Class ' ' 'iJJLgall 
 
 . ^kl-W s 
 
 13 
 
 Book 
 
 \ 'S S 5 
 Gipgli^J 
 
 COPyRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
^^■,v 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 ^^ 
 
 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 
 
 AND 
 
 THE TEMPEST 
 
 PREPARED FOR 
 
 INDIANA TEACHERS' READING CIRCLE 
 
 EMMA MONT. McRAE 
 
 WITH 
 
 Introduction and Explanatory Notes 
 
 BY 
 
 REV. HENRY N. HUDSON, LL.D. 
 
 Au % 1895 
 
 Boston, U.S.A., and London. - '\^U'^ a 
 
 GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS / c^ 
 
 1895 
 
 N 
 

 Copyright, 1895 
 By GINN & COMPANY 
 
 ALL RFGHTS RESERVED 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In the preparation of this book a definite purpose has 
 been kept in view. The editor has endeavored to give 
 an introduction to the study of the greatest English poet. 
 No attempt has been made to make a contribution to the 
 great body of critical Shakespearian knowledge or to 
 direct a study of the poet on the technical side. It is 
 suggested that a study of Shakespeare's style will well 
 repay the most untiring effort. In fact it is not possible 
 to get the full import of what the dramas reveal without 
 seeing the beauty of the form in which they are ex- 
 pressed. Form and substance are so closely allied that 
 the true artist must reveal truth in beauty. The truth 
 side — the side which by its teaching leads to right living 
 — when it finds a lodgment in the heart, pervades the 
 whole being as the beauty of holiness. Such a dissection 
 of the form as shall endanger the possession of both 
 truth and beauty is certainly to be avoided. The student 
 should be led, above all, to study the poet's real work, 
 and the spirit in which it is done ; then he will under- 
 stand Sidney Lanier's fine words about the highest art : 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 " He who has not come to that stage of quiet and eternal 
 frenzy in which the beauty of holiness and the hoUness 
 of beauty mean one thing, burn as one fire, shine as one 
 light within him, he is not yet the great artist." 
 
 If this book shall lead its readers to pursue the study 
 of Shakespeare with a reverent desire to make the greatest 
 writings of secular literature a real means of culture, then 
 its purpose will have been happily served. 
 
 EMMA MONT. McRAE. 
 
 Purdue University, 1895. 
 
 Note. — The "Sketch of Shakespeare's Life" (pp. i to 31), 
 " Principles of Art " (pp. 419 to 437), and " Moral Spirit " (pp. 438 to 
 455), are reprinted by permission from " Shakespeare : His Life, Art 
 and Characters," by Henry N. Hudson; and the "Introduction to 
 the Play" (pp. 79 to 116 and pp. 273 to 312), as well as the text and 
 notes of the two plays, are reprinted from Hudson's School Edition 
 of -Shakespeare's Plays. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PACE 
 
 Sketch of Shakespeare's Life i 
 
 Shakespeare's Home and Heritage 31 
 
 History of the Drama down to Shakespeare's Time . 34 
 
 The Historical Plays 45 
 
 Historical Basis of "Henry VHI." 51 
 
 Suggestions for the Study of " Henry VHI." ... 61 
 
 Introduction to " Henry VHI." 79 
 
 Play of "King Henry the Eighth" 117 
 
 Suggestions for the Study of "The Tempest"' . . 255 
 
 Introduction to "The Tempest" 273 
 
 Play of "The Tempest" 313 
 
 Principles of Art 419 
 
 Moral Spirit 43S 
 
 Chronological List of Shakespeare's Writings . . . 456 
 
 Classification of Plays 45S 
 
 Sources of Shakespeare's Plays 459 
 
 Books of Value in Shakespearian Study .... 461 
 
SKETCH OF SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE. 
 
 The lineage of William Shakespeare, on the paternal 
 side, has not been traced further back than his grand- 
 father. The name, which in its composition smacks of 
 brave old knighthood and chivalry, was frequent in War- 
 wickshire from an early period. 
 
 The father of our poet was John Shakespeare, who is 
 found living at Stratford-on-Avon in 1552. He was most 
 likely a native of Snitterfield, a village three miles from 
 Stratford ; as we find a Richard Shakespeare living there 
 in 1550, and occupying a house and land owned by 
 Robert Arden, the maternal grandfather of our poet. 
 This appears from a deed executed July 17, 1550, in which 
 Robert Arden conveyed certain lands and tenements in 
 Snitterfield, described as being " now in the tenure of 
 one Richard Shakespeare," to be held in trust for three 
 daughters " after the death of Robert and Agnes Arden." 
 
 An entry in a Court Roll, dated April, 1552, ascer- 
 tains that John Shakespeare was living in Stratford at 
 that time. And an entry in the Bailiff's Court, dated 
 June, 1556, describes him as "John Shakespeare, of 
 Stratford in the county of Warwick, glover. '" In 1558, 
 the same John Shakespeare, and four others, one of whom 
 was Francis Burbadge, then at the head of the corpora- 
 tion, were fined four pence each " for not keeping their 
 gutters clean." 
 
2 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 We have seen that in June, 1556, John Shakespeare 
 was termed a glover. In November of the same year he 
 is found bringing an action against one of his neighbors 
 for unjustly detaining a quantity of barley ; which natur- 
 ally infers him to have been more or less engaged in 
 agricultural pursuits. It appears that at a later period 
 agriculture was his main pursuit, if not his only one ; for 
 the town records show that in 1564 he was paid three 
 shillings for a piece of timber ; and we find him described 
 in 1575 as a "yeoman." Rowe gives a tradition of his 
 having been "a considerable dealer in wool." It is no- 
 wise unlikely that such may have been the case. The 
 modern divisions of labor and trade were then little 
 known and less regarded ; several kinds of business be- 
 ing often carried on together, which are now kept distinct ; 
 and we have special proof that gloves and wool were apt 
 to be united as articles of trade. 
 
 I must next trace, briefly, the career of John Shake- 
 speare as a public officer in the Stratford corporation. 
 After holding several minor offices, he was in 1558, and 
 again in 1559, chosen one of the four constables. In 
 1561, he was a second time made one of the four affeer- 
 ors, whose duty it was to determine the fines for such 
 offences as had no penalties prescribed by statute. The 
 same year, 1561, he was chosen one of the chamberlains 
 of the borough, a very responsible office, which he held 
 two years. Advancing steadily in the public confidence, 
 he became an alderman in 1565 ; and in 1568 was elected 
 Bailiff, the highest honor the corporation .could bestow. 
 He held this office a year. The series of local honors 
 conferred upon him ended with his being chosen head- 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 3 
 
 alderman in 157 1 ; which office also he held a year. The 
 rule being " once an alderman always an alderman," un- 
 less positive action were taken to the contrary, he retained 
 that office till 1586, when, for persevering non-attendance 
 at the meetings, he was deprived of his gown. 
 
 John Shakespeare's good fortune seems to have reached 
 its height about the year 1575, after which time we meet 
 with many clear tokens of his decline. It is not improb- 
 able that his affairs may have got embarrassed from his 
 having too many irons in the fire. The registry of the 
 Court of Record, from 1555 to 1595, has a large number 
 of entries respecting him, which show him to have been 
 engaged in a great variety of transactions, and to have 
 had more litigation on his hands than would now be 
 thought either creditable or safe. But, notwithstanding 
 his decline of fortune, we have proofs as late as 1592 
 that he still retained the confidence and esteem of his 
 fellow-citizens. From that time forward, his affairs were 
 doubtless taken care of by one who, as we shall see here- 
 after, was much interested not to let them suffer, and also 
 well able to keep them in good trim. He was buried 
 September 8, 1601 ; so that, supposing him to have 
 reached his majority when first heard of in 1552, he must 
 have p.assed the age of threescore and ten. 
 
 On the maternal side, our poet's lineage was of a 
 higher rank, and may be traced further back. His 
 mother was Mary Arden, a name redolent of old poetry 
 and romance. The family of Arden was among the most 
 ancient in Warwickshire. Their history, as given by 
 Dugdale, spreads over six centuries. Sir John Arden 
 was squire of the body to Henry the Seventh ; and he had 
 
4 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 a nephew, the son of a younger brother, who was page of 
 the bedchamber to the same monarch. These were at 
 that time places of considerable service and responsibility; 
 and both the uncle and the nephew were liberally re- 
 warded by their royal master. By conveyances dated in 
 December, 15 19, it appears that Robert Arden then be- 
 came the owner of houses and land in Snitterfield. Other 
 purchases by him of lands and houses are recorded from 
 time to time. The poet's maternal grandfather, also 
 named Robert, died in 1556. In his will, dated Novem- 
 ber 24, and proved December 17, of that year, he 
 makes special bequests to his " youngest daughter Mary," 
 and also appoints her and another daughter, named Alice, 
 "full executors of this my last will and testament." On 
 the whole, it is evident enough that he was a man of 
 good landed estate. Both he and Richard Shakespeare 
 appear to have been of that honest and substantial old 
 English yeomanry, from whose better-than-royal stock 
 and lineage the great Poet of Nature might most fitly 
 fetch his life and being. Of the poet's grandmother on 
 either side we know nothing whatever. 
 
