for Italy : he embark 'd at Milford ; 
 To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, 
 I am fallen in this offence. 
 
 Bel. Prithee, fair youth, 
 
 Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds 
 By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd. 
 'Tis almost night : you shall have better cheer 
 Ere you depart ; and thanks, to stay and eat it. — 
 Boys, bid him welcome. 
 
 GuL Were you a woman, youth, 
 
 I should woo hard but be your groom. — In honesty, 
 I bid for you as I do buy. 
 
 Arv. I'll make 't my comfort, 
 
144 
 
 GUIDERIUS ADD ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 He is a man: I'll love him as my brother; 
 And such a welcome as I'd give to him, 
 After long absence, such is yours. — Most welcome. 
 Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. 
 
 Imo. 'Mongst friends! 
 
 If brothers.'' \Aside^ Would it had been so, that they 
 Had been my father's sons : then, had my prize 
 Been less; and so more equal ballasting 
 To thee, Posthumus. 
 
 Bel. He wrings at some distress. 
 
 Gui. Would I could free 't ! 
 
 Arv. Or I ; whate'er it be, 
 
 What pain it cost, what danger. Gods ! 
 
 Bel. Hark, boys ! [ Whispering. 
 
 Imo. Great men, 
 That had a court no bigger than this cave, 
 That did attend themselves, and had the virtue 
 Which their own conscience seal'd them (laying by 
 That nothing gift of differing multitudes). 
 Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! 
 I'd change my sex to be companion with them. 
 Since Leonatus false. 
 
 Bel. It shall be so. 
 
 Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. — Fair youth, come in : 
 Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, 
 We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, 
 So far as thou wilt speak it. 
 
GUI DERI us AND ARVIRAGUS. 145 
 
 Gui. Pray, draw near. 
 
 Arv. The night to the owl, and morn to the lark, 
 
 less welcome. 
 Imo. Thanks, sir. 
 Arv. I pray, draw near. 
 
 The First Scene in the Fourth Act shows 
 us that Imogen's flight has been closely fol- 
 lowed by her rude suitor, Cloten, the Queen's 
 son. He appears near the cave of Belarius, 
 and in his soliloquy tells himself that within 
 an hour he will '' spurn her home to her 
 father, who may haply be a little angry for 
 my so rough usage, but my mother, having 
 power over his testiness, shall turn all into my 
 commendations." 
 
 But Imogen is in the cave with her friends ; 
 sick and weary with sorrow and fatigue, and 
 only waiting their departure to the hunt, in 
 order to take the medicine given to her by 
 Pisanio, when he furnished her with her dis- 
 guise at their parting. This medicine, given 
 him by the Queen, he supposed to be a sov- 
 ereign remedy in all sickness ; and the Queen 
 supposed it to be a poison, for she hated 
 Pisanio, knowing him to be true to Imogen 
 and Leonatus. However, she also was de- 
 
146 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS, 
 
 ceived, for the physician from whom she ob- 
 tained it, suspecting- her of evil intentions, 
 had substituted for poison a powerful narcotic, 
 which would induce a death-like trance, but in 
 no way injure life. 
 
 Before the Cave. 
 Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, and Imogen. 
 
 Bel. You are not well [ To Imogen] : remain here 
 in the cave ; 
 We'll come to you after hunting. *' 
 
 Arv. Brother, stay here : 
 
 \^To Imogen. Are we not brothers? 
 
 Imo. So man and man should be; 
 
 But clay and clay differs in dignity, 
 Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. 
 
 Gui. Go you to hunting ; I'll abide with him. 
 
 Imo. So sick I am not, — yet I am not well ; 
 But not so citizen a wanton, as 
 To seem to die, ere sick. So please you, leave 
 
 me; 
 Stick to your journal course : the breach of cus- 
 tom 
 Is breach of all. I am ill ; but your being by me 
 Can not amend me : society is no comfort 
 To one not sociable. I am not very sick, 
 Since I can reason of it : pray you, trust me here ; 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. iaj 
 
 I'll rob none but myself, and let me die, 
 Stealing so poorly. 
 
 Gui. I love thee ; I have spoke it : 
 
 How much the quantity, the weight as much, 
 As I do love my father. 
 
 Bel. What! how.? how .5* 
 
 Arv. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me 
 In my good brother's fault : I know not why 
 I love this youth ; and I have heard you say, 
 Love's reason's without reason : . 
 
 Brother, farewell. 
 
 Imo. I wish ye sport. 
 
 Arv. You health. — So please you, sir. 
 
 Imo. [Astde.~\ These are kind creatures. Gods, 
 what lies I have heard ! 
 Our courtiers say, all's savage but at court : 
 Experience, O ! thou disprov'st report. 
 
 I am sick still ; heart-sick. — Pisanio, 
 I'll now taste of thy drug. 
 
 Gui. I could not stir him : 
 
 He said he was gentle, but unfortunate ; 
 Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. 
 
 Arv. Thus did he answer me; yet said, hereafter 
 I might know more. 
 
 Bel. To the field, to the field !— 
 
 We'll leave you for this time ; go in, and rest. 
 
148 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 Arv. We'll not be long away. 
 
 Bel. Pray, be not sick 
 
 For you must be our housewife. 
 
 Imo. Well, or ill, 
 
 I am bound to you. 
 
 Bel. And shalt be ever. \^Exit Imogen. 
 
 This youth, howe'er distress'd he appears, hath had 
 Good ancestors. 
 
 Arv. How angel-like he sings ! 
 
 GuL But his neat cookery: he cut our roots in 
 characters ; 
 And sauc'd our broths, as Juno had been sick, 
 And he her dieter. 
 
 Arv. Nobly he yokes 
 
 A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh 
 Was that it was, for not being such a smile; 
 The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly 
 From so divine a temple, to commix 
 With winds that sailors rail at. 
 
 GuL I do note 
 
 That grief and patience, rooted in him both, 
 Mingle their spurs together. 
 
 Arv. Grow, patience! 
 
 And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine 
 His perishing root with the increasing vine ! 
 
 Bel. It is great morning. Come ; away ! — Who's 
 there .>* 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 149 
 
 Enter Cloten. 
 
 Clo. I can not find those runagates. . . . 
 
 Bel. Those runagates ! 
 
 Means he not us ? I partly know him ; 'tis 
 Cloten, the son o' the queen. I fear some am- 
 bush. 
 I saw him not these many years, and yet 
 I know 'tis he. — We are held as outlaws : — hence. 
 
 Gui. He is but one. You and my brother 
 search 
 What companies are near: pray you, away; 
 Let me alone with him. [Exeunt Bel. and Arv. 
 
 Clo. Soft! What are you 
 
 That fly me thus ? some villain mountaineers .-* 
 I have heard of such. — What slave art thou.'* 
 
 GuL A thing 
 
 More slavish did I ne'er, than answering 
 A slave without a knock. 
 
 Clo. Thou art a robber, 
 
 A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief. 
 
 GuL To whom ? to thee } What art thou 1 Have 
 not I 
 An arm as big as thine } a heart as big .■* 
 Thy words, I grant, are bigger; for I wear not 
 My dagger in my mouth. Say, what thou art, 
 Why I should yield to thee .5* 
 
 Clo. Thou villain base, 
 
150 
 
 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS, 
 
 Know'st me not by my clothes ? 
 
 Gui. No, nor thy tailor, rascaf 
 
 Who is thy grandfather? he made those clothes, 
 Which, as it seems, make thee. 
 
 Clo. Thou precious varlet, 
 
 My tailor made them not. 
 
 Gui. Hence, then, and thank 
 
 The man that gave them thee. Thou art some 
 
 fool ; 
 I am loath to beat thee. 
 
 Clo. Thou injurious thief, 
 
 Hear but my name, and tremble. 
 
 Gui. What's thy name.? 
 
 Clo. Cloten, thou villain. 
 
 Gui. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, 
 I can not tremble at it : were 't toad, or adder, 
 
 spider, 
 'Twould move me sooner. 
 
 Clo. To thy farther fear, 
 
 Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know 
 I'm son to the queen. 
 
 GuL I am sorry for 't ; not seeming 
 
 So worthy as thy birth. 
 
 Clo. Art not afeard .'* 
 
 Gui. Those that I reverence, those I fear, the 
 wise : 
 At fools I laugh, not fear them. 
 
 I 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 151 
 
 Clo. Die the death. 
 
 When I have slain thee with my proper hand, 
 I'll follow those that even now fled hence, 
 And on the gates of Lud's town set your heads. 
 Yield, rustic mountaineer. \Exeunt^ fighting. 
 
 Enter Belarius and Arviragus. 
 
 Bel. No company's abroad. 
 
 Arv. None in the world. You did mistake him, 
 sure. 
 
 Bel. I can not tell: long is it since I saw him, 
 But time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of favor 
 Which then he wore : the snatches in his voice. 
 And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute 
 'Twas very Cloten. 
 
 Arv. In this place we left them : 
 
 I wish my brother make good time with him, 
 You say he is so fell. 
 
 Bel. Being scarce made up, 
 
 I mean, to man, he had not apprehension 
 Of roaring terrors; for th' effect of judgment 
 Is oft the cause of fear. But see, thy brother. 
 
 Re-enter Guiderius with Cloten 's head. 
 
 GuL This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse, — 
 There was no money in 't. Not Hercules 
 
152 
 
 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 i 
 
 Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had 
 
 none; 
 Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne 
 My head, as I do his. 
 
 Bel. What hast thou done? 
 
 Gui. I am perfect what : * cut off one Cloten's 
 head, 
 Son to the queen, after his own report; 
 Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer ; and swore, 
 With his own single hand he'd take us in. 
 Displace our heads, where (thank the gods!) they 
 
 grow, 
 And set them on Lud's town. 
 
 Bel. We are all undone. 
 
 GuL Why, worthy father, what have we to lose, 
 But, that he swore to take, our lives .'' The law 
 Protects not us ; then, why should we be tender, 
 To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us. 
 Play judge, and executioner, all himself, 
 For we do fear the law? What company 
 Discover you abroad ? 
 
 Bel. No single soul 
 
 Can we set eye on, but in all safe reason 
 He must have some attendants. Though his humor 
 Was nothing but mutation — ay, and that 
 From one bad thing to worse ; not frenzy, not 
 
 * That is, I am perfectly aware what I have done. 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 155 
 
 Absolute madness, could so far have rav'd, 
 To bring him here alone. 
 
 Arv. Let ordinance 
 
 Come as the gods foresay it : howsoe'er, 
 My brother hath done well. 
 
 Bel. I had no mind 
 
 To hunt this day: the boy Fidele's sickness 
 Did make my way long forth. 
 
 Gui. With his own sword, 
 
 Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en 
 His head from him : I'll throw 't into the creek 
 Behind our rock ; and let it to the sea, 
 And tell the fishes he's the queen's son, Cloten : 
 That's all I reck. \_Exii. 
 
 Bel. I fear 'twill be reveng'd. 
 
 Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done 't, though valor 
 Becomes thee well enough. 
 
 Arv. Would I had done 't, 
 
 So the revenge alone pursued me ! — Polydore, 
 I love thee brotherly, but envy much 
 Thou hast robb'd me of this deed : I would, revenges, 
 That possible strength might meet, would seek us 
 
 through. 
 And put us to our answer. 
 
 Bel. Well, 'tis done. 
 
 We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger 
 
154 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 Where there's no profit. I prithee, to our rock: 
 You and Fidele play the cooks; I'll stay 
 Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him 
 To dinner presently. 
 
 Arv. Poor sick Fidele ! 
 
 I'll willingly to him : to gain his color, 
 I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood, 
 And praise myself for charity. \^Exit. 
 
 Bel. O thou goddess, 
 
 Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st 
 In these two princely boys ! They are as gentle 
 As zephyrs blowing below the violet, 
 Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough, 
 Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind, 
 That by the top doth take the mountain pine. 
 And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonder 
 That an invisible instinct should frame them 
 To royalty unlearn'd, honor untaught, 
 Civility not seen from other, valor 
 That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop 
 As if it had been sow'd ! . 
 
 Re-enter Guiderius. 
 Gui. Where's my brother.? 
 
 I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream. 
 In embassy to his mother : his body's hostage 
 For his return. [Solemn music. 
 
GUI DERI us AND ARVIRAGUS. 155 
 
 Bel. My ingenious instrument! 
 
 Hark, Polydore, it sounds; but what occasion 
 Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark! 
 
 Gui. Is he at home? 
 
 Bel. He went hence even now. 
 
 GuL What does he mean ? since death of my 
 dear'st mother 
 It did not speak before. All solemn things 
 Should answer solemn accidents. The matter? 
 
 Re-enter Arviragus, bearing Imogen as dead in his 
 
 artns. 
 
 Bel. Look! here he comes, 
 
 And brings the dire occasion in his arms, 
 Of what we blame him for. 
 
 Arv. The bird is dead, 
 
 That we have made so much on. I had rather 
 Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, 
 To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch, 
 Than have seen this. 
 
 GuL O sweetest, fairest lily! 
 
 My brother wears thee not the one half so well, 
 As when thou grew'st thyself. 
 
 Bel. O, melancholy! 
 
 Jove knows what man thou mightst have made ; but I, 
 Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. — 
 
156 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 How found you him ? 
 
 Arv. Stark, as you see: 
 
 Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber. 
 Not as death's dart, being laugh 'd at : his right 
 
 cheek 
 Reposing on a cushion. 
 
 Gui. Where ? 
 
 Arv. O' the floor ; 
 
 His arms thus leagued : I thought he slept, and put 
 My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness 
 Answer'd my steps too loud. 
 
 Gui. Why, he but sleeps: 
 
 If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed ; 
 With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, 
 And worms will not come to thee. 
 
 Arv. With fairest flowers, 
 
 Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 I'll sweeten thy sad grave : thou shalt not lack 
 The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
 The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
 The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
 Out-sweeten'd not thy breath : the ruddock* would. 
 With charitable bill, .... 
 
 bring thee all this; 
 Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, 
 To winter-ground thy corse. 
 
 * The robin red-breast. 
 
GUIDE RI us AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 157 
 
 Gui. Prithee, have done ; 
 
 And do not play in wench-like words with that 
 Which is so serious. Let us bury him, 
 And not protract with admiration what 
 Is now due debt. — To the grave. 
 
 Arv. Say, where shall 's lay him .? 
 
 Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother. 
 
 Arv. Be 't so. 
 
 Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the 
 east ; 
 My father hath a reason for 't. 
 Arv. 'Tis true. 
 
 Gui. Come on then, and remove him. 
 Arv. So, — Begin. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Gui. Fear no 77iore the heat 0' the sun. 
 Nor the furious winter's rages j 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : 
 Golden lads and girls all must. 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 
 Arv. Fear no more the frown 0* the great. 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke j 
 Care no more to clothe and eat, 
 To thee the reed is as the oak : 
 
158 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 The scepter^ learnings physic^ must 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
 Arv. Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone j 
 Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash j 
 Arv. Thou hast finished joy and moan: 
 Both. All lovers young, all lovers must 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 Qui. No exorciser harm thee! 
 Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
 Qui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 
 Arv. Nothing ill come 7iear thee! 
 Both. Quiet consummation have ; 
 
 And renowned be thy grave ! 
 
 Qui. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay 
 
 him down. 
 Bel. Here's a few flowers, but 'bout midnight 
 more : 
 The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 
 Are strewings fitt'st for graves. — 
 
 Come on, away : apart upon our knees. 
 
 ^Exeunt Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 
 
 But before the midnight could give them 
 for her burial " herbs that have on them cold 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 150 
 
 dew o' the night," Imogen awoke, the power 
 of the sleeping potion being exhausted. Ere 
 she could determine on anything, Lucius, the 
 Roman general, with some of his officers, sur- 
 prised her, and she gladly accepted the posi- 
 tion of page to Lucius. For Lucius has been 
 ordered by the Roman Senate to make war on 
 Cymbehne, who has refused to pay the tribute 
 which his uncle Cassibelan agreed with Julius 
 Caesar to render to Rome yearly. The legions 
 from Gallia have crossed the sea and are now 
 at Milford-Haven, and Imogen hopes that her 
 banished husband is with them. 
 
 The noise of the gathering of soldiers, and 
 of the preparation for war, is on every side, 
 and has reached Belarius and his foster-sons in 
 their cave. Belarius would willingly escape 
 from the strife, but the two young princes are 
 eager for the fight. 
 
 Gui. The noise is round about us. 
 
 Bel. Let us from it. 
 
 Arv. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it 
 From action and adventure.'* 
 
 Gui. Nay, what hope 
 
 Have we in hiding us? this way, the Romans 
 Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us 
 
l6o GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 h 
 
 For barbarous and unnatural revolts 
 During their use, and slay us after. 
 
 Bel. Sons, 
 
 We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us. 
 To the king's party there's no going: newness 
 Of Cloten's death (we being not known, not muster'd 
 Among the bands) may drive us to a render 
 Where we have liv'd; and so extort from's that 
 Which we have done, whose answer would be death 
 Drawn on with torture. 
 
 Gui. This is, sir, a doubt, 
 
 In such a time nothing becoming you, 
 Nor satisfying us. 
 
 Arv. It is not likely 
 
 That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, 
 Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes 
 And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, 
 That they will waste their time upon our note. 
 To know from whence we are. 
 
 Bel. O ! I am known 
 
 Of many in the army : many years, 
 Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore 
 
 him 
 From my remembrance : and, besides, the king 
 Hath not deserv'd my service, nor your loves, 
 Who find in my exile the want of breeding. 
 The certainty of this hard life; aye, hopeless 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 161 
 
 To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd, 
 But to be still hot summer's tanlings, and 
 The shrinking slaves of winter. 
 
 Gui. Than be so, 
 
 Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army : 
 I and my brother are not known; yourself, 
 So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown. 
 Can not be question'd. 
 
 Arv. By this sun that shines, 
 
 I'll thither : What thing is 't, that I never 
 Did see man die .'* scarce ever look'd on blood. 
 But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison .!* 
 Never bestrid a horse, save one, that had 
 A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel, 
 Nor iron, on his heel .? I am asham'd 
 To look upon the holy sun, to have 
 The benefit of his bless'd beams, remaining 
 So long a poor unknown. 
 
 Gui. By heavens, I'll go. 
 
 If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, 
 I'll take the better care ; but if you will not, 
 The hazard therefore due fall on me by 
 The hands of Romans. 
 
 Arv. So say I. Amen. 
 
 Bel. No reason I, since of your lives you set 
 So slight a valuation, should reserve 
 My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys. 
 
l62 GUI DERI us AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 If in your country wars you chance to die, 
 
 That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie: 
 
 Lead, lead. — \Aside^ The time seems long; their 
 
 blood thinks scorn, 
 Till it fly out, and show them princes born. 
 
 In the battle that ensues, the Britons are 
 defeated and fly, and Cymbeline is taken pris- 
 oner. But in a narrow lane, " close by the 
 battle, ditch'd, and walFd with turf," the Ro- 
 mans are held at bay by Belarius, Guiderius, 
 Arviragus, and Leonatus, who is in the disguise 
 of a common British soldier. By their desper- 
 ate valor, the fortune of the day is turned and 
 Cymbeline rescued. Leonatus himself tells a 
 Roman lord, after the battle, how "an ancient 
 soldier with a white beard, and two striplings, 
 lads more like to run a country game than to 
 commit such slaughter," 
 
 Made good the passage ; cried to those that fled, 
 " Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men : 
 To darkness fleet souls that fly backward! Stand; 
 
 . Stand, stand ! " 
 
 And thus how 
 
 " Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane, 
 Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane." 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 163 
 
 The Britons themselves regard their triumph 
 as miraculous. One British captain cries out : 
 
 Great Jupiter be prais'd ! Lucius is taken. 
 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. 
 
 2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, 
 That gave th' affront with them. 
 
 I Cap. So 'tis reported ; 
 
 But none of them can be found. 
 
 Scene V opens in Cymbeline's tent soon 
 after the victory, and Belarius and the two un- 
 known princes are with the king. 
 
 Cym. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have 
 made 
 Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart. 
 That the poor soldier, that so richly fought. 
 Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast 
 Stepp'd before targes of proof, can not be found : 
 He shall be happy that can find him, if 
 Our grace can make him so. 
 
 Bel. I never saw 
 
 Such noble fury in so poor a thing ; 
 Such precious deeds in one that promis'd naught 
 But beggary and poor looks. 
 
 Cym. 'Tis now the time 
 
 To ask of whence you are : — report it. 
 
11 
 
 164 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 Bel. Sir, 
 
 In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen. 
 Further to boast, were neither true nor modest, 
 Unless I add, we are honest. 
 
 Cym. Bow your knees. 
 
 Arise, my knights o' the battle : I create you 
 Companions to our person, and will fit you 
 With dignities becoming your estates. 
 
 Then Lucius, the Roman general, attended 
 by Imogen as his page, is led into Cymbeline's 
 presence as a prisoner. For himself it sufficeth 
 that "a Roman with a Roman's heart can 
 suffer"; but for Imogen he entreats mercy. 
 
 . my boy, a Briton born, 
 Let him be ransom 'd : never master had 
 A page so kind, so duteous, diligent. 
 So tender over his occasions, true. 
 So feat, so nurse-like. Let his virtue join 
 With my request, which, I'll make bold, your high- 
 ness 
 Can not deny : he hath done no Briton harm. 
 Though he have serv'd a Roman. Save him, sir, 
 And spare no blood beside. 
 
 Cym. I have surely seen him: 
 
 His favor is familiar to me. — Boy, 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 165 
 
 Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, 
 And art mine own. 
 
 Imo. I humbly thank your highness. 
 
 Cym. What's thy name ? 
 
 Imo. Fidele, sir. 
 
 Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death ? 
 
 Arv. One sand another 
 
 Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad, 
 Who died, and was Fidele. — What think you.? 
 
 Gui. The same dead thing alive. 
 
 Bel. Peace, peace ! see farther ; he eyes us not : 
 forbear. 
 Creatures may be alike : were *t he, I am sure 
 He would have spoke to us. 
 
 GuL But we saw him dead. 
 
 Bel. Be silent; let's see farther. 
 
 Imogen, however, does not remain long un- 
 recognized. Pisanio, the servant and friend of 
 Leonatus — the same who had provided her 
 with the disguise of a page, and given her the 
 sleeping ipoton — reveals her; and she, kneel- 
 ing at her father's feet, then asks his bless- 
 ing. 
 
l66 GUI DERI US AND ARVIRAGUS, 
 
 Cym. My tears, that fall, 
 
 Prove holy water on thee ! Imogen, 
 Thy mother's dead. 
 
 Imo. I am sorry for 't, my lord. 
 
 Cym. O, she was naught; and 'long of her it 
 was 
 That we meet here so strangely : but her son 
 Is gone, we know not how, nor where. 
 
 Pis. My lord. 
 
 Now fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten, 
 Upon my lady's missing, came to me 
 With his sword drawn; foam'd at the mouth, and 
 
 swore 
 If I discover'd not which way she was gone, 
 It was my. instant death. By accident, 
 I had a feigned letter of my master's 
 Then in my pocket, which directed him 
 To seek her on the mountains near to Milford. 
 
 What became of him, 
 I farther know not. 
 
 Gui. Let me end the story. 
 
 I slew him there. 
 
 Cym. Marry, the gods forefend ! 
 
 I would not thy good deeds should from my lips 
 Pluck a hard sentence : prithee, valiant youth, 
 Deny 't again. 
 
 Gui. I have spoke it, and I did it. 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 167 
 
 Cym. He was a prince. 
 
 Gui. A most uncivil one. The wrongs he did 
 me 
 Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me 
 With language that would make me spurn the sea, 
 If it could so roar to me. I cut off 's head; 
 And am right glad he is not standing here 
 To tell this tale of mine. 
 
 Cym. I am sorry for thee. 
 
 By thine own tongue thou art condemn 'd, and must 
 Endure our law : thou art dead. 
 
 Bind the offender, 
 And take him from our presence. 
 
 Bel. Stay, sir king. 
 
 This is better than the man he slew. 
 As well descended as thyself; and hath 
 More of thee merited, than a band of Clotens 
 Had ever scar for. — Let his arms alone; 
 
 \^To the Guard. 
 They were not born for bondage. 
 
 Cym. Why, old soldier, 
 
 Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for, 
 By tasting of our wrath } How of descent 
 As good as we } 
 
 Arv. In that he spoke too far. . 
 
 Cym. And thou shall die for 't. 
 
l68 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 % 
 
 Bel. We will die all three 
 
 But I will prove that two on's are as good 
 As I have given out him. — My sons, I must 
 For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, 
 Though, haply, well for you. 
 
 Arv. Your danger's ours. 
 
 Gui. And our good his. 
 
 Bel. Have at it, then ! 
 
 By leave ; — Thou hadst, great king, a subject, who 
 Was call'd Belarius. 
 
 Gym. What of him ? he is 
 
 A banish'd traitor. 
 
 Bel. He it is that hath 
 
 Assum'd this age : indeed, a banish'd man ; 
 I know not how a traitor. 
 
 Cym. Take him hence ; 
 
 The whole world shall not save him. 
 
 Bel. Not too hot: 
 
 First pay me for the nursing of thy sons; 
 And let it be confiscate all, so soon 
 As I have receiv'd it. 
 
 Cym. Nursing of my sons ! 
 
 Bel. I am too blunt, and saucy ; here's my 
 knee : 
 Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons; 
 Then, spare not the old father. Mighty sir, 
 These two young gentlemen, that call me father, 
 
GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 169 
 
 And think they are my sons, are none of mine : 
 They are the issue of your loins, my liege. 
 And blood of your begetting. 
 
 Cym. How ! my issue ? 
 
 Bel. So sure as you your father's. I, old Mor- 
 gan, 
 Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd. 
 
 These gentle princes 
 (For such, and so they are) these twenty years 
 Have I train'd up ; those arts they have, as I 
 Could put into them ; my breeding was, sir, as 
 Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, 
 Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children 
 Upon my banishment : I mov'd her to 't ; 
 Having receiv'd the punishment before. 
 For that which I did then : beaten for loyalty. 
 Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, 
 The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd 
 Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, 
 Here are your sons again; and I must lose 
 Two of the sweet'st companions in the world. 
 The benediction of these covering heavens 
 Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy 
 To inlay heaven with stars. 
 
 Cym. Thou weep'st, and speak 'st. 
 
 The service that you three have done is more 
 
lyo 
 
 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 Unlike than this thou tell'st. I lost my children:. 
 If these be they, I know not how to wish 
 A pair of worthier sons. 
 
 Bel. Be pleas'd awhile. — 
 
 This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, 
 Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius : 
 This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, 
 Your younger princely son ; he, sir, was lapp'd 
 In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand 
 Of his queen mother, which, for more probation, 
 I can with ease produce. 
 
 Cym. Guiderius had 
 
 Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star : 
 It was a mark of wonder. 
 
 Bel. This is he, 
 
 Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. 
 It was wise Nature's end in the donation, 
 To be his evidence now. 
 
 Gym. O, what, am I 
 
 A mother to the birth of three } Ne'er mother 
 Rejoic'd deliverance more. — Bless'd may you be, 
 That, after this strange starting from your orbs, 
 You may reign in them now. — O Imogen ! 
 Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. 
 
 Imo. No, my lord ; 
 
 I have got two worlds by 't. — O, my gentle brothers ! 
 Have we thus met.? O, never say hereafter 
 
GUI DERI us AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 171 
 
 But I am truest speaker : you call'd me brother, 
 When I was but your sister ; I you, brothers, 
 When you were so indeed. 
 
 Cym. Did you e'er meet? 
 