 Mary Arden was the youngest of seven children, all of 
 them daughters. The exact time of her marriage is un- 
 certain, no registry of it having been found. She was 
 not married at the date of her father's will, November, 
 1556. Joan, the first-born of John and Mary Shakespeare, 
 was baptized in the parish church of Stratford-on-Avon, 
 September 15, 15 58. We have seen that at this time 
 John Shakespeare was well established and thriving in 
 business, and was making good headway in the confidence 
 of the Stratfordians, beins: one of the constables of the 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 5 
 
 borough. On the 2d of December, 1562, while he was 
 chamberlain, his second child was christened Margaret. 
 On the 26th of April, 1564, was baptized "William, son 
 of John Shakespeare." The birth is commonly thought 
 to have taken place on the 23d, it being then the usual 
 custom to present infants at the font the third day after 
 their birth ; but we have no certain information whether 
 it was observed on this august occasion. We have seen 
 that throughout the following summer the destroyer was 
 busy in Stratford, making fearful spoil of her sons and 
 daughters ; but it spared the babe on whose life hung the 
 fate of English literature. Other children were added to 
 the family, to the number of eight, several of them dying in 
 the meantime. On the 28th of September, 157 1, soon after 
 the father became head-alderman, a fourth daughter was 
 baptized Anne. Hitherto the parish register has known 
 him only as John Shakespeare : in this case it designates 
 him " Master Shakespeare." Whether Master was a 
 token of honor not extended to any thing under an ex- 
 bailiff, does not appear ; but in all cases after this the 
 name is written with that significant prefix. 
 
 Nothing further is heard of Mrs. Mary Shakespeare till 
 her death in 1608. On the 9th of September, that year, 
 the parish register notes the burial of " Mary Shakespeare, 
 widow," her husband having died seven years before. 
 That she had in a special degree the confidence and affec- 
 tion of her father, is apparent from the treatment she 
 received in his will. It would be very gratifying, no 
 doubt, perhaps very instructive also, to be let into the 
 domestic life and character of the poet's mother. That 
 both her nature and her discipline entered largely into 
 
6 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 his composition, and had much to do in making him 
 what he was, can hardly be questioned. Whatsoever of 
 woman's beauty and sweetness and wisdom was expressed 
 in her Ufe and manners could not but be caught and re- 
 peated in his susceptive and fertile mind. He must have 
 grown familiar with the noblest parts of womanhood 
 somewhere; and I can 'scarce conceive how he should 
 have learned them so well, but that the light and glory of 
 them beamed upon him from his mother. At the time of 
 her death, the poet was in his forty-fifth year, and had 
 already produced those mighty works which were to fill 
 the world with his fame. For some years she must in all 
 likelihood have been more or less under his care and pro- 
 tection ; as her age, at the time of her death, could not 
 well have been less than seventy. 
 
 And here I am minded to notice a point which, it seems 
 to me, has been somewhat overworked within the last few 
 years. Gervinus, the German critic, thinks — and our 
 Mr. White agrees with him — that Shakespeare acquired 
 all his best ideas of womanhood after he went to London, 
 and conversed with the ladies of the city. And in sup- 
 port of this notion they cite the fact — for such it is — 
 that the women of his later plays are much superior to 
 those of his earlier ones. But are not the 7ncn of his later 
 plays quite as much superior to the men of his first t Are 
 not his later plays as much better every way, as in respect 
 of the female characters ? The truth seems to be, that 
 Shakespeare saw more of great and good in both man and 
 woman, as he became older and knew them better ; for 
 he was full of intellectual righteousness in this as in other 
 things. And in this matter it may with something of 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 7 
 
 special fitness be said that a man finds what he brings 
 with him the faculty for finding. Shakespeare's mind did 
 not stay on the surface of things. Probably there never 
 was a man more alive to the presence of humble, modest 
 worth. And to his keen yet kindly eye the plain-thoughted 
 women of his native Stratford may well have been as pure, 
 as sweet, as lovely, as rich in all the inward graces which 
 he delighted to unfold in his female characters, as any 
 thing he afterwards found among the fine ladies of the 
 metropolis ; albeit I mean no disparagement to these 
 latter; for the poet was by the best of all rights a gentle- 
 man, and the ladies who pleased him in London doubtless 
 had sense and womanhood enough to recognize him as 
 such. At all events, it is reasonable to suppose that the 
 foundations of his mind were laid before he left Strat- 
 ford, and that the gatherings of the boy's eye and heart 
 were the germs of the man's thoughts. 
 
 We have seen our poet springing from what may be 
 justly termed the best vein of old English life. At the 
 time of his birth, his parents, considering the purchases 
 previously made by the father, and the portion inherited 
 by the mother, must have been tolerably well off. Malone, 
 reckoning only the bequests specified in her father's will, 
 estimated Mary Shakespeare's fortune to be not less than 
 ^iio. Later researches have brought to light consider- 
 able items of property that were unknown to Malone. 
 Supposing her fortune to have been as good as ;^i5o 
 then, it would go nearly if not quite as far as $5000 in our 
 time. So that the poet passed his boyhood in just about 
 that medium state between poverty and riches which is 
 accounted most favorable to health of body and mind. 
 
6 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 At the time when his father became High-Bailiff the 
 poet was in his fifth year ; old enough to understand 
 something of what would be said and done in the home of 
 an English magistrate, and to take more or less interest 
 in the duties, the hospitalities, and perhaps the gayeties 
 incident to the headship of the borough. It would seem ' 
 that the poet came honestly by his inclination to the 
 Drama. During his term of office, John Shakespeare is 
 found acting in his public capacity as a patron of the 
 stage. The chamberlain's accounts show that twice in 
 the course of that year money was paid to different com- 
 panies of players; and these are the earliest notices we 
 have of theatrical performances in that ancient town. 
 The Bailiff and his son William were most likely present 
 at those performances. From that time forward, all 
 through the poet's youth, probably no year passed with- 
 out similar exhibitions at Stratford. In 1573, however, 
 an act was passed for restraining itinerant players, where- 
 by, unless they could show a patent under the great seal, 
 they became liable to be proceeded against as vagabonds, 
 for performing without a license from the local authorities. 
 Nevertheless, the chamberlain's accounts show that be- 
 tween 1569 and 1587 no less than ten distinct companies 
 performed at Stratford under the patronage of the cor- 
 poration. In 1587, five of those companies are found 
 performing there; and within the period just mentioned 
 the Earl of Leicester's men are noted on three several 
 occasions as receiving money from the town treas- 
 ury. Ill May, 1574, the Earl of Leicester obtained a 
 patent under the great seal, enabling his players, James 
 Burbadge and four others, to exercise their art in any part 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 9 
 
 of the kingdom except London. In 1587, this company 
 became "The Lord Chamberlain's Servants"; and we 
 shall in due time find Shakespeare belonging to it. James 
 Burbadge was the father of Richard Burbadge, the greatest 
 actor of that age. The family was most likely from War- 
 wickshire, and perhaps from Stratford, as we have already 
 met with the name in that town. Such were the oppor- 
 tunities our embryo poet had for catching the first rudi- 
 ments of the art in which he afterwards displayed such 
 learned mastery. 
 
 The forecited accounts have an entry, in 1564, of two 
 shillings "paid for defacing image in the chapel." Even 
 then the excesses generated out of the Reformation were 
 invading such towns as Stratford, and waging a " crusade 
 against the harmless monuments of the ancient belief ; no 
 exercise of taste being suffered to interfere with what was 
 considered a religious duty." In these exhibitions of 
 strolling players this spirit found matter, no doubt, more 
 deserving of its hostility. While the poet was yet a boy, 
 a bitter war of books and pamphlets had begun against 
 plays and players ; and the Stratford records inform us 
 of divers attempts to suppress them in that town ; but the 
 issue proves that the Stratfordians were not easily beaten 
 from that sort of entertainment, in which they evidently 
 took great delight. 
 
 We have seen that both John and Mary Shakespeare, 
 instead of writing their names, were so far disciples of Jack 
 Cade as to use the more primitive way of making their 
 mark. It nowise follows from this that they could not 
 read ; neither have we any certain evidence that they 
 could. Be this as it may, there was no good reason why 
 
lO SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 their children should not be able to say, " I thank God, I 
 have been so well brought up, that I can write my name." 
 A Free-School had been founded at Stratford by Thomas 
 Jolyffe in the reign of Edward the Fourth. In 1553, 
 King Edward the Sixth granted a charter, giving it a legal 
 being, with legal rights and duties, under the name of 
 " The King's New School of Stratford-upon-Avon." What 
 particular course or method of instruction was used there, 
 we have no certain knowledge ; but it was probably much 
 the same as that used in other like schools of that period ; 
 which included the elementary branches of English, and 
 also the rudiments of classical learning. 
 
 Here it was, no doubt, that Shakespeare acquired the 
 " small Latin and less Greek " which Ben Jonson accords 
 to him. What was " small " learning in the eyes of such 
 a scholar as Jonson, may yet have been something hand- 
 some in itself ; and his remark may fairly imply that the 
 poet had at least the regular free-school education of the 
 time. Honorably ambitious, as his father seems to have 
 been, of being somebody, it is not unlikely that he may 
 have prized learning the more for being himself without 
 it. William was his oldest son ; when his tide of fortune 
 began to ebb, the poet was in his fourteenth year, and, 
 from his native qualities of mind, we cannot doubt that, 
 up to that time at least, '" all the learnings that his town 
 could make him the receiver of he took, as we do air, fast 
 as 'twas ministered, and in his spring became a harvest." 
 
 The gleanings of tradition apart, the first knowledge 
 that has reached us of the poet, after his baptism, has 
 reference to his marriage. Rowe tells us that " he thought 
 fit to marry while he was very young," and that "' his wife 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 1 1 
 
 was the daughter of one Hathaway, said to have been a 
 substantial yeoman in the neighbourhood of Stratford." 
 These statements are borne out by later disclosures. The 
 marriage took place in the fall of 1582, when the poet 
 was in his nineteenth year. On the 28th of November, 
 that year, Fulk Sandels and John Richardson subscribed 
 a bond whereby they became liable in the sum of £40, to 
 be forfeited to the Bishop of Worcester in case there 
 should be found any lawful impediment to the marriage 
 of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway, of Strat- 
 ford ; the object being to procure such a dispensation 
 from the Bishop as would authorize the ceremony after 
 once publishing the banns. The original bond is pre- 
 served at Worcester, with the marks and seals of the two 
 bondsmen affixed, and also bearing a seal with the initials 
 R. H., as if to show that some legal representative of the 
 bride's father, Richard Hathaway, was present and con- 
 senting to the act. There was nothing peculiar in the 
 transaction ; the bond is just the same as was usually 
 given in such cases, and several others like it are to be 
 seen at the office of the Worcester registry. 
 
 The parish books all about Stratford and Worcester 
 have been ransacked, but no record of the marriage has 
 been discovered. The probability is, that the ceremony 
 took place in some one of the neighboring parishes where 
 the registers of that period have not been preserved. 
 
 Anne Hathaway was of Shottery, a pleasant village 
 situate within an easy walk of Stratford, and belonging to 
 the same parish. No record of her baptism has come to 
 light, but the baptismal register of Stratford did not begin 
 till 1558. She died on the 6th of August, 1623, and the 
 
1 2 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 inscription on her monument gives her age as sixty-seven 
 years. Her birth, therefore, must have been in 1556, 
 eight years before that of her liusband. 
 
 From certain precepts, dated in 1566, and lately found 
 among the papers of the Stratford Court of Record, it 
 appears that the relations between John Shakespeare 
 and Richard Hathaway were of a very friendly sort. 
 Hathaway's will was made September i, 1581, and proved 
 July 19, 1582, which shows him to have died a few months 
 before the marriage of his daughter Anne. The will 
 makes good what Rowe says of his being " a substantial 
 yeoman." He appoints Fulk Sandals one of the super- 
 visors of his will, and among the witnesses to it is the 
 name of William Gilbert, then curate of Stratford. One 
 item of the will is : "I owe unto Thomas Whittington, 
 my shepherd, ^4 Gs. 8t/." Whittington died in 1601 ; 
 and in his will he gives and bequeaths "unto the poor 
 people of Stratford 40s. that is in the hand of Anne 
 Shakespeare, wife unto Mr. William Shakespeare." The 
 careful old shepherd had doubtless placed the money in 
 Anne Shakespeare's hand for safe keeping, she being a 
 person in whom he had confidence. 
 
 The poet's match was evidently a love-match : whether 
 the love was of that kind which forms the best pledge of 
 wedded happiness, is another question. It is not unlikely 
 that the marriage may have been preceded by the anpient 
 ceremony of troth-plight, or haiu^fast, as it was sometimes 
 called ; like that which almost takes place between 
 Florizel and Perdita in The Winter's Tale, and quite 
 takes place between Olivia and Sebastian in Twelfth 
 Night. The custom of troth-plight was much used in 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 13 
 
 that age, and for a long time after. In some places it had 
 the force and effect of an actual marriage. Serious evils, 
 however, sometimes grew out of it ; and the Church of 
 England did wisely, no doubt, in uniting the troth-plight 
 and the marriage in one and the same ceremony. Whether 
 such solemn betrothment had or had not taken place be- 
 tween William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway, it is 
 certain from the parish register that they had a daughter, 
 Susanna, baptized on the 26th of May, 1583. 
 
 Some of the poet's later biographers and critics have 
 supposed he was not happy in his marriage. Certain 
 passages of his plays, especially the charming dialogue 
 between the Duke and the disguised Viola in Act II., 
 scene 4, of TwelftJi Night, have been cited as involving 
 some reference to the poet's own case, or as having been 
 suggested by what himself had experienced of the evils 
 resulting from the wedlock of persons " misgraffed in 
 respect of years." There was never any thing but sheer 
 conjecture for this notion. Rowe mentions nothing of 
 the kind ; and we may be sure that his candor would not 
 have spared the poet, had tradition offered him any such 
 matter. As for the passages in question, I know no 
 reason for excepting them from the acknowledged purity 
 and disinterestedness of the poet's representations ; where 
 nothing is more remarkable, or more generally com- 
 mended, than his singular aloofness of self, his perfect 
 freedom from every thing bordering upon egotism. 
 
 On the 2d of February, 1585, two more children, twins, 
 were christened in the parish church as " Hamnet and 
 Judith, son and daughter to William Shakespeare." We 
 hear of no more children being added to the family. I 
 
t4 Shakespeare's life. 
 
 must again so far anticipate as to observe that the son 
 Hamnet was "buried in August, 1596, being then in his 
 twelfth year. This is the first severe home-stroke known 
 to have lighted on the poet. 
 
 Tradition has been busy with the probable causes of 
 Shakespeare's going upon the stage. Several causes have 
 been assigned ; such as, first, a natural inclination to 
 poetry and acting ; second, a deer-stealing frolic, which 
 resulted in making Stratford too hot for him ; third, the 1 
 pecuniary embarrassments of his father. It is not un- ! 
 likely that all these causes, and perhaps others, may have 
 concurred in prompting the step. 
 
 For the first, we have the testimony of Aubrey, who 
 was at Stratford probably about the year 1680. He was 
 an arrant and inveterate hunter after anecdotes, and 
 seems to have caught up, without sifting, whatever quaint 
 or curious matter came in his way. So that no great 
 reliance can attach to what he says, unless it is sustained 
 by other authority. But in this case his words sound 
 like truth, and are supported by all the likelihoods that 
 can grow from what we should presume to have been the 
 poet's natural turn of mind. "' This William," says he, 
 " being inclined naturally to poetry and acting, came to 
 London, I guess, about eighteen, and was an actor in one 
 of the playhouses, and did act exceedingly well. He 
 began early to make essays in dramatic poetry, which at 
 that time was very low, and his plays took well. He was 
 a handsome, well-shaped man, very good company, and 
 of a very ready and pleasant smooth wit. Ben Jonson 
 and he did gather humours of men daily wherever they 
 came." 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE, I 5 
 
 This natural inclination, fed by the frequent theatrical 
 performances at Stratford, would go far, if not suffice of 
 itself, to account for the poet's subsequent course of life. 
 Before 1586, no doubt, he was well acquainted with some 
 of the players, with whom we shall hereafter find him 
 associated. In their exhibitions, rude as these were, he 
 could not but have been a greedy spectator and an apt 
 scholar. Thomas Greene, a fellow-townsman of his, was 
 already one of their number. All this might not indeed 
 be enough to draw him away from Stratford ; but when 
 other reasons came, if others there were, for leaving, 
 these circumstances would hold out to him an easy and 
 natural access and invitation to the stage. Nor is there 
 any extravagance in supposing that, by 1586, he may 
 have taken some part as actor or writer, perhaps both, in 
 the performances of the company which he afterwards 
 joined. 
 