 Arv. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Gui. And at first meeting lov'd ; 
 
 Continued so, until we thought he died. 
 
 Cym. O rare instinct! 
 
 When shall I hear all through .? 
 
 The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought. 
 He would have well become this place, and grac'd 
 The thankings of a king. 
 
 Then Leonatus declares himself. " I am, 
 sir," he says, '^the soldier that did company 
 these three in poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment 
 for the purpose I then foUow'd." And Cym- 
 beline, finding himself thus so much indebted 
 to the two men whom he had unjustly ban- 
 ished, answers : '' Pardon's the word to all." 
 Arviragus, always the more gentle of the 
 brothers, has a more affectionate welcome for 
 his sister's husband. 
 
 Arv. You holp us, sir, 
 
 As you did mean indeed to be our brother; 
 Joy'd are we that you are. 
 
172 
 
 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS, 
 
 While happy Imogen casts the " harmless light- 
 ning of her eyes" upon her recovered husband, 
 her father, and her new-found brothers, ^' hitting 
 each object with a joy." And the drama con- 
 cludes with a peace which the Roman sooth- 
 sayers declare ^'the fingers of the powers above 
 do tune." 
 
 Cym. Laud we the gods ! 
 
 And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils 
 From our bless'd altars. Publish we this peace 
 To all our subjects. Set we forward. Let 
 A Roman and a British ensign wave 
 Friendly together; so through Lud's town march, 
 And in the temple of great Jupiter 
 Our peace we'll ratify. 
 
 These two youths, brought up in simple- 
 hearted goodness, and amid the wildest and 
 grandest natural scenery, seem alike at first 
 sight, but they are really far from being so. 
 Guiderius, the eldest, and the heir to the 
 throne, is much the more hasty and manly of 
 the two. He is the successful hunter; it is 
 he that kills the braggart Cloten ; he is impa- 
 tient with his brother for recalling the pretty 
 legend of the robin red-breasts covering un- 
 
GUI DERI us AND ARVIRAGUS. 173 
 
 buried bodies with moss and flowers, and^ 
 blames him for playing "in wench-like words 
 with that which is so serious." Still, his piety 
 and his loyalty to his father are just as con- 
 spicuous; and though he longs for the battle- 
 field, he asks his supposed father's permission 
 and blessing. 
 
 Arviragus is more tender and gentle, more 
 thoughtful in little matters of kindness and 
 courtesy. He takes off his shoes for fear of 
 waking Fidele in the cave ; it is he that with 
 fairest flowers promises to '' sweeten thy sad 
 grave," and "sing him to the ground as once 
 our mother." And Avhen Imogen is revealed 
 as his sister, and Leonatus as his brother-in- 
 law, he is the first with brotherly words to 
 welcome him. 
 
 We must notice, also, how admirably Shake- 
 speare suits the natural scenes to the characters 
 of the boys. They are made hunters, not shep- 
 herds, for a hunter's life is in perfect keeping 
 with the spirit of adventure in the story, and 
 with the scenes in which they are afterward to 
 act. This skillful adaptation is still more re- 
 markable if the forest scenes in " Cymbeline " 
 are compared with those of Arden m "As You 
 
174 
 
 GUIDERIUS ADD ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 Like It." The boys in " Cymbeline " climb 
 mountains and pursue game ; in Arden's green 
 glades the characters saunter along pleasant 
 foot-paths, and give themselves to contempla- 
 tion or love-making amid surroundings whose 
 air is that of rustic ease and beauty. Schlegel 
 says that the forest scenes in *' Cymbeline" are 
 capable of inspiring a worn-out imagination 
 with poetry ; and the scene in the cave where 
 Imogen meets her unknown brothers is an idyll ^ 
 so charming as can scarcely be written again. ' 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 Shakespeare found the historical material 
 for this play in Holinshed's '' Chronicles " ; and 
 he has adhered to them as far as is consistent 
 with the progress of a romantic story. The 
 following- extracts include all in Holinshed that 
 bears upon the plot of the drama : 
 
 " After the death of Cassibellane, Theoman- 
 tius, or Lenantius, the youngest son of Lud, 
 was made king of Britain, in the year of the 
 world 3921, and before the coming of Christ 
 
 45 years Theomantius ruled the land in 
 
 good quiet, and paid the tribute to the Ro- 
 mans which Cassibellane had granted, and 
 finally departed this life, after he had reigned 
 twenty-two years, and was buried in London. 
 
 " Kymbeline, or Cimbeline, the son of Theo- 
 
176 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS, 
 
 mantius, was of the Britons made king, after 
 the decease of his father, in the year of the 
 world 3944, and before the birth of our Sa- 
 viour 33. This man (as some write) was 
 brought up at Rome, and there made knight 
 by Augustus Caesar, under whom he served in 
 the wars, and was in such favor with him that 
 he was at liberty to pay his tribute or not. 
 
 *' Touching the continuance of the years of 
 Kymbeline's reign some writers do vary, but the 
 best approved affirm that he reigned thirty- 
 five years, and then died, and was buried at 
 London, leaving behind him two sons, Guide- 
 rius and Arviragus. But here is to be noted 
 that, although our histories do affirm that this 
 Kymbeline, as also his father, Theomantius, 
 lived in quiet with the Romans, and continu- 
 ally to them paid the tributes which the Brit- 
 ains had covenanted with Julius Cassar to pay, 
 yet we find in the Roman writers that, after 
 Julius Cassar's death, when Augustus had taken 
 upon him the rule of the empire, the Britons 
 refused to pay that tribute. 
 
 " But whether this controversy, which ap- 
 peareth to fall forth betwixt the Britons and 
 
GUIDERIUS AND'ARVIRAGUS. 177 
 
 the Romans, was occasioned by Kymbeline or 
 some other prince of the Britons, I have not 
 to avouch ; for that by our writers it is re- 
 ported that Kymbeline, being brought up in 
 Rome, and knighted in the court of Augustus, 
 ever showed himself a friend to the Romans, 
 and was chiefly loth to break with them, be- 
 cause the youth of the British nation should 
 not be deprived of the benefit to be trained 
 and brought up among the Romans, whereby 
 they might learn both to behave themselves 
 Hke civil men and to attain to the knowledge 
 
 of feats of war 
 
 " That this was true, it is evident enough 
 in Strabo's words, which are in effect as fol- 
 loweth : * At this present ' (saith he), ' certain 
 princes of Britain, procuring by ambassadors, 
 and dutiful demeanors, the amity of the Em- 
 peror Augustus, have offered in the capitol 
 unto the gods gifts or presents, and have or- 
 dained the whole isle, in a manner, to be apper- 
 tinent to the Romans. They are burdened 
 with sore customs which they pay for wars, 
 .... commonly ivory vessels, shears, ouches 
 or earrings, and other conceits made of amber 
 and glasses, and such like manner of merchan- 
 
178 GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS. 
 
 dise. So that now there is no need of any 
 army, or garrison of men of war, to keep the 
 isle ; for there needeth not past one legion of 
 footmen, or some wing of horsemen, to gather 
 up and receive the tribute, for the charges are 
 rated according to the quantity of the tributes, 
 .... and if any violence were used, it Avere 
 dangerous, lest they might be provoked to re- 
 bellion.' Thus far Strabo." 
 
 Holinshed's '' Chronicle " also furnished 
 Shakespeare with the name of Imogen. In the 
 old black-letter it is written Innogen, and she 
 was queen to Brute, king of Britain. In the 
 same work he also found the name of Cloten, 
 who, when the line of Brute was at an end, 
 was one of the five kings that governed Brit- 
 ain, Cloten, or Cloton, being king of Cornwall. 
 Leonatus he probably took from Sidney's "Ar- 
 cadia." There Leonatus is the legitimate son 
 of the blind king of Paphlagonia, on whose 
 story, many say, the episode of Gloster, Ed- 
 gar, and Edmund is formed in *' King Lear." 
 
THE BOY FOOL 
 
 IN KING LEAR. 
 
PERSONS MENTIONED IN T.IE PLAY. 
 
 Lear. — King of Britain. 
 
 Duke of Albany. ) ^ . ^ r ,j r^- 
 ^ ^ \. Sons-tn-Law of the King, 
 
 Duke of Cornwall, f jo 
 
 Gloster. 
 
 Kent. 
 
 The Fool. 
 
 Edgar, — A Pretended Madman. 
 
 King of France. i 
 
 Goneril. \ 
 
 Regan. >• Daughters of King Lear. 
 
 Cordelia. ) 
 
 \ English Lords, Fi iends of Lear. 
 
 ^ ^ r Suitors to Cordelia. 
 
 Duke of Burgundy, 
 
V 
 
King Lear. 
 
 The Boy Fool. 
 
 il 
 
THE BOY FOOL 
 
 IN KING LEAR. 
 
 The play of '* King Lear " belongs to the 
 heathen period of British history, but to a time 
 far anteceding that of " Cymbeline." Quite in- 
 tentionally in this play, Shakespeare has de- 
 picted Lear's bursts of rage, Cornwall's cruel- 
 ties, the rude vehemence of Kent, the unnatural 
 hard-heartedness of Lear's two eldest daugh- 
 ters, for they are the legitimate fruits of an age 
 when impulses had an ungovernable strength, 
 and crime a gigantic enormity. 
 
 In '' Lear " we have no splendid furniture, 
 and elegant costumes, and Roman courtesy of 
 manners ; we must imagine its scenes in nar- 
 row chambers of rude masonry, on wild, bar- 
 ren moors, and amid stout Gothic coarseness 
 and barbarity — a heathenish time, when chance 
 reigned above, and power and force below. 
 
l82 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 i 
 
 and when the wicked met death without a 
 pang of remorse. Selfishness and self-will dom- 
 inate, and the play would be too painful and 
 tragic for perusal, if it were not for the "■ fair- 
 est Cordelia," and for the Fool, a boy who is 
 a gracious emanation of all that is gentle and 
 constant and cheerful and true. 
 
 Lear, King of Britain, in the year of the 
 world 3105 — eight hundred years before Cym- 
 beline — had three daughters : Goneril, wife to 
 the Duke of Albany ; Regan, wife to the Duke 
 of Cornwall ; and Cordelia, a young maiden, 
 for whose hand the King of France and the 
 Duke of Burgundy were suitors, and who, at 
 the time the play opens, are staying at the 
 court of Lear. Then the King, being eighty 
 years old, suddenly determines, with ^' unruly 
 waywardness," to take no further part in the 
 government, and to divide his kingdom among 
 his daughters in such proportions as their love 
 for him seemed to deserve. 
 
 Attended by his daughters, Albany, Corn- 
 wall, and others, he asks : 
 
 Which of you, shall we say, doth love us most.? 
 That we our largest bounty may extend, 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 183 
 
 Where nature doth with merit challenge. — Goneril, 
 Our eldest born, speak first. 
 
 GoN. Sir, I love you more than word can wield 
 the matter, 
 Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty ; 
 Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare ; 
 No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor : 
 As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found. 
 A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable ; 
 Beyond all manner of so much I love you. 
 
 Lear, delighted with this assurance of her 
 love, and believing that her heart went with 
 it, in a passion of fatherly fondness bestowed 
 upon her and her husband Albany one third 
 of his ample kingdom. Then calling his sec- 
 ond daughter, he asked, " What says our dearest 
 Regan, wife of Cornwall ? " 
 
 Reg. 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. 
 
184 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 Lear. 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. — Now, our joy. 
 Although our last and least ; to whose young love 
 The vines of France and milk of Burgundy 
 Strive to be interess'd ; what can you say, to draw 
 A third more opulent than your sisters ? Speak. 
 
 But Cordelia, who really loved her father 
 almost as extravagantly as her sisters pretended 
 to do, could not with crafty, flattering speeches 
 sue for extravagant rewards. She declares she 
 " loves her father according to her duty " ; he 
 has "given her breeding, and cared for her," 
 and she says she will 
 
 Return those duties back as are right fit. 
 Obey you, love you, and most honor 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. 
 
 This plain and honest speech greatly en- 
 raged Lear. Always rash and passionate, the 
 dotage of old age had, moreover, clouded his 
 perceptions; he could not discern truth from 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 185 
 
 flattery, and in a fury of resentment he divided 
 the third part of his kingdom, which yet re- 
 mained, between Cordelia's two elder sisters 
 and their husbands Albany and Cornwall ; in- 
 vesting them, in the presence of the court, 
 with the power, revenue, and execution of the 
 government ; only retaining for himself the 
 name of king, one hundred knights for his at- 
 tendants, and the right to be maintained with 
 them, by monthly course, in each of his daugh- 
 ters' palaces in turn. 
 
 So foolish a division of his kingdom filled 
 the court with astonishment and sorrow ; but 
 no one but the Earl of Kent had the courage 
 to oppose the passionate and self-willed mon- 
 arch. He says with rude honesty : 
 
 — be Kent unmanneriy. 
 When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man ? 
 
 Reserve thy state; 
 And, in thy best consideration, check 
 This hideous rashness : answer my life my judg- 
 ment. 
 Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least, 
 Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sounds 
 Reverb no hoUowness. 
 
l86 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. 
 
 Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn 
 To wage against thine enemies. 
 
 Lear. Out of my sight! 
 
 Kent. See better, Lear; and let me still remain 
 The true blank of thine eye. A ,- 
 
 Lear. Now, by Apollo, — 
 
 Kent. Now, by Apollo, king. 
 
 Thou swear'st thy gods in vain. 
 
 This honest freedom of Kent is, however, 
 useless. Lear, in a frantic anger, allots him 
 five days to prepare for exile, and declares, if 
 on the tenth day following he be found in his 
 dominions, "- the moment is thy death." To the 
 King, Kent says, " Fare thee well, king " ; to 
 Cordelia, " The gods to their dear shelter take 
 thee, maid " ; and so departs. 
 