 The deer-stealing matter as given by Rowe is as follows : 
 That Shakespeare fell into the company of some wild 
 fellows who were in the habit of stealing deer, and who 
 drew him into robbing a park owned by Sir Thomas Lucy, 
 of Charlecote, near Stratford. That, being prosecuted 
 for this, he lampooned Sir Thomas in some bitter verses ; 
 which made the Knight so sharp after him, that he had 
 to steal himself off and take shelter in London. 
 
 Several have attempted to refute this story ; but the 
 main substance of it stands approved by too much 
 strength of credible tradition to be easily overthrown. 
 And it is certain from public records that the Lucys had 
 great power at Stratford, and were not seldom engaged 
 in disputes with the corporation. Mr. Halliwell met with 
 
1 6 Shakespeare's life. 
 
 an old record entitled " the names of them that made the 
 riot upon Master Thomas Lucy, Esquire." Thirty-five 
 inhabitants of Stratford, chiefly tradespeople, are named 
 in the list, but no Shakespeare among them. 
 
 In writing biography, special-pleading is not good ; and 
 I would fain avoid trying to make the poet out any better 
 than he was. Little as we know about him, it is evident 
 enough that he had his frailties, and ran into divers faults, 
 both as a poet and as a man. And when we hear him 
 confessing, as in a passage already quoted, " Most true it 
 is, that I have looked on truth askance and strangely," 
 we may be sure he was but too conscious of things that 
 needed to be forgiven ; and that he was as far as any one 
 from wishing his faults to pass for virtues. Deer-stealing, 
 however, was then a kind of fashionable sport, and what- 
 ever might be its legal character, it was not morally 
 regarded as involving any criminality or disgrace. So 
 that the whole thing may be justly treated as a mere 
 youthful frolic, wherein there might indeed be some in- 
 discretion, and a deal of vexation to the person robbed, 
 but no stain on the party engaged in it. 
 
 The precise time of the poet's leaving Stratford is not 
 known ; but we cannot well set it down as later than 
 1586. His children Hamnet and Judith were born, as I 
 have said, in the early part of 1585 ; and for several 
 years before that time his father's affairs were drooping. 
 The prosecutions of Sir Thomas Lucy, added to his 
 father's straitness of means, may well have made him de- 
 sirous of quitting Stratford; while the meeting of inclina- 
 tion and opportunity hi his acquaintance with the players 
 may have determined him where to go, and what to do. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 1/ 
 
 The company were already in a course of thrift ; the de- 
 mand for their hibors was growing; and he might well 
 see, in their fellowship, a chance of retrieving, as he did 
 retrieve, his father's fortune. 
 
 Of course there need be no question that Shakespeare 
 held at first a subordinate rank in the theatre. Dowdal, 
 writing in 1693, tells us "he was received into the play- 
 house as a servitor," which probably means that he started 
 as an apprentice to some actor of st;inding, — a thing not 
 unusual at the time. It will readily be believed that he 
 could not be in such a place long without recommending 
 himself to a higher one. As for the well-known story of 
 his being reduced to the extremity of " picking up a little 
 money by taking care of the gentlemen's horses that came 
 to the play," I cannot perceive the slightest likelihood of 
 truth in it. The first we hear of it is in The Lives of the 
 Poets, written by a Scotchman named Shiels, and pub- 
 lished under the name of Gibber, in 1753. The story is 
 there said to have passed through Rowe in coming to the 
 writer. If so, then Rowe must have discredited it, else, 
 surely, he would not have omitted so remarkable a pas- 
 sage. Be that as it may, the station which the poet's 
 family had long held at Stratford, and the fact of his hav- 
 ing influential friends at hand from Warwickshire, are 
 enough to stamp it as an arrant fiction. 
 
 We have seen that the company of Rurbadge and his 
 fellows held a patent under the great seal, and in 1587 
 took the title of "The Lord Chamberlain's Servants." 
 Eleven years before this time, in 1576, they had started 
 the Blackfriars Theatre, so named from a monastery that 
 had formerly stood on or near the same ground. Hitl^erto 
 
iS Shakespeare's life. 
 
 the several bands of players had made use of halls, or 
 temporary erections in the streets or the inn-yards, stages 
 being set up, and the spectators standing below, or occu- 
 pying galleries about the open space. In 1577, two other 
 playhouses were in operation; and still others sprang up 
 from time to time. The Blackfriars and some others were 
 without the limits of the corporation, in what were called 
 "the Liberties." The Mayor and Aldermen of London 
 were from the first decidedly hostile to all such establish- 
 ments, and did their best to exclude them the City and 
 Liberties ; but the Court, many of the chief nobility, and, 
 which was still more, the common people favored them. 
 The whole mind indeed of Puritanism was utterly down 
 on stage-plays of all sorts and in every shape. But it did 
 not go to work the right way : it should have stopped off 
 the demand for them. This, however, it could not do; for 
 the drama was at that time, as it long had been, an in- 
 tense national passion : the people would have plays, and 
 could not be converted from the love of them. 
 
 From what we shall presently see, it would be unrea- 
 sonable not to suppose that by the year 1590 the poet 
 was well started in his dramatic career; and that the effect 
 of his cunning labors was beginning even then to be felt 
 by his senior fellows in that line. Allowing him to have 
 entered the theatre in 1586, when he was twenty-two 
 years of age, he must have made good use of his time, 
 and worked onwards with surprising speed, during those 
 four years ; though whether he got ahead more by his 
 acting or his writing we have no certain knowledge. In 
 tragic parts none of the company could shine beside the 
 younger Burbadge; while Greene, and still more Kempe, 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. I9 
 
 another of the band, left small chance of distinction in 
 comic parts. Aubrey, as before quoted, tells us that 
 Shakespeare " was a handsome, well-shaped man," which 
 is no slight matter on the stage ; and adds, " He did act 
 exceedingly well." Rowe "could never meet with any 
 further account of him this way, than that the top of his 
 performance was the Ghost in his own Ham/et." But this 
 part, to be fairly dealt with, requires an actor of no mean 
 powers; and as Burbadge is known to have played the 
 Prince, we may presume that " the Majesty of buried 
 Denmark " would not be cast upon very inferior hands. 
 That the poet was master of the theory of acting, and 
 could tell, none better, how the thing ought to be done, is 
 evident enough from Hamlet's instructions to the players. 
 But it nowise follows that he could perform his own 
 instructions. 
 
 It has been quite too common to speak of Shakespeare 
 as a miracle of spontaneous genius, who did his best 
 things by force of instinct, not of art ; and that, conse- 
 quently, he was nowise indebted to time and experience 
 for the reach and power which his dramas display. This 
 is an "old fond paradox " which seems to have originated 
 with those who could not conceive how any man could 
 acquire intellectual skill without scholastic advantages ; 
 forgetting, apparently, that several things, if not more, 
 may be learned in the school of Nature, provided one 
 have an eye to read her " open secrets " without " the 
 spectacles of books." This notion has vitiated a good 
 deal of Shakesperian criticism. Rowe had something of 
 it. "Art," says he, "had so little, and Nature so large a 
 share in what Shakespeare did, that, for aught I know, 
 
20 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 the performances of his youth were the best." I think 
 decidedly otherwise; and have grounds for doing so which 
 Rowe had not, in what has since been done towards ascer- 
 taining the chronology of the poet's plays. 
 