 Then the King of France and the Duke of 
 Burgundy are called in, to hear the determina- 
 tion of Lear to disinherit his youngest daugh- 
 ter. Lear asks them, if now that she is " un- 
 friended, and dower'd with his curse," they 
 will " take her, or leave her " ? Burgundy will 
 take no wife on such conditions, but the King 
 of France, on understanding wherein she has 
 offended, the not being able to flatter, answers : 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 187 
 
 France. Fairest Cordelia, thou art most rich, be- 
 ing poor; 
 Most choice, forsaken ; and most lov'd, despis'd ! 
 
 Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, 
 Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France. 
 
 The Third Scene of the First Act takes us 
 to the Duke of Albany's palace. The first 
 month is not over, yet already his eldest, 
 Goneril, '' with the wolfish visage, and the 
 dark frontlet of ill-humor," is beginning to 
 show her true character. She asks her stew- 
 ard : 
 
 Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of 
 his fool? 
 
 Stew. Ay, madam. 
 
 GoN. 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 : — When he returns from hunting 
 I will not speak with him ; say, I am sick : — 
 If you come slack of former services 
 You shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer. 
 
l88 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 Put on what weary negligence you please, 
 You and your fellows; I'd have it come to ques- 
 tion : 
 If he distaste it, let him to my sister, 
 Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one, 
 
 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 us'd 
 With checks, as flatteries, — 
 
 And let his knights have colder looks among 
 you ; what grows of it no matter ; advise your fel- 
 lows so (I would breed from hence occasions, and 
 I shall, that I may speak) : — I'll write straight to my 
 sister, to hold my course. 
 
 People are generally unwilling to believe 
 the unpleasant consequences which their own 
 mistakes and obstinacy bring on them ; and 
 Lear shut his eyes to his daughter's behavior 
 as long as he could. But the steward, follow- 
 ing Goneril's instructions, takes the first oppor- 
 tunity of being insolent to Lear, and the old 
 king, with characteristic passion, strikes him. 
 Then Kent, who, though banished on pain of 
 death, has followed the King in the disguise of 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 189 
 
 a servant, throws the fellow and orders him 
 away. 
 
 But Lear is much disturbed. He repeated- 
 ly calls for his Fool, that he may divert the 
 current of his sad and anxious thoughts. He 
 says to one of his knights : " I have perceived 
 a most faint neglect of late ; — I will look fur- 
 ther into it. But where's my Fool? I have 
 not seen him this two days." 
 
 Knight. Since my young lady's going into France, 
 sir, the fool hath much pined away. 
 Lear. No more of that ; I have noted it well. 
 
 These two remarks are the key to the whole 
 tender connection between Lear and his boy 
 Fool. They show us how the boy's loving, 
 gentle nature clung to the " sweetest Cordelia " ; 
 and we are aware that the King's sympathy 
 with it is the one unselfish and redeeming 
 spot in the old passionate monarch's breast. 
 And after this, through all his melancholy 
 wanderings, his care of the Fool is constant and 
 loving. In his explosions of rage and invec- 
 tive, he never forgets his faithful companion's 
 tenderness. The unkindness of his daughters, 
 the unpitying elements, can not quench this 
 
190 
 
 THE BOY FOOL, 
 
 1 
 
 Spark of love in his wretched heart. In the 
 depths of his misery, he turns from his own 
 sufferings to think of him : 
 
 Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart 
 That's sorry yet for thee. j \ 
 
 The word "" knave " signifies only a " boy." 
 It is a Saxon word which has gradually come 
 to have a much worse meaning. The con- 
 stancy of attachment between the two opposite 
 natures of Lear and his Fool is one of* the 
 most beautiful and masterly creations that ever 
 entered the mind of any poet. The *' poor 
 knave's" struggles between his ^^ heart's sadness'' 
 and his " duty's jesting " form a vivid self-con- 
 trast, while his evidently forced humor is a I 
 powerful heightening of the mournful and tragic 
 in the play. Thus, we are no sooner made to 
 feel the affectionate tenderness of the lad's 
 character, by hearing, just before ^his first en- 
 trance, that since Cordelia's " going into France 
 the fool hath much pined away," than we see 
 him come in with a playful manner, assumed 
 to hide his concern from his old master; and, 
 from that time to the close, he maintains a 
 constant endeavor by sportive words to veil 
 
THE BOY FOOL. l^l 
 
 his profound interest and sorrow in all that 
 takes place. 
 
 Enter Fool. 
 
 Fool. {^To Kent, giving him his cap.) Let me 
 hire him, too : — here's my coxcomb. 
 
 Lear. How now, my pretty knave ! how dost 
 thou ? 
 
 Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb. 
 
 Lear. Why, my boy? 
 
 Fool. Why? For taking one's part that's out of 
 favor. — Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind 
 sits, thou'lt catch cold shortly : there, take my cox- 
 comb. Why, this fellow has banish 'd two on's 
 daughters, and did the third a blessing against his 
 will : if thou follow him, thou must needs wear my 
 coxcomb. — How now, nuncle ! Would I had two 
 coxcombs, and two daughters! 
 
 Lear. Why, my boy? 
 
 Fool. If I gave them all my living, I'd keep my 
 coxcombs myself. There's mine ; beg another of 
 thy daughters. 
 
 Lear. Take heed, sirrah ; the whip ! 
 
 Fool. Truth's a dog must to kennel : he must 
 be whipped out. — 
 
 Lear. A pestilent gall to me. 
 
 Fool. Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech. 
 
 Lear. Do. 
 
192 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 Fool. Mark it, nuncle : — 
 
 Have more than thou showest, 
 Speak less than thou knowest, 
 Lend less than thou owest, 
 Ride more than thou goest, 
 Learn more than thou trowest, 
 Set less than thou throwest; 
 Leave thy drink, .... 
 And keep in-a-door. 
 And thou shalt have more 
 Than two tens to a score. 
 Lear. This is nothing, fool. 
 
 Fool. Then, 'tis like the breath of an unfee'd 
 lawyer; you gave me nothing for't. Can you make 
 no use of nothing, nuncle.'* 
 
 Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out 
 of nothing. 
 
 Fool. Pr'ythee, tell him, so much the rent of his 
 land comes to : he will not believe a fool. 
 Lear. A bitter fool! 
 
 Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my boy, 
 between a bitter fool and a sweet one."* 
 Lear. No, lad ; teach me. 
 Fool. That lord, that counsel'd thee 
 To give away thy land, 
 Come place him here by me ; 
 Do thou for him stand : 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 193 
 
 The sweet and bitter fool 
 
 Will presently appear; 
 The one in motley here, 
 The other found out there. 
 Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy ? 
 Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away, 
 that thou wast born with. 
 Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord. 
 Fool. No, 'faith ; lords and great men will not 
 let me : if I had a monopoly out, they would 
 have part on't, and loads too : they will not let 
 me have all fool to myself; they'll be snatching. 
 — Give me an egg, nuncle, and I'll give thee two 
 crowns. 
 Lear. What two crowns shall they be.^ 
 Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i' the mid- 
 dle, and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the 
 egg. When thou clovest thy crown i* the middle, 
 and gavest away both parts, thou borest thine ass 
 on thy back o'er the dirt : thou hadst little wit in 
 thy bald crown, when thou gavest thy golden one 
 away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be 
 whipped that first finds it so. [Singing. 
 
 Fools had ne'er less grace in a year ; 
 
 For wise men are grown foppish ; 
 And kjiow not how their wits to wear^ 
 Their ma7iners are so apish. 
 9 
 
ip4 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 % 
 
 Lear. When were you wont to be so full of 
 songs, sirrah ? 
 
 Fool. I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou 
 
 madest thy daughters thy mothers ; for, when thou 
 
 gavest them the rod and putt'st down thine own 
 
 breeches, \_Singing. 
 
 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. 
 Pr'ythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach 
 thy fool to lie : I would fain learn to lie. 
 
 Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipped. 
 
 Fool. I marvel, what kin thou and thy daughters 
 are : they'll have me whipped for speaking true, 
 thou'lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes 
 I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather 
 be any kind o' a 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. 
 
 Enter Goneril. 
 Lear. How now, daughter I What makes that 
 frontlet on .? 
 Methinks, you are too much of late i' the frown. 
 Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow, when thou 
 
THE BOY FOOL. ^^^ 
 
 hadst no need to care for her frowning ; now thou 
 art an O without a figure. I am better than thou 
 art now : I am a fool ; thou art nothing. — Yes, for- 
 sooth, I will hold my tongue ! so your face {to Gone- 
 ril) bids me, though you say nothing. 
 Mum, mum. 
 
 He that keeps nor crust nor crum, 
 Weary of all, shall want some. — 
 That's a shealed peascod. \_Fomting to Lear. 
 
 GoN. 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; which if you should, the fault 
 Would not 'scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, 
 Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, 
 Might in their working do you that offence, 
 Which else were shame, that then necessity 
 Will call discreet proceeding. 
 Fool. For you trow, nuncle, 
 The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long, 
 That it had its head bit off by its young. 
 So out went the candle, and we were left darkling. 
 
I 
 
 196 THE BOY FOOL, 
 
 Lear. Are you our daughter? 
 
 GoN. I would, you would make use of your good 
 wisdom, 
 Whereof I know you are fraught, and put away 
 These dispositions, which of late transform you 
 From what you rightly are. 
 
 Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws 
 the horse "i — Whoop, Jug ! I love thee. 
 
 Lear. Does any here know me ? — Why, this is not 
 Lear : does Lear walk thus .? speak thus .'' Where 
 are his eyes } Either his notion weakens, or his 
 discernings are lethargied. — Sleeping or waking.? — 
 Ha ! sure 'tis not so. — Who is it that can tell me 
 who I am.? 
 
 Fool. Lear's shadow. 
 
 Lear. I would learn that ; for by the marks of 
 sovereignty, knowledge, and reason, I should be false 
 persuaded I had daughters. 
 
 Fool. Which they will make an obedient father. 
 
 Lear. Your name, fair gentlewoman.? 
 
 GoN. This admiration, sir, is much o' the savor 
 Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you 
 To understand my purposes aright, 
 As you are old and reverend, should be wise. 
 Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; 
 Men so disorder'd, so debauch'd and bold. 
 That this our court, infected with their manners, 
 
THE BOY FOOL. ip7 
 
 Shows like a riotous inn : . 
 
 The shame itself doth speak 
 For instant remedy; be, then, desir'd 
 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. 
 
 Lear. Darkness and devils! 
 
 Saddle my horses; call my train together. — 
 Degenerate bastard ! I'll not trouble thee : 
 Yet have I left a daughter. 
 
 GoN. . . . What, Oswald, ho! 
 
 You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master. 
 
 \To the Fool. 
 Fool. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear ! tarry, and take 
 the fool with thee. 
 
 A fox, when one has caught her, 
 And such a daughter, 
 Should sure to the slaughter, 
 If my cap would buy a halter ; 
 So the fool follows after. 
 
198 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 SCENE V. — Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. 
 
 Lear. Go you before to Gloster with these letters. 
 Acquaint my daughter no farther with anything you 
 know, than comes from her demand out of the let- 
 ter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be 
 there before you. 
 
 Kent. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have de- 
 livered your letter. \^Exit. 
 
 Fool. If a man's brains were in 's heels, were 't 
 not in danger of kibes .^ 
 
 Lear. Ay, boy. 
 
 Fool. Then, I pr'ythee, be merry ; thy wit shall 
 not go slip-shod. 
 
 Lear. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Fool. Shalt see, thy other daughter will use thee 
 kindly ; for though she's as like this, as a crab is 
 like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell. 
 
 Lear. What canst tell, boy? 
 
 Fool. She will taste as like this, as a crab does 
 to a crab. Thou canst tell why one's nose stands 
 i' the middle on's face.'' 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Fool. Why, to keep one's eyes of either side *s 
 nose; that what a man can not smell out, he may 
 spy into. 
 
 Lear. I did her wrong. — 
 
 Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell .^ 
 
THE BOY FOOL. igg 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Fool. Nor I neither ; but I can tell why a snail 
 has a house. 
 
 Lear. Why ? 
 
 Fool. Why, to put his head in; not to give it 
 away to his daughter, and leave his horns without 
 a case. 
 
 Lear. I will forget my nature. — So kind a father ! 
 — Be my horses ready.? 
 
 Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The rea- 
 son why the seven stars are no more than seven, is 
 a pretty reason. 
 
 Lear. Because they are not eight ? 
 
 Fool. Yes, indeed. Thou wouldest make a good 
 fool. 
 
 Lear. To take it again perforce ! Monster in- 
 gratitude ! 
 
 Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd have 
 thee beaten for being old before thy time. 
 
 Lear. How's that.? 
 
 Fool. Thou shouldest not have been old before 
 thou hadst been wise. 
 
 Lear. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet 
 heaven ! Keep me in temper : I would not be 
 mad ! — 
 
 Enter Gentleman. 
 How now! Are the horses ready.? 
 
1 
 
 200 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 Gent. Ready, my lord. 
 Lear. Come, boy. 
 
 So Lear departs to the palace of Regan, 
 his second daughter ; but the letters announc- 
 ing his approach, which he had sent by Kent, 
 were nullified by those which Goneril sent. 
 Kent, for his plain, passionate devotion to his 
 master, is put in the stocks by Regan and 
 her husband, the Duke of Cornwall, and the 
 sight of his messenger in this insulting posi- 
 tion is the first thing which greets Lear when 
 he arrives at Gloster's castle, where Regan is 
 staying. 
 
 E7iter Lear, Fool, and a Gentleman. 
 
 Lear. Ha! \^To Kent ifi the stocks. 
 
 Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime } 
 
 Kent. No, my lord. 
 
 Fool. Ha, ha ! look ; he wears cruel garters. 
 Horses are tied by the head ; dogs and bears by 
 the neck; monkeys by the loins, and men by the 
 legs ; when a man is over-lusty at legs, then he 
 wears wooden nether-stocks. 
 
 Lear. What's he, that hath so much thy place 
 mistook, 
 To set thee here } 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 201 
 
 Kent. It is both he and she ; 
 
 Your son and daughter. 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Kent. Yes. 
 