 Aubrey tells us that Shakespeare "was wont to go to 
 his native country once a year." We now have better 
 authority than Aubrey for believing that the poet's heart 
 was in "his native country" all the while. No sooner is 
 he well established at London, and in receipt of funds to 
 spare from the demands of business, than we find him 
 making liberal investments amidst the scenes of his 
 youth. Some years ago, Mr. Halliwell discovered in the 
 Chapter-House, Westminster, a document which ascer- 
 tains that in the spring of 1597 Shakespeare bought of 
 William Underbill, for the sum of £60, the establishment 
 called " New Place," described as consisting of "one mes- 
 suage, two barns, and two gardens, with their appur- 
 tenances." This was one of the best dwelling-houses in 
 Stratford, and was situate in one of the best parts of the 
 town. Early in the sixteenth century it was owned by the 
 Cloptons, and called " the great house." It was in one 
 of the gardens belonging to this house that the poet was 
 believed to have planted a mulberry-tree. New Place 
 remained in the hands of Shakespeare and his heirs till 
 the Restoration, when it was repurchased by the Clopton 
 family. In the spring of 1742, Garrick, Macklin, and 
 Delane were entertained there by Sir Hugh Clopton, 
 under the poet's mulberry-tree. About 1752, the place 
 was sold to the Rev. Francis Gastrell, who, falling out 
 with the Stratford authorities in some matter of rates, 
 demolished the house, and cut down the tree ; for 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 21 
 
 which his memory has been visited with exemplary 
 retribution. 
 
 We have other tokens of the poet's thrift about this 
 time. One of these is a curious letter, dated January 24, 
 1598, and written by Abraham Sturley, an alderman of 
 Stratford, to his brother-in-law, Richard Quiney, who was 
 then in London on business for himself and others. 
 Sturley, it seems, had learned that " our countryman, 
 Mr. Shakespeare," had money to invest, and so was for 
 having him urged to buy up certain tithes at Stratford, 
 on the ground that such a purchase " would advance him 
 indeed, and would do us much good"; the meaning of 
 which is, that the Stratford people were in want of 
 money, and were looking to Shakespeare for a supply. 
 
 Shakespeare was now decidedly at the head of the 
 English Drama ; moreover, he had found it a low, foul, 
 disreputable thing, chiefly in the hands of profligate 
 adventurers, and he had lifted it out of the mire, 
 breathed strength and sweetness into it, and made it 
 clean, fair, and honorable, a structure all alive with 
 beauty and honest delectation. Such being the case, his 
 standing was naturally firm and secure ; he had little 
 cause to fear rivalry ; he could well aiford to be gener- 
 ous ; and any play that had his approval would be likely 
 to pass. Ben Jonson, whose name has a peculiar right 
 to be coupled with his, was ten years younger than he, 
 and was working with that learned and sinewy diligence 
 which marked his character. We have it on the sound 
 authority of Rowe, that Shakespeare lent a helping hand 
 to honest Ben, and on an occasion that does credit to 
 them both. " Mr. Jonson," says he, " who was at that 
 
22 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 time altogether unknown to the world, had offered one of 
 his plays to the players, in order to have it acted ; and 
 the persons into whose hands it was put, after having 
 turned it carelessly and superciliously over, were just 
 upon returning it to him, with an ill-natured answer that 
 it would be of no service to their company, when Shake- 
 speare luckily cast his eye upon it, and found something 
 in it so well, as to engage him first to read it through, 
 and afterwards to recommend Mr. Jonson and his writ- 
 ings to the public." 
 
 Some attempts have been made to impugn this ac- 
 count, but the result of them all has been rather to con- 
 firm it. How nobly the poet's gentle and judicious act 
 of kindness was remembered, is shown by Jonson's 
 superb verses, prefixed to the folio of 1623; enough of 
 themselves to confer an immortality both on the writer 
 and on the subject of them. 
 
 In 1599, we find a coat of arms granted to John 
 Shakespeare, by the Heralds' College, in London. The 
 grant was made, no doubt, at the instance of his son 
 William. The matter is involved in a good deal of per- 
 plexity ; the claims of the son being confounded with 
 those of the father, in order, apparently, that out of the 
 two together might be made a good, or at least a plausible 
 case. Our poet, the son of a glover, or a yeoman, had 
 evidently set his heart on being heralded into a gentle- 
 man ; and, as his profession of actor stood in the way, 
 the application was made in his father's name. The 
 thing was started as early as 1596, but so much question 
 was had, so many difficulties raised, concerning it, that 
 the poet was three years in working it through. To be 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 23 
 
 sure, such heraldic gentry was of little worth in itself, 
 and the poet knew this well enough ; but then it assured 
 a certain very desirable social standing, and therefore, as 
 an aspiring member of society, he was right in seek- 
 ing it. 
 
 The great Queen died on the 24th of March, 1603. 
 We have abundant proof that she was, both by her pres- 
 ence and her purse, a frequent and steady patron of the 
 drama, especially as its interests were represented by 
 "the Lord Chamberlain's servants." Everybody, no 
 doubt, has heard the tradition of her having been so 
 taken with Falstaff in King Henry the Fourth^ that she 
 requested the poet to continue the character through an- 
 other play, and to represent him in love ; whereupon he 
 wrote The Merry Wives of Windsor. Whatever embel- 
 lishments may have been added, there is nothing incredi- 
 ble in the substance of the tradition ; while the approved 
 taste and judgment of this female king, in matters of 
 literature and art, give it strong likelihoods of truth. 
 
 Elizabeth knew how to unbend in such noble delecta- 
 tions without abating her dignity as a queen, or forgetting 
 her duty as the mother of her people. If the patronage 
 of King James fell below hers in wisdom, it was certainly 
 not lacking in warmth. One of his first acts, after reach- 
 ing London, was to order out a warrant from the Privy 
 Seal for the issuing of a patent under the Great Seal, 
 whereby the Lord Chamberlain's players were taken into 
 his immediate patronage under the title of " The King's 
 Servants." The instrument names nine players, and 
 Shakespeare stands second in the list. Nor did the 
 King's patent prove a mere barren honor ; many in- 
 
24 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 Stances of the company's playing at the Court, and being- 
 well paid for it, are on record. 
 
 The poet evidently was, as indeed from the nature of 
 his position he could not but be, very desirous of withdraw- 
 ing from the stage ; and had long cherished, apparently, 
 a design of doing so. In several passages of his Sonnets, 
 he expresses, in very strong and even pathetic language, 
 his intense dislike of the business, and his grief at being 
 compelled to pursue it. At what time he carried into 
 effect his purpose of retirement is not precisely known ; 
 nor can I stay to trace out the argument on that point. 
 The probability is, that he ceased to be an actor in the 
 summer of 1604. The preceding year, 1603, Ben Jon- 
 son's Scjanus was brought out at the Blackfriars, and one 
 of the parts was sustained by Shakespeare. After this we 
 have no note of his appearance on the stage ; and there 
 are certain traditions inferring the contrary. 
 
 In 1603, an edition of Hajn/et was published, though 
 very different from the present form of the play. The 
 next yaar, 1604, the finished Hamlet was published; the 
 title-page containing the words, "enlarged to almost as 
 much again as it was." Of Measure for Measure we have 
 no well-authenticated notice during the poet's life ; though 
 there is a record, which has been received as authentic, 
 of its having been acted at Court on the 26th of Decem- 
 ber. 1604. That record, however, has lately been , dis- 
 credited. Of Timon of A f hens and Julius Caesar we have 
 no express contemporary notice at all, authentic or other- 
 wise. Nor have we any of Troilus and Cressida till 1609, 
 in which year a stolen edition of it was published. Never- 
 theless, I have no doubt that these plays were all written, 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 2$ 
 
 though perhaps not all in their present shape, before the 
 close of 1604. Reckoning, then, the four last named, we 
 have twenty-eight of the plays written when the poet was 
 forty years of age, and had probably been at the work 
 about eighteen years. Time has indeed left few traces of 
 the process ; but what a magnificent treasure of results ! 
 If Shakespeare had done no more, he would have stood 
 the greatest intellect of the world. How all alive must 
 those eighteen years have been with intense and varied 
 exertion ! His quick discernment, his masterly tact, his 
 grace of manners, his practical judgment, and his fertility 
 of expedients, would needs make him the soul of the 
 establishment ; doubtless the light of his eye and the life 
 of his hand were in all its movements and plans. Besides, 
 the compass and accuracy of information displayed in his 
 writings prove him to have been, for that age, a careful 
 and voluminous student of books. Portions of classical 
 and of continental literature were accessible to him in 
 translations. Nor are we without strong reasons for be- 
 lieving that, in addition to his " small Latin and less 
 Greek," he found or made time to form a tolerable read- 
 ing acquaintance with Italian and French. Chaucer, too, 
 "the day-star," and Spenser, "the sunrise," of English 
 poetry, were pouring their beauty round his walks. From 
 all these, and from the growing richness and abundance 
 of contemporary literature, his all-gifted and all-grasping 
 mind no doubt greedily took in and quickly digested 
 whatever was adapted to please his taste, or enrich his 
 intellect, or assist his art. 
 