 Lear. No, I say. 
 
 Kent. I say, yea. 
 
 Lear. No, no; they would not. 
 
 Kent. Yes, they have. 
 
 Lear. By Jupiter, I swear, no. 
 
 Kent. By Juno, I swear, ay. 
 
 Lear. They durst not do't; 
 
 They could not, would not do 't : 'tis worse than 
 
 murder, 
 To do upon respect such violent outrage. 
 Resolve me with all modest haste which way 
 Thou might'st deserve, or they impose, this usage, 
 Coming from us. 
 
 Kent. My lord, when at their home 
 I did commend your highness' letters to them, 
 Ere I was risen from the place that show'd 
 My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, 
 Stew'd in his haste, half breathless, panting forth 
 From Goneril, his mistress, salutations ; 
 Deliver'd letters, spite of intermission, 
 Which presently they read : on whose contents, 
 They summon'd up their meiny,* straight took horse; 
 
 *"Meiny"; that is, their retinue or followers. 
 
202 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 Commanded me to follow, and attend 
 The leisure of their answer ; gave me cold looks : 
 And meeting here the other messenger, 
 Whose welcome I perceiv'd had poison 'd mine, 
 (Being the very fellow which of late 
 Display'd so saucily against your highness) 
 Having more man than wit about me, drew : 
 He rais'd the house with loud and coward cries. 
 Your son and daughter found this trespass worth 
 The shame which here it suffers. 
 
 Fool. Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly 
 that way. 
 
 Fathers that wear rags, 
 
 Do make their children blind ; 
 But fathers that bear bags. 
 
 Shall see their children kind. 
 Fortune, that arrant maid. 
 Ne'er turns the key to the poor. — 
 But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolors for 
 thy daughters, as thou canst tell in a year. 
 
 Lear. O, how this mother swells up toward my 
 heart ! 
 Hysterica passio ! — down, thou climbing sorrow ! 
 Thy element's below. — Where is this daughter.^ 
 Kent. With the earl, sir; here, within. 
 Lear. Follow me not: 
 
 Stay here. \^ExiU 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 203 
 
 Gent. Made you no more offence than what you 
 speak of? 
 
 Kent. None. 
 How chance the king comes with so small a train.? 
 Fool. An thou hadst been set i* the stocks for 
 that question, thou hadst well deserv'd it. 
 Kent. Why, fool.'* 
 
 Fool. We'll set thee to school to an ant, to teach 
 thee there's no laboring i' the winter. All that fol- 
 low their noses are led by their eyes, but blind men ; 
 and there's not a nose among twenty but can smell 
 him that's stinking. Let go thy hold, when a great 
 wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with 
 following it; but the great one that goes up the hill, 
 let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives 
 thee better counsel, give me mine again : I would 
 have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it. 
 That sir, which serves and seeks for gain, 
 
 And follows but for form. 
 Will pack when it begins to rain. 
 
 And leave thee in the storm. 
 But I will tarry; the fool will stay, 
 
 And let the wise man fly : 
 The knave turns fool that runs away. 
 The fool no knave, perdy. 
 Kent. Where learn'd you this, fool? 
 Fool. Not i' the stocks, fool. 
 
i 
 
 204 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 Regan and Cornwall at first refused to see 
 Lear ; " they are sick — they are weary — they 
 have travel'd far " ; and Lear rightly inter- 
 prets these excuses as " mere fetches, the im- 
 ages of revolt and flying off." He sends still 
 more importunate messages, but with sore and 
 wretched misgivings: 
 
 Lear. O me ! my heart, my rising heart ! — but, 
 down. 
 
 Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney* did to 
 the eels, when she put them i' the paste alive; she 
 rapp'd 'em o* the coxcombs with a stick, and cried, 
 " Down, wantons, down ! " 'Twas her brother, that 
 in pure kindness to his horse buttered his hay. 
 
 Regan is equal to her sister in wickedness. 
 Shakespeare "takes ingratitude," Victor Hugo 
 has said, ''and he gives this monster two heads, 
 Goneril and Regan." The two terrible creat- 
 ures are, however, distinguishable. Goneril, 
 with her " wolfish visage " and the " dark front- 
 let" of ill-humor is pitilessly, resolutely cruel. 
 Regan is a smaller, shriller, more eager piece 
 of malice. Goneril is the instigator, Regan is 
 
 * Cockney here means a cook. 
 
THE BOY FOOL, 
 
 205 
 
 her echo. Goneril knows her sister's weak- 
 ness, so she goes to her, in order to compel 
 her to co-operate with her. Lear at first as- 
 sumes her sympathy ; he addresses her as 
 " beloved Regan," and tells her how her sister 
 '' hath tied sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vult- 
 ure," to his heart. 
 
 Regan can not think her sister would '* fail 
 her obligation." She cruelly reminds her father 
 that '' he is old, and should be ruled and led 
 by some discretion that discerns his state better 
 than his own" ; and she advises him to go back 
 to Goneril and ask her forgiveness. Then Gon- 
 eril enters, and Regan, taking her by the hand, 
 urges : 
 
 Reg. 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 : 
 I am now from home and out of that provision 
 Which shall be needful for your entertainment. 
 
 Lear. Return to her.? and fifty men dismiss'd? 
 • •••••• 
 
 . Return with her? 
 Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took 
 Our youngest born, I could as well be brought 
 
2o6 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg 
 To keep base life afoot. 
 
 GoN. At your choice, sir. 
 
 Lear. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad : 
 I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell. 
 
 Mend, when thou canst; be better, at thy leisure: 
 I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, 
 I, and my hundred knights. 
 
 Reg. ...... 
 
 If you will come to me, 
 (For now I spy a danger) I entreat you 
 To bring but five and twenty : to no more 
 Will I give place, or notice. 
 
 Lear. I gave you all — 
 
 Reg. And in good time you gave it. 
 
 Lear. [ Jl:? Goneril.] I'll go with thee; 
 Thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty, 
 And thou art twice her love. 
 
 GoN. Hear me, my lord; 
 
 What need you five and twenty, ten, or five, 
 To follow in a house, where twice as many 
 Have a command to tend you } 
 
 Reg. What need one .5* 
 
 Lear. O ! reason not the need : our basest beggars 
 Are in the poorest thing superfluous. 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 207 
 
 You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need ! 
 
 You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 
 
 As full of grief as age ; wretched in both : 
 
 If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts 
 
 Against their father, fool me not so much 
 
 To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger. 
 
 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. — O fool ! I shall go mad. 
 
 \_Exeunt Lear, Gloster, Kent, and Fool. 
 
 Corn. Let us withdraw, 'twill be a storm. 
 
 Reg. This house is little : the old man and 's 
 people 
 Can not be well bestow'd. 
 
 GoN. *Tis his own blame ; h'ath put himself from 
 rest. 
 And must needs taste his folly. 
 
 Reg. For his particular, I'll receive him gladly, 
 But not one follower. 
 
 GoN. So am I purpos'd. 
 
 Where is my lord of Gloster.? 
 
 Re-enter Gloster. 
 
 Glo. The king is in high rage. 
 
 Corn. Whither is he going.** 
 
2o8 THE BOY FOOL, 
 
 I 
 
 Glo. He calls to horse; but will I know not 
 whither. 
 
 Corn. 'Tis best to give him way ; he leads himself. 
 
 GoN. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay. 
 
 Glo. Alack ! the night comes on, and the bleak 
 winds 
 Do sorely ruffle ; for many miles about 
 There's scarce a bush. 
 
 Reg. O, sir! to willful men, 
 
 The injuries that they themselves procure 
 Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors : 
 
 Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord ; 'tis a wild 
 night : 
 My Regan counsels well. Come out o' the storm. 
 
 A picture of dreadful solemnity is now 
 before us ; the helpless old man cast out by 
 his children into darkness, storm, and desola- 
 tion, wanders without shelter, with bare head, 
 stripped of his last possession, and transformed 
 from a king into a beggar. 
 
 SCENE.— r>^^ Wild Heath. A Storm raging. 
 
 Enter Lear and Fool. 
 Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks I rage ! 
 blow ! 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 209 
 
 You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout, 
 Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks ! 
 You sulphurous and thought-executing fires. 
 Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts, 
 Singe my white head ! And thou, all-shaking thunder. 
 Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world ! 
 Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once, 
 That make ingrateful man ! 
 
 Fool. O nuncle, court holy-water* in a dry house 
 is better than this rain-water out o' door. Good 
 nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters' blessing : here's a 
 night that pities neither wise men nor fools. 
 
 Lear. . . . Spit fire ! spout, rain ! 
 
 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 despised old man. 
 But yet I call you servile ministers. 
 That will with two pernicious daughters join 
 Your high-engender'd battles, 'gainst a head 
 So old and white as this. O ! O ! 'tis foul ! 
 
 Fool. He that has a house to put 's head in has 
 a good head-piece. 
 
 * " Court holie water ; — compliments, faire words, flattering 
 speeches." 
 
210 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 Enter Kent. 
 
 Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; 
 I will say nothing. 
 
 Kent. Who's there? 
 
 Fool. Marry, here's grace, and a cod-piece ; 
 that's a wise man and a fool. 
 
 Kent. Alas, sir ! are you here } . 
 
 Since I was man, 
 Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder. 
 Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never 
 Remember to have heard: .... 
 
 Lear. Let the great gods. 
 
 That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, 
 Find out their enemies now. 
 
 I am a man 
 More sinn'd against than sinning. 
 
 Kent. Alack, bare-headed ! 
 
 Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel ; 
 Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest : 
 
 Lear. My wits begin to turn. — 
 Come on, my boy. How dost my boy."* Art cold.** 
 I am cold myself. — Where is this straw, my fellow.? 
 The art of our necessities is strange, 
 That can make vile things precious. Come, your 
 hovel. 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 211 
 
 Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart 
 That's sorry yet for thee. 
 
 Fool. He that has and a little tiny wit^ — {^Sifigs. 
 With heigh, ho, the wind and the raift, — 
 Must make content with his fortunes fit j 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 Lear. True, my good boy.— Come, bring us to 
 this hovel. 
 
 Thus, in the depth of his misery, and in 
 the rage of the storm, Lear turns from his 
 own sufferings to care for his Fool: 
 
 " Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart 
 That's sorry yet for thee." 
 
 And the kindness and affection are reciprocal, 
 for, in the opening scene of the storm, when 
 Kent asks a gentleman, who is with the frantic 
 King "contending with the fretful elements," 
 he is told : 
 
 "None but the fool; who labors to out-jest 
 His heart-struck injuries." 
 
 A Part of the Heath, with a Havel. 
 
 Filter Lear, Kent, and Fool. 
 
 Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good, my 
 lord, enter: 
 
m\ 
 
 212 TI/£ BOY FOOL. 
 
 The tyranny of the open night's too rough 
 For nature to endure. 
 
 Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much, that this conten- 
 tious storm 
 Invades us to the skin : so 'tis to thee ; 
 But where the greater malady is fix'd, 
 The lesser is scarce felt. 
 
 . In such a night 
 To shut me out ! — Pour on ; I will endure : — 
 In such a night as this ! O Regan, Goneril ! — 
 Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all — 
 O ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that ; 
 No more of that. .... 
 
 . But I'll go in: 
 In, boy; go first. — [To the Fool.] You houseless 
 
 poverty, — 
 Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. 
 
 In this hovel Lear meets a poor, unfortu- 
 nate noble, who has been compelled to pre- 
 tend madness in order to escape death ; and 
 the scene between the real and the pretended 
 madman, with the sad vivacity of the poor 
 Fool, and the terrors of the raging elements, 
 form a picture in which we have the very ex- 
 tremes of physical, mental, and moral disorder. 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 213 
 
 Lear is sure that, in his wretched companion, 
 "nothing could have subdued nature to such 
 lowness, but his unkind daughters," and asks 
 him : '' Couldst thou save nothing ? Didst 
 thou give them all?" The Fool is sure "this 
 cold night will turn us all to fools and mad- 
 men." 
 
 Gloster mercifully interposes ere long. He 
 says his duty can not suffer him to obey in all 
 Regan and Goneril's harsh commands. He 
 has ventured forth to seek the King and bring 
 him to where both fire and food are ready. 
 But Lear will not go to the shelter Gloster 
 has provided, unless he is accompanied by his 
 new-found fellow-sufferer, whom, in his insane 
 delusion, he regards as a " philosopher," and a 
 "good Athenian"; and Gloster and Kent are 
 compelled to accept the companionship. 
 
 Then Lear insists that this man and the 
 Fool are the high justiciaries of the kingdom, 
 before whom he will have Goneril and Regan 
 tried. This change of delusion, and rapid flow 
 of ideas, are faithful symptoms of the acute 
 mania which has seized the King's mind. At 
 every stage of it he recognizes his own mad- 
 ness ; and when the poor Fool asks — 
 
214 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 " Prithee, nuncle, tell me, whether a madman be a 
 gentleman, or a yeoman?" — 
 
 Lear answers eagerly : 
 
 "A king, a king! " 
 
 Fool. No : he's a yeoman, that has a gentleman 
 to his son ; for he's a mad yeoman, that sees his 
 son a gentleman before him. 
 
 Lear. It shall be done; I will arraign them 
 straight. — 
 Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer; — 
 
 I'll see their trial first. — Bring in the evidence. — 
 Thou robed man of justice, take thy place; — 
 
 \^To Edgar, the pretended 7}iadman. 
 And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, YTo the Fool. 
 Bench by his side. — You are o' the commission, 
 
 [To Kent. 
 Edg. Let us deal justly. 
 
 Steepest or wakest thou, Jolly shepherd? 
 
 Thy sheep be in the corn. 
 And for one blast of thy minikin mouth 
 Thy sheep shall take no harm. 
 Pur! the cat is gray. 
 
 Lear. Arraign her first ; 'tis Goneril. I here 
 take my oath before this honorable assembly, she 
 kicked the poor king her father. 
 