 The poet kept up his interest in the affairs of the com- 
 pany, and spent more or less of his time in London, after 
 
26 shakesfeake's life. 
 
 ceasing to be an actor. We have several subsequent 
 notices of his being in the metropoUs on business, one of 
 which is a deed of conveyance, executed in March, 1613, 
 and transferring to him and three others a house with a 
 small piece of land for ^^^140; ;!^So being paid down, 
 and the rest left on bond and mortgage. The deed bears 
 the poet's signature, which shows him to have been in 
 London at the time. The vicar, from whose Diary I 
 have already quoted, notes further that Shakespeare " fre- 
 quented the plays all his younger time, but in his elder 
 days he lived at Stratford, and supplied the stage with 
 two plays every year." That the writer's information was 
 in all points literally correct, is not likely ; but there is no 
 doubt that the poet continued to write for the stage after 
 his retirement from it. 
 
 It would seem that after the year 1609, or thereabouts, 
 the poet's reputation did not mount any higher during 
 his life. A new generation of dramatists was then rising 
 into favor, who, with some excellences derived from him, 
 united gross vices of their own, which however, were well 
 adapted to captivate the popular mind. Moreover, King 
 James himself, notwithstanding his liberality of patronage, 
 was essentially a man of loose morals and low tastes; 
 and his taking to Shakespeare at first probably grew more 
 from the public voice, or perhaps from Southampton's in- 
 fluence, than from his own preference. Before the poet's 
 death, we may trace the beginnings of that corru]:)tion 
 whicli, rather stimulated than discouraged by Puritan 
 bigotry and fanaticism, reached its height some seventy 
 years later ; though its course was for a while retarded 
 by King Charles the First, who, whatever else may be 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. T.'J 
 
 said of him, was unquestionabl}- a man of as high and 
 elegant tastes in literature and art as England could 
 boast of in his time. 
 
 Shakespeare, however, was by no means so little appre- 
 ciated in his time as later generations have mainly sup- 
 posed. No man of that age was held in higher regard 
 for his intellectual gifts ; none drew forth more or stronger 
 tributes of applause. Kings, princes, lords, gentlemen, 
 and, what is probably still better, common people, all 
 united in paying homage to his transcendent genius. 
 The noble lines, already referred to, of Ben Jonson, — 
 than whom few men, perhaps none, ever knew better how 
 to judge and how to write on such a theme, — indicate 
 how he struck the scholarship of the age. And from the 
 scattered notices of his contemporaries we get, withal, a 
 very complete and very exalted idea of his personal char- 
 acter as a man ; although, to be sure, they yield us few 
 facts in regard to his personal history or his actual course 
 of life. How dearly he was held by those who knew him 
 best, is well shown by a passage of Ben Jonson, written 
 long after the poet's death, and not published till 1640. 
 Honest Ben had been charged with malevolence towards 
 him, and he repelled the charge thus : " I lov'd the man, 
 and do honor his memory, on this side idolatry, as much 
 as any. He was indeed honest, and of an open and 
 free nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, 
 and gentle expressions." 
 
 I cannot dwell much on the particulars of the poet's latter 
 years ; a few, however, must be added touching his family. 
 
 On the 5th of June, 1607, his eldest daughter, Susanna, 
 then in her twenty-fifth year, was married to Mr. John 
 
28 Shakespeare's life. 
 
 Hall, of Stratford, styled "gentleman " in the parish reg- 
 ister, and afterwards a practising physician of good stand- 
 ing. The February following, Shakespeare became a 
 grandfather ; Elizabeth, the first and only child of John 
 and Susanna Hall, being baptized the 17th of that month. 
 It is supposed, and apparently with good reason, that 
 Dr. Hall and his wife lived in the same house with the 
 poet ; she was evidently deep in her father's heart ; she 
 is said to have had something of his mind and temper ; 
 the house was large enough for them all ; nor are there 
 wanting signs of entire affection between Mrs. Hall and 
 her mother. Add to all this the poet's manifest fondness 
 for children, and his gentle and affable disposition, and 
 we have the elements of a happy family and a cheerful 
 home, such as might well render a good-natured man 
 impatient of the stage. 
 
 Of the moral and religious tenor of domestic life at 
 New Place we are not permitted to know : at a later 
 period the Shakespeares seem to have been not a little 
 distinguished for works of piety and charity. 
 
 On the loth of February, 161 6, the poet saw his young- 
 est daughter, Judith, married to Thomas Quiney, of Strat- 
 ford, vintner and wine-merchant, whose father had been 
 High-Bailiff of the town. From the way Shakespeare 
 mentions this daughter's marriage portion in his will, 
 which was made the 25th of March following, it is 
 evident that he gave his sanction to the match. 
 Which may be cited as argument that he had not him- 
 self experienced any such evils, as some have alleged, 
 from the woman being older than the man ; for his 
 daughter had four years the start of her husband, she 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 29 
 
 being at the time of her marriage thirty-one and he 
 twenty-seven. 
 
 Shakespeare was still in the meridian of life. There 
 was no special cause, that we know of, why he might not 
 live many years longer. It were vain to conjecture what 
 he would have done, had more years been given him ; 
 possibly, instead of augmenting his legacy to us, he 
 would have recalled and suppressed more or less of what 
 he had written as our inheritance. For the last two or 
 three years, at least, he seems to have left his pen un- 
 used ; as if, his own ends once achieved, he set no value on 
 that mighty sceptre with which he since sways so large a 
 portion of mankind. That the motives and ambitions of * 
 authorship had little to do in the generation of his works, 
 is evident from the serene carelessness with which he left 
 them to shift for themselves ; tossing these wonderful 
 treasures from him as if he thought them good for noth- 
 ing but to serve the hour. Still, to us, in our ignorance, 
 his life cannot but seem too short. For aught we know, 
 Providence, in its wisdom, may have ruled not to allow 
 the example of a man so gifted living to himself. 
 
 Be that as it may, William Shakespeare departed this 
 life on the 23d of April, 1616. Two days after, his re- 
 mains were buried beneath the chancel of Trinity Church, 
 in Stratford. The burial took place orv the day before 
 the anniversary of his baptism; and it has been com- 
 monly believed that his death fell on the anniversary of 
 his birth. If so, he had just entered his fifty-third year. 
 
 The poet's will bears date March 25, 16 16. I must 
 notice one item of it : "I give unto my wife the second 
 best bed, with the furniture." As this is the only men- 
 
30 SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 
 
 tion made of her, the circumstance was for a long time 
 regarded as betraying a strange indifference, or something 
 worse, on the testator's part, towards his wife. And on 
 this has hung the main argument that the union was not 
 a happy one. We owe to Mr. Knight an explanation of 
 the matter, which is so simple and decisive, that we can 
 but wonder it was not hit upon before. Shakespeare's 
 property was mostly freehold ; and in all this the widow 
 had what is called the right of dower fully secured to her 
 by the ordinary operation of English law. The poet was 
 lawyer enough to know this. As for " the second-best 
 bed," this was doubtless the very thing which a loving 
 'and beloved wife would naturally prize above any other 
 article of furniture in the establishment. 
 
 From the foregoing sketch it appears that the materi- 
 als for a biography of Shakespeare are scanty indeed, and, 
 withal, rather dry. Nevertheless, there is enough, I think, 
 to show, that in all the common dealings of life he was 
 eminently gentle, candid, upright, and judicious; open- 
 hearted, genial, and sweet, in his social intercourses ; 
 among his companions and friends, full of playful wit 
 and sprightly grace; kind to the faults of others, severe 
 to his own ; quick to discern and acknowledge merit in 
 another, modest and slow in finding it in himself : while 
 in the smooth and happy marriage, which he seems to 
 have realized, of the highest poetry and art with systematic 
 and successful prudence in business affairs, we have an 
 example of compact and well-rounded practical manhood, 
 such as may justly engage our admiration and respect. 
 
 I have spoken somewhat as to the motive and purpose 
 of his intellectual labor. It was in and for the theatre 
 
SHAKESPEARE S LIFE. 3 I 
 
 that his multitudinous genius was developed, and his 
 works produced; there fortune, or rather Providence, 
 had cast his lot. Doubtless it was his nature, in what- 
 ever he undertook, to do his best. As an honest and 
 true man, he would, if possible, make the temple of the 
 drama a noble, a beautiful, and glorious place ; and it 
 was while working quietly and unobtrusively in further- 
 ance of this end, — building better than he knew, — that 
 he proved himself the greatest, wisest, sweetest of men. 
 
 Shakespeare's Home and Heritage. 
 
 Warwickshire was the middle shire of the Midland 
 district of England, — the heart of England. Through 
 it passed the two great Roman roads, meeting in the cen- 
 ter called High Cross. The shire was divided into two 
 unequal parts by the winding Avon, — the one to the 
 northward being the district of Arden, the " Forest of 
 Arden," the other the open country, the rich, fertile pas- 
 ture lands of Feldon, separated from the shires of Oxford 
 and Northampton by a line of beautiful hills. 
 
 In the poet's time much of the wooded part of the 
 original Arden had been converted into cultivated fields, 
 and yet a sufficiently dense wood remained to give to 
 him the beautiful setting of " As you Like It." The free 
 idyllic life into which he sends Rosalind, Celia, the ban- 
 ished duke, and Orlando was revealed to himself as he 
 wandered through the forest of his native shire. The 
 Feldon country, too, had charms for the growing poet in 
 its blossoming meadows and babbling streams, and the 
 groups of stately trees that sheltered the happy herds 
 
32 SHAKESPEARE S HOME AND HERITAGE. 
 
 and flocks. These trees, these meadows, these streams, 
 these grazing herds greeted the child, the lad, made 
 themselves a part of his being, and still across three 
 hundred years bear their messages of fresh, ever- 
 renewing life to every lover of the poet whom they 
 helped to make. 
 
 From the Roman times down Warwickshire had been 
 rich in history and heroic traditions. Within or near its 
 borders had been fought many a battle, and perhaps 
 Shakespeare in his boyhood heard them all " fought o'er 
 again " in story. Notable people, sovereigns and high 
 dignitaries visited Stratford and the neighboring villages. 
 The pageants and splendid entertainments given in their 
 honor may well have awakened in the heart of the boy 
 that glow of patriotism which made him later a most 
 loyal subject of a great nation. 
 
 In this town of Stratford with its wide streets and low, 
 gable-roofed wood-and-plaster houses with their gardens, 
 Shakespeare saw much of life. At the great Rother 
 Market, where the horned cattle were brought for sale, 
 he had an opportunity to study the ploughmen and drov- 
 ers who had come up from the Feldon country. In 
 another part of the village corn and other country prod- 
 uce were sold. These markets were the centers of 
 interest and to them the people of Stratford still resort 
 upon their annual fair days, at which times the custom 
 still prevails of having in Rother Market a barbecue. 
 Shakespeare undoubtedly loved this Warwickshire coun- 
 try with its quiet, beautiful landscapes, this cheery Strat- 
 ford, this gently flowing river, these historic scenes, the 
 grand and simple folk. The folk lore, the fairy tales, the 
 
SHAKESPEARE S HOME AND HERITAGE. 33 
 
 every-day life of his ever-cherished home helped to make 
 him what he became. 
 
 Of course it is impossible to account for or explain 
 great genius. But some of the forces which operate upon 
 it and direct it are usually discoverable, and a knowledge 
 of Shakespeare's home and origin helps us to understand 
 his character. That which means most in his work is 
 his right thinking — the Tightness of his view. We have 
 seen that his environment was such as to make him feel 
 the lightness, the airiness, the beauty of life. We can 
 see that nature lavished upon him her tranquil, beautiful 
 treasures ; we can see that the manners and ways of men 
 became known to him. All of these influences contribute 
 to rightness of thinking and doing. Then we can only 
 surmise how much the poet owed to his father and 
 mother. The father, John Shakespeare, was unlettered, 
 but seems to have been nobly endowed. He was high- 
 minded, intelligent, and active, and reached distinction 
 in his own shire. In 1557 he married Mary Arden, the 
 daughter of a wealthy and highly respectable Warwick- 
 shire farmer; in 1568 he became High Bailiff of Strat- 
 ford. Then until 1577 he seems to have been prosperous, 
 but after that time the fortunes of the family declined and 
 it took the best efforts of the poet's life to make them 
 good again. Perhaps John Shakespeare was fond of the 
 drama, for some of the earliest plays known to have been 
 given in Stratford were performed when he was High 
 Bailiff, and they must have had his sanction. But con- 
 jecture is easy and dangerous. Of Mary Arden, the 
 poet's mother, very little is known. She lived the plain 
 country life of the Warwickshire people, and, like her 
 
34 SHAKESPEARE S HOME AND HERITAGE. 
 
 husband, she could not write. But these facts did not 
 imply what they would to-day. She was of good birth 
 and breeding ; her family had long been honorable. We 
 may, therefore, believe her to have been a woman of love- 
 liness, dignity, and strength, — the worthy inspiration of 
 the poet's highest ideals. Perhaps it is true that the best 
 traits in Shakespeare were inherited from the Ardens. 
 But of all this we have not knowledge enough to speak. 
 
 About Shakespeare's own character we can be surer, 
 for those who knew him best always praised him for two 
 qualities — gentleness and honor. He seems to have 
 been scrupulously careful to be honest in his dealings. 
 Amid all the temptations of his London career he kept 
 steadily in mind the accumulation of a fortune which 
 would place himself and his family in an independent 
 financial position. He must have had power of self- 
 control to have led this thrifty life, surrounded as he was 
 by the thriftless set of actors who were his contemporaries. 
 He shared their Bohemian excesses without giving him- 
 self up to them, and when he had earned his fortune he 
 chose to leave the city and spend his last years quietly at 
 Stratford. 
 
 History of the Drama down to Shakespeare's Time. 
 
 The essential characteristic of the drama, as the v/ord 
 implies, is action. In a play, man is represented as in 
 action, as putting into concrete form the struggles of his 
 nature as he comes in contact with other beings, or with 
 institutions. The drama is the highest form of literary 
 art. At least it is more elaborate in structure than any 
 
HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 35 
 
 other kind of expression, and more direct in its appeal to 
 the will. 
 
 To England belongs the honor of having been the first 
 country to develop a national drama in modern times. 
 When reference is made to the periods of great dramatic 
 literature, it is usual to think of the classic, the English, 
 and the Spanish dramas, but it is to be remembered that 
 both India and China had produced a national drama of 
 very high character. 
 
 The Indian drama began probably as early as the third 
 century li.c. It has such literary excellence as to place 
 it in the same rank with any produced, save the very 
 best. It may even be doubted whether the best dra- 
 matic literature of other nations equals for refinement 
 and the indication of genuine culture the drama of the 
 Indian masters. They did not represent the life of the 
 people, but reflected the thought of the literary class, 
 expressing in their work all that was finest in Hindu 
 religion and civilization. 
 
 The Chinese drama like the Hindu arose from a union 
 of the arts of dancing and of singing. Its origin is vari- 
 ously dated from 580 a.d. to 720 a.d. A lofty ideal of 
 morality, as an essential aim, was cherished by the 
 Chinese, but in practice there was often a great descent 
 from the avowed aim of making every drama have both 
 a moral and a meaning. 
 
 Japan, while having a form of amusement called the 
 drama, has made no contribution worthy to be called 
 dramatic literature. The drama of the Orient, though 
 replete with much that is artistic in treatment and lofty 
 in sentiment, is essentially different from that body of 
 
36 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 literature which is the product of that golden age of 
 Greek art which is made glorious by the names of 
 Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides in tragedy, and 
 Aristophanes in comedy (499-380 B.C.) 
 
 The classical drama was founded upon and closely 
 connected with the national religion. The origin of 
 tragedy and comedy together with the significance at- 
 taching to each as understood by the Greeks is of very 
 great interest. Plato defines tragedy as an imitation of 
 the noblest life. The deeds and sufferings of heroes 
 were the themes of Greek tragedy. Comedy was char- 
 acterized by the comic element and was the vehicle of 
 bitterest irony and ridicule. Much of the wit of the 
 plays of Aristophanes is lost upon the modern reader, 
 because the things towards which the shafts of ridicule 
 are directed are not understood as they were considered 
 in Greece, the land of their origin. And yet, so great is 
 the art of these old Greeks as to reveal even to the 
 modern mind that elusive element of mirth, and also to 
 impress one with the grandeur and solemnity of the great 
 tragedies which are the expression of the deepest religious 
 sentiments of the Greeks. Both their tragedies and their 
 comedies express truth that is universal and that finds a 
 response in the heart of man in all ages. 
 