-^^^^^fi^^^i/^iSiM^^: 
 
 On the Heath, in the Storm. 
 
 The Boy Fool. 
 
I 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 215 
 
 Fool. Come hither, mistress. Is your name 
 
 Goneril } 
 Lear. She can not deny it. 
 
 Fool. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool. 
 Lear. 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.? 
 Edg. Bless thy five wits! 
 
 Kent. O pity ! — Sir, where is the patience now, 
 That you so oft have boasted to retain.? 
 Edg. [Aside.] My tears begin to take his part 
 so much, 
 They'll mar my counterfeiting. 
 
 Lear. The little dogs and all, 
 Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me. 
 
 Then let them anatomize Regan, see what breeds 
 about her heart. Is there any cause in nature, that 
 makes these hard hearts ? . 
 
 Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here, and rest 
 awhile. 
 
 Lear. Make no noise, make no noise : draw the 
 curtains. So, so, so ; we'll go to supper i' the morn- 
 ing: so, so, so. 
 
 Fool. And I'll go to bed at noon. 
 
2i6 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 In these, the poor boy's last words, the 
 poet indisputably intended to designate the 
 faithful creature's breaking heart. We see him 
 no more after this scene. Gloster hastily en- 
 ters, and says to Kent that he has o'erheard 
 a plot for Lear's death, and urges him to hasten 
 away. 
 
 There is a litter ready; lay him in 't, 
 
 And drive toward Dover, friend, where thou shalt 
 
 meet 
 Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master : 
 If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, 
 With thine and all that offer to defend him, 
 Stand in assured loss. .... 
 
 Kent. Oppress'd nature sleeps : — 
 
 Come, help to bear thy master ; 
 Thou must not stay behind. \_To the Fool. 
 
 [Kent, Gloster, and the Fool bear off the King. 
 
 So the dearly loved Fool strangely disap- 
 pears ; his frail existence ceases without sign or 
 comment, except his own pathetic intimation 
 of life closing before its time — '' And I'll go to 
 bed at noon." 
 
 " What can be said of this Fool ? What 
 can be thought of him? Fool he was not in 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 217 
 
 the sense of lack of wisdom or of knowledge. 
 He is as individualized and unique as any- 
 character in Shakespeare. He is Jacques with 
 a cap and bells, and a gay, affectionate tem- 
 per. He is a spiritualized and poetical Sancho 
 Panza ; and, like him, adds to the sadness of 
 the tale by the introduction of ridiculous im- 
 ages; for of Lear it may be said, as Byron 
 said of Don Quixote : 
 
 'Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad 
 Because it makes us laugh.' 
 
 *' Shakespeare's fools are in all other cases 
 mere ornaments and appendages to the tale ; 
 but the Fool in Lear is a buttress of the tale. 
 It is through him Lear first gets into trouble 
 with his faithful daughter. Lear loves him, 
 and he loves Cordelia, and his child-like affec- 
 tion for her, his devoted attachment to the 
 King, his daring contempt for the bad daugh- 
 ters, his insight into the motives of human ac- 
 tion, cynical yet tempered by love, render him 
 a most charming character. 
 
 '* In physique he is small and weak. His 
 
 suffering from exposure to the inclement night 
 
 excites Lear's tender compassion, and it does 
 10 
 
2l8 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 in effect extinguish his frail Hfe. But his pow- 
 ers of intellect are of the finest order. His 
 wayward rambling- of thought may be partly 
 natural, partly the result of his professed office, 
 an office then held in no light esteem," Shad- 
 well might well say of Shakespeare's fools, 
 that they had more wit than any of the wits 
 and critics of the time. 
 
 Of the Fool in Lear, Mr. Hudson says, our 
 estimate of the drama as a whole must de- 
 pend upon the view we take of the Fool — 
 and this is how he himself understood Lear's 
 " poor boy " : " The soul of pathos in a comic 
 masquerade ; one in whom fun and frolic are 
 sublimed and idealized into tragic beauty ; . . . 
 his wits are set a-dancing by grief, his jests 
 bubble up from a heart struggling with pity 
 and sorrow." 
 
 The story of King Lear, after the death of 
 the Fool, hurries forward to its tragic con- 
 clusion. He indeed receives succor from his 
 faithful child, Cordelia, as soon as she has 
 tidings of his pitiful condition ; and, under her 
 care and love, he in some measure recovers 
 his reason. But it is a short and flickering ! 
 gleam of hope ; the army which Cordelia has 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 219 
 
 brought with her from France to reinstate her 
 father is defeated, and Lear and Cordeha are 
 prisoners in the power of the cruel Goneril 
 and Regan. The concluding events are pain- 
 fully sad ; Cordelia is treacherously hanged in 
 prison, and Lear dies broken-hearted, lament- 
 ing over her: 
 
 Thou'lt come no more. 
 Never, never, never, never, never ! — 
 Pray you undo this button : Thank you, sir. — 
 Do you see this.? Look on her, — look, — her lips, — 
 Look there, look there ! — \He dies, 
 
 Edg. He faints! — My lord, my lord, — 
 
 Kent. Vex not his ghost : O, let him pass ! he 
 hates him 
 That would upon the rack of this tough world 
 Stretch him out longer. 
 
THE STORY OF LEAR. 
 
 TRADITIONAL SOURCE OF THE PLOT 
 OF THE PLAY. 
 
 The story of Lear belongs to the popular 
 literature of Europe. It is a pretty episode in 
 the fabulous chronicles of Britain, and whether 
 invented by the monks, or translated from some 
 foreign source, is not very material. The same 
 story is told of Theodosius, " a wise emperor in 
 the city of Rome." Shakespeare found it in his 
 favorite Holinshed ; and Holinshed abridged it 
 from the chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth. 
 The story, as told by Holinshed, is as follows: 
 
 ** Leir, the son of Baldud, was admitted ruler 
 over the Britons in the year of the world 3105. 
 At what time Joas reigned as yet in Juda. 
 This Leir was a prince of noble demeanour, 
 governing his land and subjects in great wealth. 
 He made the town of Cairleir, now Leicester, 
 which standeth upon the river of Dore. It is 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 221 
 
 writ that he had by his wife three daughters, 
 without other issue, whose names were Gono- 
 rilla, Regan, and Cordilla, which daughters he 
 greatly loved, but especially the youngest, Cor- 
 dilla, far above the two elder. 
 
 *' When this Leir was come to great years, 
 and began to wear unwieldy through age, he 
 thought to understand the affections of his 
 daughters towards him, and prefer her whom 
 he best loved, to the succession of the king- 
 dom. Therefore, he first asked Gonorilla the 
 eldest, ' how well she loved him ' ? the which, 
 calling her gods to record, protested, that she 
 loved him more than her own life, which by 
 right and reason should be most dear unto 
 her. With which answer, the father being well 
 pleased, turned to the second, and demanded 
 of her, ^ how well she loved him ' ? Which an- 
 swered — confirming her sayings with great 
 oaths — that she loved him more than tongue 
 could express, and far above all other creat- 
 ures in the world. 
 
 *' Then called he his youngest daughter, 
 Cordilla, before him, and asked of her, ' what 
 account she made of him ' ? Unto whom she 
 made this answer, as foUoweth : — Knowing the 
 
222 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 great love and fatherly kindness you have al- 
 ways borne towards me (for the which, that I 
 may not answer you otherwise than I think, 
 and as my conscience leadeth me), I protest 
 to you, that I have always loved you, and 
 shall continually while I live, love you as my 
 natural father; and if you would more under- 
 stand of the love that I bear you, ascertain 
 yourself, that so much as you have, so much 
 you are worth, and so much I love you, and 
 no more. 
 
 " The father, being nothing content with 
 this answer, married the two eldest daughters, 
 the one unto the Duke of Cornwall, named 
 Henninus, and the other unto the Duke of 
 Albania, called Maglanus ; and betwixt them, 
 after his death, he willed and ordained his 
 land should be divided, and the one half there- 
 of should be immediately assigned unto them 
 in hand; but for the third daughter, Cordilla, 
 he reserved nothing. 
 
 "Yet, it fortuned that one of the princes of 
 Gallia — which now is called France — whose 
 name was Aganippus, hearing of the beauty, 
 womanhood, and good condition of the said 
 Cordilla, desired to have her in marriage, and 
 
THE BOY FOOL, 223 
 
 sent over to her father, requiring that he 
 might have her to wife ; to whom answer was 
 made, that he might have his daughter, but 
 for any dowry he could have none, for all was 
 promised and assured to her other sisters al- 
 ready. 
 
 " Aganippus, notwithstanding this answer of 
 denial to receive anything by way of dower 
 with Cordilla, took her to wife, only moved 
 thereto (I say) for respect of her person and 
 amiable virtues. This Aganippus was one of 
 the twelve kings that ruled Gallia in those 
 days, as in the British history it is recorded. 
 But to proceed : after Leir was fallen into 
 age, the two dukes that had married his two 
 eldest daughters, thinking it long ere the gov- 
 ernment of the land did come to their hands, 
 arose against him in armour, and reft from 
 him the governance of the land, upon condi- 
 tions to be continued for term of life: by the 
 which he was put to his portion ; that is, to 
 live after a rate assigned to him for the main- 
 tenance of his estate, which in process of time 
 was diminished, as well by Maglanus as by 
 Henninus. 
 
 '' But the greatest grief that Leir took, was 
 
224 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 to see the unkindness of his daughters, who 
 seemed to think, that all was too much which 
 their father had, the same being never so httle, 
 in so much that, going from the one to the 
 other, he was brought to that misery, that 
 they would allow him only one servant to wait 
 upon him. In the end, such was the unkind- 
 ness, or, as I may say, the unnaturalness, which 
 he found in his two daughters, notwithstand- 
 ing their fair and pleasant words uttered in 
 time past, that, being constrained of necessity, 
 he fled the land, and sailed into Gallia, there 
 to seek some comfort of his youngest daugh- 
 ter, Cordilla, whom before he hated. 
 
 " The Lady Cordilla, hearing he was arrived 
 in poor estate, she first sent to him privately 
 a sum of money to apparel himself withall, 
 and to retain a certain number of servants, 
 that might attend upon him in honourable 
 wise, as appertayned to the estate which he 
 had borne. And then, so accompayned, she 
 appointed him to come to the court, which he 
 did, and was so joyfully, honourably, and lov- 
 ingly received, both by his son-in-law, Aganip- 
 pus, and also by his daughter, Cordilla, that 
 his heart was greatly comforted : for he was 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 225 
 
 no less honoured than if he had been king of 
 the whole country himself. Also, after that he 
 had informed his son-in-law, Aganippus, and 
 his daughter in what sort he had been used 
 by his other daughters, Aganippus caused a 
 mighty army to be put in readiness, and like- 
 wise a great navy of ships to be rigged to 
 pass over into Britain, with Leir, his father-in- 
 law, to see him again restored to his king- 
 dom. 
 
 " It was accorded that Cordilla should also 
 go with him to take possession of the land, 
 the which he promised to leave unto her, as 
 his rightful inheritor after his decease, notwith- 
 standing any former grants made unto her sis- 
 ters, or unto their husbands, in any manner of 
 wise ; hereupon, when this army and navy of 
 ships were ready, Leir and his daughter Cor* 
 dilla, with her husband, took the sea, and ar- 
 riving in Britain, fought with their enemies, 
 and discomfited them in battle, in the which 
 Maglanus and Henninus were slain, and then 
 was Leir restored to his kingdom, which he 
 ruled after this by the space of two years, and 
 then died, forty years after he first began to 
 reign. His body was buried at Leicester, in a 
 
226 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 vault under the channel of the river Dore, be- 
 neath the town." 
 
 The subsequent fate of Cordelia is also re- 
 lated by Holinshed. She became queen after 
 her father's death ; but her nephews " levied 
 war against her, and destroyed a great part 
 of the land, and finally took her prisoner, and 
 laid her fast in ward, wherewith she took such 
 grief, being a woman of a manly courage, and 
 despairing to recover liberty, there she slew 
 herself." 
 
 Spenser, in the second book of " The Faery 
 Queen," canto x, has also told the story of 
 Leir and his daughters, in six stanzas, in which 
 he has only put in verse the narrative of ' the 
 chronicle. The concluding stanza will be a 
 sufficient specimen: 
 
 " So to his crown she him restor'd again, 
 In which he dy'd, made ripe for death by eld. 
 And after will'd it should to her remain; 
 Who peaceably the same long time did weld, 
 And all men's hearts in due obedience held; 
 Till that her sister's children, woxen strong, 
 Through proud ambition against her rebell'd. 
 And overcome, kept in prison long. 
 Till weary of that wretched life, herself she hong." 
 
THE BOY FOOL, 227 
 
 In ballad literature the story has been very 
 beautifully preserved in " Percy's Reliques." 
 Here is found an allusion to Lear's madness, 
 and also to the extravagant cruelty of his 
 daughters. But whether Shakespeare used the 
 ballad for his plot, or the ballad was written 
 after Shakespeare's play, there is nothing to 
 assist us in ascertaining, for the date of the 
 ballad is unknown ; Percy took it from an an- 
 cient copy black-letter, entitled "A Lament- 
 able Song of the Death of King Leir and his 
 Three Daughters " : 
 
 " King Leir once ruled in this land 
 
 With princely power and peace; 
 And had all things with heart's content, 
 
 That might his joys increase. 
 Amongst those things that nature gave, 
 
 Three daughters fair had he. 
 So princely seeming, beautiful. 
 
 As fairer could not be. 
 
 "So on a time it pleased the king 
 A question thus to move, 
 Which of his daughters to his grace 
 Could show the dearest love : 
 
228 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 For to my age you bring content, 
 Quoth he, then let me hear, 
 
 Which of you three in plighted troth 
 The kindest will appear. 
 
 " To whom the eldest thus began : 
 
 Dear father, mind, quoth she, 
 Before your face, to do you good, 
 
 My blood shall render'd be ; 
 And for your sake my bleeding heart 
 
 Shall here be cut in twain. 
 Ere that I see your reverend age 
 
 The smallest grief sustain. 
 
 "And so will I, the second said; 
 
 Dear father, for your sake, 
 The worst of all extremities 
 
 I'll gently undertake : 
 And serve your highness night and day, 
 
 With diligence and love; 
 That sweet content and quietness 
 
 Discomforts may remove. 
 
 "In doing so, you glad my soul, 
 The aged king replied; 
 But what say'st thou, my youngest girl? 
 How is thy love ally'd? 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 My love (quoth young Cordelia then) 
 Which to your grace I owe, 
 
 Shall be the duty of a child, 
 And that is all I'll show. 
 
 "And wilt thou show no more, quoth he, 
 
 Than doth thy duty bind? 
 I well perceive thy love is small. 
 
 When as no more I find. 
 Henceforth I banish thee my court, 
 
 Thou art no child of mine; 
 Nor any part of this my realm 
 
 By favour shall be thine. 
 
 "Thy elder sisters' loves are more 
 
 Than well I can demand. 
 To whom I equally bestow 
 
 My kingdom and my hand. 
 My pompal state and all my goods. 
 
 That lovingly I may 
 With those thy sisters be maintain'd 
 
 Until my dying day. 
 
 "Thus flattering speeches won renown. 
 By these two sisters here ; 
 The third had causeless banishment, 
 Yet was her love more dear : 
 
 229 
 
230 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 For poor Cordelia patiently 
 Went wandering up and down, 
 
 Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, 
 Through many an English town. 
 
 "Until at last in famous France 
 
 She gentler fortunes found; 
 Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd 
 
 The fairest on the ground : 
 Where when the king her virtues heard, 
 
 And this fair lady seen, 
 With full consent of all his court, 
 
 He made his wife and queen. 
 
 " Her father, King Leir, this while 
 
 With his two daughters staid ; 
 Forgetful of their promis'd loves, 
 
 Full soon the same decay'd ; 
 And living in Queen Ragan's court, 
 
 The eldest of the twain. 
 She took from him his chiefest means, 
 
 And most of all his train. 
 
 " For, whereas, twenty men were wont 
 To wait with bended knee, 
 She gave allowance but to ten, 
 And after scarce to three; 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 231 
 
 Nay, one she thought too much for him ; 
 
 So took she all away, 
 In hope that in her court, good king, 
 
 He would no longer stay. 
 
 "Am I rewarded thus, quoth he, 
 
 In giving all I have 
 Unto my children, and to beg 
 
 For what I lately^ gave? 
 I'll go unto my Gonorell: 
 
 My second child, I know, 
 Will be more kind and pitiful, 
 
 And will relieve my woe. 
 
 " Full fast he hies then to her court ; 
 
 Where, when she heard his moan, 
 Return'd him answer, that she griev'd 
 
 That all his means were gone: 
 But no way could relieve his wants ; 
 
 Yet, if that he would stay 
 Within her kitchen, he should have 
 
 What scullions gave away. 
 
 "When he had heard, with bitter tears, 
 He made his answer then : 
 In what I did, let me be made 
 Example to all men. 
 
232 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 I will return again, quoth he, 
 
 Unto my Ragan's court; 
 She will not use me thus, I hope, 
 
 But in a kinder sort. 
 
 "Where, when he came, she gave command 
 
 To drive him thence away: 
 When he was well within her court 
 
 (She said) he would not stay. 
 Then back again to Gonorell, 
 
 The woeful king did hie, 
 That in her kitchen he might have 
 
 What scullion boys set by. 
 
 "But there of that he was deny'd. 
 
 Which she had promis'd late; 
 For once refusing, he should not 
 
 Come after to her gate. 
 Thus, 'twixt his daughters for relief 
 
 He wander'd up and down ; 
 Being glad to feed on beggar's food. 
 
 That lately wore a crown. 
 
 "And calling to remembrance then 
 His youngest daughter's words, 
 That said the duty of a child 
 Was all that love affords ; 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 2^3 
 
 But, doubting to repair to her, 
 
 Whom he had banish'd so, 
 Grew frantic mad ; for in his mind 
 
 He bore the wounds of woe : 
 
 "Which made him rend his milk-white locks 
 And tresses from his head. 
 And all with blood bestain his cheeks, 
 With age and honour spread. 
 • •••..« 
 
 "Even thus possest with discontents 
 
 He passed o're to France, 
 In hopes, from fair Cordelia, there 
 
 To find some gentler chance; 
 Most virtuous dame! which, when she heard 
 
 Of this, her father's grief. 
 As duty bound, she quickly sent 
 
 Him comfort and relief: 
 
 "And by a train of noble peers, 
 
 In brave and gallant sort. 
 She gave in charge he should be brought 
 
 To Aganippus' court ; 
 Whose royal king, with noble mind, 
 
 So freely gave consent. 
 To muster up his knights at arms, 
 
 To fame and courage bent. 
 
234 
 
 THE BOY FOOL. 
 
 "And so to England came with speed, 
 
 To repossesse King Leir, 
 And drive his daughters from their thrones. 
 
 By his Cordelia dear: 
 Where she, true-hearted, noble queen, 
 
 Was in the battel slain ; 
 Yet he, good king, in his old days, 
 
 Possest his crown again. 
 
 "But, when he heard Cordelia's death, 
 
 Who died indeed for love 
 Of her dear father, in whose cause 
 
 She did this battle move ; 
 He swooning fell upon her breast, 
 
 From whence he never parted : 
 But on her bosom left his life. 
 
 That was so truly hearted. 
 
 "The lords and nobles when they saw 
 
 The end of these events, 
 The other sisters unto death 
 
 They doomed by consents; 
 And being dead, their crowns they left 
 
 Unto the next of kin: 
 Thus have you seen the fall of pride 
 
 And disobedient sin." 
 
THE BOY FOOL. 235 
 
 It will be seen that Shakespeare has depart- 
 ed from all these authorities in making Lear die, 
 instead of restoring him to his crown and his 
 kingdom. Shakespeare knew better. He, at 
 least, felt that the living martyrdom which Lear 
 had gone through, made a fair dismissal from 
 the stage of life the only decorous thing for him. 
 "As if," says Charles Lamb, "the childish pleas- 
 ure of getting his gilt robes and scepter again 
 could tempt him to act over again his misused 
 station- — as if, at his years, and with his expe- 
 rience, anything was left but to die." 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA, 
 CHILDREN OF LEONTES, KING OF SICILY. 
 
PERSONS OF THE PLAY. 
 
 Leontes. — King of Sicilia. 
 
 Mamillius. — His Son. 
 
 Camillo. \ 
 
 . y b>iciLian Lords. 
 
 Antigonus. ) 
 
 PoLiXENES. — King of Bohemia. 
 
 Florizel. — His Son. 
 
 An Old Shepherd. — Reputed Father of Perdita. 
 
 His Son. 
 
 Hermione. — Queen to Leontes. 
 
 Perdita. — Daughter to Leontes and Hermione. 
 
 Pauline. — Wife to Antigonus. 
 
 ^ * (. Two Shepherdesses. 
 Dorcas. J ^ 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA, 
 
 CHILDREN OF LEONTES, KING OF SICILIA. 
 
 "A Winter's Tale" furnishes us with two 
 most exquisite pictures of youthful life, that of 
 the boy Mamillius, and the maiden Perdita. 
 The scene of this play is laid in Sicilia, and 
 opens with a charming picture of the friend- 
 ship existing between Leontes, King of Sicily, 
 and Polixenes, King of Bohemia. Camillo, a 
 Sicilian lord, says: 
 
 They were trained together in their childhoods ; 
 and there rooted betwixt them then such an affec- 
 tion which can not choose but branch now. 
 
 Archidamus, a Bohemian lord, then says, he 
 thinks — 
 
 there is not in the world either malice or matter to 
 alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your 
 
240 
 
 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 young prince Mamillius ; it is a gentleman of the 
 greatest promise that ever came into my note. 
 
 Cam. I very well agree with you in the hopes of 
 him : It is a gallant child ; one that, indeed, physics 
 the subject, makes old hearts fresh; they that went 
 on crutches ere he was born, desire yet their life to 
 see him a man. 
 
 But this friendship between the two kings, 
 that *' nothing in the world was to alter," re- 
 ceived a shock as sudden as it was unjust. 
 Polixenes came to visit Leontes at the Sicilian 
 court, and, after a long stay, when .preparing 
 to return to his own kingdom, was pressed to 
 remain by Leontes. He refused Leontes posi- 
 tively; but Hermione, the lovely and virtuous 
 queen of Leontes, by her open, innocent hearti- 
 ness, induced him to remain. — " Come," she said, 
 
 come, I'll question you 
 Of my lord's tricks, and yours, when you were boys; 
 You were pretty lordlings then. 
 
 PoLix. We were, fair queen. 
 
 Two lads that thought there was no more behind 
 But such a day to-morrow as to-day. 
 And to be boy eternal. 
 
 Her. Was not my lord the verier wag o' the two.-* 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 241 
 
 PoLix. We were as twinn'd lambs, that did frisk 
 i' the sun, 
 And bleat the one at the other : What we chang'd 
 Was innocence for innocence; we knew not 
 The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dreamed 
 That any did : Had we pursued that life, 
 And our weak spirits ne'er been higher rear'd 
 With stronger blood, we should have answer'd heaven 
 Boldly, " Not guilty " ; the imposition clear'd, 
 Hereditary ours. 
 
 That Polixenes should remain at the re- 
 quest of Hermione, after refusing his own en- 
 treaties, was actually all the cause Leontes had 
 for suspecting his queen of preferring his 
 friend to himself. But this suspicion once 
 harbored, grew, as all evil thoughts do grow, 
 with unreasonable rapidity and strength ; and 
 the true friend and loving husband was rap- 
 idly transformed by them into a cruel and un- 
 just monster. 
 
 His first step was to send for Camillo, and 
 after reciting to him his supposed wrongs and 
 his doubts, he bade him '' bespice a cup, to give 
 his enemy a lasting wink"; and Camillo, find- 
 ing all reasoning with the mad jealousy of 
 
 Leontes vain, agrees to poison Polixenes — his 
 II 
 
242 
 
 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 office of cup-bearer giving him a ready oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 But this promise was but a ruse to gain 
 time. Camillo had no intention of becoming a 
 partner in Leontes's insane revenge ; he warned 
 Pohxenes of his danger, and fled with him to 
 Bohemia. The flight was, to the jealous King, 
 certain confirmation of all his suspicions, and 
 he determined at once to imprison Hermione. 
 The Queen was in her own apartment, sur- 
 rounded by her ladies and the little prince, 
 Mamillius ; and, in the simple scene which fol- 
 lows, Shakespeare "seems to have got at the 
 very heart of childhood-nature — as he did of 
 all other nature." One of the ladies says: 
 
 Come, my gracious lord. 
 Shall I be your playfellow ? 
 
 Mam. No, I'll none of you. 
 
 1 Lady. Why, my sweet lord ? 
 
 Mam. You'll kiss me hard, and speak to me as if 
 I were a baby still. — I love you better. 
 
 2 Lady. And why so, my lord? 
 
 Mam. Not for because 
 
 Your brows are blacker; yet, black brows, they 
 
 say, 
 Become some women best, so that there be not 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 243 
 
 Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, 
 Or a half-moon made with a pen. 
 
 2 Lady. Who taught this .? 
 
 Mam. I learn'd it out of women's faces. — Pray, now, 
 What color are your eyebrows .'' 
 
 I Lady. Blue, my lord. 
 
 Mam. Nay, that's a mock: I have seen a lady's 
 nose 
 That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. 
 
 Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you.? Come, 
 sir ; now 
 I am for you again : pray you, sit by us, 
 And tell's a tale. 
 
 Mam. Merry or sad, shall't be } 
 
 Her. As merry as you will. 
 
 Mam. a sad tale's best for winter. 
 
 I have one of sprites and goblins. 
 
 Her. Let's have that, good sir. 
 
 Come on ; sit down : — come on, and do your best 
 To fright me with your sprites : you're powerful at it. 
 
 Mam. There was a man, — 
 
 Her. Nay, come, sit down ; then on. 
 
 Mam. Dwelt by a church-yard. — I will tell it softly; 
 Yond' crickets shall not hear it. 
 
 Her. Come on, then, 
 
 And give't me in my ear. 
 
244 
 
 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 But the child leaves for ever his little tale 
 unfinished. It is interrupted by the rude and 
 ang-ry entrance of Leontes, who takes him 
 from his mother, and sends the innocent Queen 
 to prison. The precocious and tender boy 
 can not understand nor endure this grief : 
 
 He straight declin'd, droop'd, took it deeply, 
 Fasten 'd and fix'd the shame on't in himself, 
 Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, 
 And downright languish'd. 
 
 But neither the sorrow of the young prince, 
 nor the birth of a princess in the prison, soft- 
 ens the jealous King's heart. Paulina, the wife 
 of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord, and one of the 
 Queen's ladies, ventures to bring the pretty 
 babe, and lay it at the feet of Leontes. At 
 first, in his blind rage, he proposes to burn 
 the unoffending infant ; but afterward he or- 
 ders Antigonus to carry it 
 
 To some remote and desert place quite out 
 Of our dominions ; and . . . leave it 
 Without more mercy, to its own protection. 
 And favor of the climate. 
 
 The Queen's trial follows this outrage ; 
 messengers sent to the oracle of Apollo have 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 245 
 
 returned with a sealed answer regarding the 
 Queen, which is to be read in the open court. 
 This " sealed-up oracle" declares that '' Her- 
 mione is chaste, Polixenes blameless, Camillo 
 a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, his 
 innocent babe truly begotten ; and the King 
 shall live without an heir, if that which is lost 
 be not found." 
 
 But jealousy is so outrageous and unrea- 
 sonable a passion, that not even a voice from 
 the gods can satisfy Leontes. He says : 
 
 There is no truth at all i' the oracle. 
 The sessions shall proceed : this is mere falsehood. 
 
 But even as he speaks, a servant enters hastily, 
 crying out : 
 
 Serv. My lord the king, the king ! 
 
 Leon. What is the business.? 
 
 Serv. O, sir, I shall be hated to report it : 
 The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear 
 Of the queen's speed, is gone. 
 
 Leon. How ! gone ? 
 
 Serv. Is dead. 
 
 Leon. Apollo's angry, and the heavens themselves 
 Do strike at my injustice. [Hermione faints^ How 
 now there } 
 
246 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 Paul. This news is mortal to the queen: — Look 
 down, 
 And see what death is doing? 
 
 Leon. Take her hence : 
 
 Her heart is but o'ercharged ; she will recover. — 
 I have too much believ'd mine own suspicion : 
 'Beseech you tenderly apply to her 
 Some remedies for life. — Apollo, pardon 
 My great profaneness 'gainst thy oracle ! — 
 I'll reconcile me to Polixenes, 
 New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo, 
 Whom I proclaim a man of truth. . . .• 
 
 But the grief and repentance of Leontes 
 are too late. Paulina shortly informs him that 
 Hermione is dead ; Mamillius also is dead, 
 Camillo is an exile, the friendship of Polixenes 
 lost, and the little daughter, whom now he 
 would thankfully and lovingly embrace, sent 
 away by Antigonus — as Paulina passionately 
 tells him — ''to be cast forth to crows." 
 
 The ship in which Antigonus carried away 
 the infant princess was driven upon the coast 
 of Bohemia; and here Antigonus prepares to 
 abandon the child : 
 
 Ant. Come, poor babe :— 
 
 I have heard (but not believ'd), the spirits o' the dead 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 247 
 
 May walk again : if such thing be, thy mother 
 Appear'd to me last night, for ne'er was dream 
 So like a waking. To me comes a creature, 
 
 in pure white robes, 
 Like very sanctity, she did approach 
 My cabin where I lay, thrice bow'd before me, 
 And, gasping to begin some speech .... 
 Did this break from her : " Good Antigonus, 
 Since fate, against thy better disposition. 
 Hath made thy person for. the thrower-out 
 Of my poor babe, according to thine oath. 
 Places remote enough are in Bohemia, 
 There weep, and leave it crying ; and, for the babe 
 Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, 
 I prithee, call 't." .... 
 
 Blossom, speed thee well ! 
 \^Laying down the babe. 
 There lie ; and there thy character : * there these ; 
 
 \Laying down a bundle. 
 Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee pretty, 
 And still rest thine. 
 
 Antigonus never returns to Sicily ; he is 
 slain by a bear after leaving Perdita, and the 
 
 * " This description, with the name ' Perdita,' as prescribed 
 in the dream of Antigonus." 
 
248 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 child is speedily found by an old shepherd 
 and his son. 
 
 Shep. Here's a sight for thee : look thee, a 
 bearing-cloth for a squire's child ! Look thee here : 
 take up, take up, boy : open 't. So, let's see. It 
 was told me, I should be rich by the fairies : this 
 is some changeling. — Open 't : what's within, boy? 
 
 Son. You're a made old man : if the sins of 
 your youth are forgiven you, you're well to live. 
 Gold ! all gold ! 
 
 Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove 
 so : up with it, keep it close ; home, home, the next 
 way. We are lucky, boy; and to be so still requires 
 nothing but secrecy. — Let my sheep go : — Come, good 
 boy, the next way home. 
 
 These events close the third act of the play ; 
 and a period of sixteen years is supposed to 
 have intervened when the next scene begins. 
 It opens at the court of Polixenes in Bohemia, 
 where Camillo and Polixenes are conversing of 
 Leontes (now reconciled to Polixenes) and of 
 the " loss of his most precious queen and chil- 
 dren." Then Polixenes speaks of his own son, 
 the princely Florizel, and of his late frequent 
 absences from court, and his duties and exer- 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 249 
 
 cises ; adding, that he has intelligence that 
 Florizel '^ is seldom from the house of a most 
 homely shepherd ; a man, they say, that from 
 very nothing, and beyond the imagination of 
 his neighbors, is grown into an unspeakable 
 estate." 
 
 Cam. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath 
 a daughter of most rare note : . . . 
 
 Pol. That's likewise part of my intelligence, 
 but I fear the angle that plucks our son thither. 
 Thou shalt accompany us to the place, where we 
 will, not appearing what we are, have some ques- 
 tion with the shepherd ; from whose simplicity I 
 think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son's 
 resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in 
 this business. . . . 
 
 Cam. I willingly obey your command. 
 
 Pol. My best Camillo ! — We must disguise our- 
 selves. 
 
 In pursuance of this scheme, Polixenes and 
 Camillo go to a sheep-shearing festival at the 
 old shepherd's, over which Perdita presides. 
 There is nothing, in any poet, more fresh and 
 youthful, more pastoral and princely, than this 
 exquisitely grouped scene. *' It is Hke a Gre- 
 cian bass-reUef ; and Perdita's speeches to her 
 
250 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 guests are finer than anything of the kind 
 either in the old or the new world of poetry." 
 The deserted babe has grown up an innocent 
 maiden — 
 
 Pure as the fann'd snow, 
 That's bolted by the northern blast twice o'er — 
 
 The unsophisticated child of nature, she can 
 not endure false colors in men, nor even in 
 flowers. She loves not ''piedness" in flowers. 
 All she does '' smacks of something greater " ; 
 when she has put herself in gay attire as 
 Flora, the royal blood within her stirs, and she 
 feels '^ her robe does change her disposition," 
 and that she speaks more loftily. 
 
 E7iter Shepherd, with Polixenes and Camillo dis- 
 guised ; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others. 
 
 Prince Florizel, also disguised in a rustic 
 habit, is with Perdita, and he says: 
 
 Flo. See, your guests approach : 
 
 Address yourself to entertain them sprightly. 
 And let's be red with mirth. 
 
 Shep. Fie, daughter ! when my old wife liv'd, upon 
 This day she was both pantler, butler, cook ; 
 Both dame and servant : welcom'd all, serv'd all ; 
 
Maroillius and Perdita. 
 
 Perdita and Polixenes^ 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 251 
 
 Would sing her song, and dance her turn ; now here, 
 At upper end o' table, now, i' the middle . 
 
 Come, quench your blushes ; and present yourself 
 That which you are, mistress o' the feast : come 
 
 on, 
 And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing. 
 As your good flock shall prosper. 
 
 Per. [7b Polix.] Sir, welcome! 
 
 It is my father's will I should take on me 
 The hostess-ship o' the day. — \_To Cam.] You're 
 
 welcome, sir ! 
 Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. — Reverend sirs, 
 For you there's rosemary, and rue ; these keep 
 Seeming, and savor, all the winter long : 
 Grace, and remembrance, be to you both, 
 And welcome to our shearing ! 
 
 Pol. Shepherdess 
 
 (A fair one are you), well you fit our ages 
 With flowers of winter. 
 
 Per. Here's flowers for you; 
 
 Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ; 
 The marigold that goes to bed wi' the sun. 
 And with him rises weeping: these are flowers 
 Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given 
 To men of middle age. You are very welcome. 
 
Tl 
 
 252 
 
 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, 
 And only live by gazing. 
 
 Per. Out, alas ! 
 
 You'd be so lean, that blasts of January 
 Would blow you through and through. — Now, my 
 fairest friend, \^To Florizel. 
 
 I would, I had some flowers o* the spring, that might 
 Become your time of day ! . . . .0 Proserpina ! 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall 
 From Dis's wagon ! daffodils. 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes. 
 Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses. 
 That die unmarried ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength; . 
 
 bold oxlips, and 
 The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds. 
 The flower-de-luce being one. Oh ! these I lack, 
 To make you garlands of, and, my sweet friend, 
 To strew him o'er and o'er. 
 
 Come, take your flowers, 
 Methinks, I play as I have seen them do 
 In Whitsun' pastorals. .... 
 
 Flo. What you do 
 
 Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
 I'd have you do it ever : when you sing. 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 253 
 
 I'd have you buy and sell so ; so give alms ; 
 
 Pray so ; and, for the ordering your affairs, 
 
 To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you 
 
 A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 
 Nothing but that; move still, still so, 
 
 And own no other function. 
 
 . But come; our dance, I pray. 
 Your hand, my Perdita. .... 
 
 Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 Ran on the green-sward : nothing she does, or seems. 
 But smacks of something greater than herself; 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 Cam. He tells her something, 
 
 That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is 
 The queen of curds and cream. . 
 
 A Dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses. 
 
 Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this 
 Which dances with your daughter.? 
 
 Shep. They call him Doricles, and boasts himself 
 To have a worthy feeding; but I have it 
 Upon his own report, and I believe it : 
 He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daugh- 
 ter ; 
 I think so too ; for never gaz'd the moon 
 Upon the water, as he'll stand, and read, 
 
254 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 As 't were my daughter's eyes; and, to be plain, 
 I think there is not half a kiss to choose 
 Who loves another best. 
 
 Pol. She dances featly. 
 
 Shep. So she does anything, though I report it, 
 That should be silent. 
 
 This delicious scene is interrupted by Polix- 
 enes discovering himself. His anger is ex- 
 treme ; he fiercely threatens the shepherd and 
 Perdita, and tells Florizel, if ever again he vis- 
 its in their cottage, he will bar him from suc- 
 cession to the throne, and count him no longer 
 of his kin. Then, with a peremptory order to 
 Florizel to return to court with Camillo, he 
 leaves the feast. 
 
 Perdita preserves throughout the stormy 
 scene a noble self-respect, and forbearing si- 
 lence ; she says she was— 
 
 not much affeard ; for once, or twice, 
 I was about to speak, and tell him plainly, 
 The self-same sun that shines upon his court, 
 Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
 Looks on alike. ..... 
 
 . I'll queen it no inch farther, 
 But milk my ewes, and weep. 
 
MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 255 
 
 But Florizel will not resign Perdita, and 
 the good Camillo, fearful of consequences, 
 sends Perdita, Florizel, and the shepherd to 
 Sicily, with messages of friendship to Leontes. 
 But they were so closely followed by Polix- 
 enes, that even in their first interview — and 
 while Leontes was strangely moved by the re- 
 semblance of Perdita to his lost queen. Her. 
 mione — Polixenes and Camillo arrive at the 
 court of Leontes. However, the old shepherd 
 had heard enough to arouse his suspicions ; 
 when he knew Leontes had lost a daughter, 
 who was exposed in infancy, he fell to com- 
 paring the time, and to showing the mantle 
 and jewels, and other tokens, which proved 
 that Perdita was indeed the daughter of Le- 
 ontes, and heiress of the Sicilian crown. 
 Before the Palace. 
 
 I Gent. I was by at the opening of the fardel ; 
 heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he 
 found it : whereupon, after a little amazedness, we 
 were all commanded out of the chamber ; only 
 this, methought I heard the shepherd say, he. found 
 the child. 
 
 A Peddler Peasant. I would most gladly know 
 the issue of it. 
 
256 MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 1 Gent. I make a broken delivery of the busi- 
 ness; but the changes I perceived in the king and 
 Camillo were very notes of admiration : they seemed 
 almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases 
 of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, 
 language in their very gesture ; they looked, as they 
 had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Enter another Gentleman. 
 
 Here comes a gentleman, that, happily, knows more. 
 — The news, Rogero.*^ 
 
 2 Gent. Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is ful- 
 filled ; the king's daughter is found : such a deal of 
 wonder is broken out within this hour, that ballad- 
 makers can not be able to express it. 
 
 JEtiter a Third Gentleman. 
 
 Here comes the lady Paulina's steward ; he can de- 
 liver you more Has the king found his 
 
 heir ? 
 
 3 Gent. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant 
 by circumstance : . . . . The mantle of Queen 
 Hermione : — her jewel about the neck of it : — the 
 letters of Antigonus, found with it, which they knew 
 to be his character ; the majesty of the creature, in 
 resemblance of the mother; — the affection of noble- 
 ness, which nature shows above her breeding, and 
 
'MAMILLIUS AND PERDITA. 
 
 257 
 
 many other evidences, proclaim her, with all cer 
 tainty, to be the king's daughter. 
 
 The last surprise of the drama is reserved 
 for the final act. Paulina discovers to the re- 
 pentant King Leontes that Hermione is not 
 dead. Out of pious resignation to the oracle, 
 she had kept apart from her husband until the 
 lost child was found again ; but now they are 
 blissfully reunited, and Perdita, kneeling to her 
 long-lost mother, hears her say : 
 
 Her. You gods, look down, 
 
 And from your sacred vials pour your graces 
 Upon my daughter's head ! — Tell me, mine own. 
 Where hast thou been preserv'd ? where liv'd ? how 
 
 found 
 Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear, that I, 
 Knowing by Paulina that the oracle 
 Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv'd 
 Myself, to see the issue. 
 
ORIGIN OF "A WINTER'S TALE." 
 
 Shakespeare took the plot of this drama 
 from a tale published by Robert Greene, in 
 A. D. 1588, called "Pandosto; The Triumph of 
 Time," better known as the " History of Do- 
 rastus and Fawnia"; a work of extraordinary 
 popularity, fourteen editions being known to 
 exist. The action of the tale and the play is al- 
 most identical ; only, Shakespeare preserves his 
 injured queen, to be reunited to her daughter 
 after years of solitude and suffering. Greene 
 also makes the queen's young son die of grief 
 during her trial, but Greene only mentions his 
 existence and death. The dramatic exhibition 
 of Mamillius, and the tenderness of the child, 
 belong entirely to Shakespeare. It is one of 
 the most charming and pitiful of Shakespeare's 
 child-pictures, and it requires all the subse- 
 quent charm of Perdita to put the poor boy 
 out of our thoughts. 
 
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