 The Greek drama was essentially different on the one 
 hand from that of the other early nations, and on the 
 other hand from that of modern times. It stands out as 
 the great artistic product which has been regarded as the 
 standard of excellence. It is not possible to consider 
 here its inner character and to contrast it with the 
 English. That would lead us far into the study of the 
 
HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 37 
 
 differences between Hellenism and Christianity, between 
 ancient and modern life. In its outward form the Greek 
 drama differs from the English by its chorus and by its 
 observance of the three unities. The function of the 
 chorus was varied. Greek drama was a combination 
 of Lyric odes and Dramatic episodes, the former sung 
 by the chorus, and the latter presented by actors. 
 In the earliest times there was only one actor, but 
 the number was afterwards increased to three or four. 
 The chorus took part, at times, in the dialogue of the 
 episodes. It was also used to bring to the knowledge 
 of the audience anything which was outside the action 
 and to comment on the meaning of the whole. The 
 strict adherence to the unities made such use of the 
 chorus essential. 
 
 The three unities are those of Time, Space, and 
 Action. Unity of Time meant that the drama must be 
 confined in its representation to just so much as could 
 be brought within the limit of one day ; events outside of 
 this limit were often narrated. Unity of Space meant a 
 single place for the entire action shown. Unity of 
 Action meant oneness of story. In the Greek drama the 
 plot had to be single ; no underplot, no combination of 
 stories was allowed. 
 
 The Greek theatre as an institution was supported by 
 the state and was for the benefit of the whole people. 
 The structures in which these classical plays were repre- 
 sented were very different from the rude theatres of 
 Shakespeare's England. They were of large propor- 
 tions, open to the sky for the most part, and true to the 
 art spirit of Athens, their marble colonnades and their 
 
38 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 finely chiselled statues of the Greek deities made the 
 theatres objects of rarest beauty. 
 
 Rome had a national drama, but it was borrowed, for 
 the most part, from the Greeks. Its greatest names are 
 those of Plautus and Terence, who imitated in Latin the 
 second or later comedy of the Greeks. The tragedies 
 of Seneca, written in the early days of the Empire, had 
 considerable influence on the modern drama. When the 
 Christian religion came to be the acknowledged faith of 
 the Roman Empire the theatre received its death blow. 
 The Church condemned the stage at this time, but later 
 there was a revival of the drama in the service of religion 
 in the form of dramatic representations of scenes drawn 
 from the Bible history and from the legends of Christian 
 saints. These had their origin in the liturgy of the 
 Christian Church. 
 
 The medieval Christian drama is divided into three 
 classes, the mysteries, miraeles, and 7>ioralities. The mys- 
 teries deal with scriptural events only, the Nativity, the 
 Passion, and the Resurrection being the chief themes. 
 The Passion Play which is given every ten years at 
 Oberammergau is the one remaining mystery surviving 
 from the middle ages. This play serves the original pur- 
 pose of a religious festival. The mirae/e play was drawn 
 from the legends of the saints of the Church. The 
 moralities were allegories in which the vices and virtues 
 became the characters. These religious and moral dramas 
 were similar in Italy, Spain, Germany, France, and Eng- 
 land. The term " mystery " was used in France, but not 
 originally in England, to designate the plays founded 
 upon Bible history. The miracles included, in England, 
 
HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 39 
 
 the themes of the mysteries. These primitive representa- 
 tions were placed upon movable platforms and thus taken 
 from place to place. In the moralifies the Devil and his 
 attendant, the Vice, were always given a prominent place. 
 The Vice is believed to have been of English origin. He 
 was usually dressed in the habit of a fool, and it is prob- 
 able that the Vice may have originated from the character 
 of the court fool, or jester. There are four series of 
 English mysteries that have been preserved. By series 
 is meant a number of plays carrying the sacred narrative 
 through from the Creation. Many series doubtless were 
 produced, but these four are all that have been preserved. 
 They are the Chester Plays ; the Coventry Plays ; the 
 Towneley Plays ; the York Plays. The mysteries were 
 originally performed by priests, but gradually the acting 
 passed out of the hands of priests into the hands of the 
 common people, that is of the guilds or trades.^ In the 
 time of Henry VIII. the moralities came to their greatest 
 prominence. They became the vehicle of conflicting 
 opinions upon the political and religious questions of 
 that time. 
 
 The transition from the inoralities to the modern drama 
 was gradually made by means of the chronicle histories 
 and the interludes. There had been a demand for a 
 relief from the serious, solemn teaching of the religious 
 and moral drama, and so between the parts of the miraeles 
 and the moralities there had been introduced short plays 
 
 ^ Mr. Skeat explains the name viystery by reference to the Latin 
 ministcriutn, " mystery plays, so called because acted by craftsmen." 
 But it is just as likely that the name comes from the fact that the 
 mysteries of the Christian religion were presented. 
 
40 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 which contained representations of historical characters 
 and real personages, thus placing alongside the abstrac- 
 tions an element of interest in the form of real human 
 beings. While the sacred drama was flourishing, profane 
 subjects were not often treated, but interludes are known 
 as early as the reign of Edward I. In the work of John 
 Heywood, who wrote under Henry VIII. we can see how 
 these led up to the modern comedy. Real men and 
 women took the place of the abstractions of the morali- 
 ties. Character-painting began, and plots were developed ; 
 thus the elements of the later comedy were provided. For 
 his part in this development Heywood deserves a prom- 
 inent place in the history of the English drama. 
 
 The revival of learning, and especially the study of the 
 classical drama, which formed a prominent part of the 
 study of the scholars of the new era, did much to change 
 the character of the literature produced for the stage, 
 Italy was the first among the modern nations to show the 
 results of the Renaissance, but she did not develop a 
 drama that takes rank with the best. It was left to 
 Spain among the Romance peoples and to England 
 among Germanic to produce a great national dramatic 
 literature at a relatively early date. 
 
 " Ralph Roister Bolster," by Nicholas Udall, performed 
 before 1551, is the first English comedy. This play shows 
 the influence of classical models. It leaves the allegories 
 of the moralities and enters the field of actual life. " Gor- 
 boduc " is the first tragedy written in English. It is 
 fashioned after Seneca, but shows native elements. It 
 does not observe the unity of time, and thus violates one 
 of the characteristic requirements of the classical drama. 
 
HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 4I 
 
 So fixed had become the belief that the unities of time 
 and space must be observed that any violation of them 
 was regarded even by the best scholars of England as one 
 not to be allowed. 
 
 Early in the history of the development of the modern 
 English drama there was introduced a very important 
 element in the form of chronicle history. The traditions 
 of national history were worked into a series of rude com- 
 positions which were later to furnish the master dramatist 
 with materials for the great series of English historical 
 dramas. 
 
 Among the immediate predecessors of Shakespeare the 
 names of Kyd, Lyly, Greene, Peele, Nash, Lodge, and 
 Marlowe are significant. John Lyly's service to English 
 literature was a contribution of real value. He adopted 
 the innovation of writing plays in prose and gave the 
 first example of sprightly dialogue. Marlowe was by far 
 the greatest of the predecessors of Shakespeare. His 
 treatment of the Faust legend in his " Dr. Faustus " gives 
 him high rank, and his masterpiece, "* Edward II." places 
 him as preeminently superior to all his contemporaries. 
 These dramatists lived in stirring times and their works 
 reflect the times. During the Wars of the Roses litera- 
 ture and civilization had declined in England, and of 
 course dramatic development was checked. In the six- 
 teenth century quiet returned, and progress was once 
 more possible. The whole nation burst into new life, 
 and the highest expression of this life is in the works of 
 the dramatists. 
 
 In the brilliant court of Henry VIII. theatrical amuse- 
 ments and masques played a prominent joart, but here a 
 
42 HISTORV OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 new danger arose, that of foreign models being followed 
 to the extent of checking the growth of the native 
 dramatic literature which had its roots in the life of the 
 English people. In France, for instance, the classical 
 models gained such precedence that they became the dom- 
 inating influence. Though plays modeled on Plautus, 
 Terence, Euripides and Seneca were frequently produced 
 in the reigns of both Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, yet the 
 strong healthy spirit of independence forbade that the 
 native dramatic elements should be ignored. The culti- 
 vated classes admired the brilliancy and learning of these 
 dramas based upon the three unities. The native English 
 drama, while ignoring the tenets of the classical drama, 
 was nevertheless much improved by the kind of imitation 
 which really did give to it a certain unmistakable finish. 
 
 The boldness with which Shakespeare violated artistic 
 laws in presenting within one short drama many years 
 and widely distant places, brought the severest criticism 
 upon his work. He was declared to be utterly devoid of 
 artistic sense. But the critics lost sight of the fact that, 
 notwithstanding the poet does bring together persons and 
 events belonging to different centuries, though he does 
 present an entirely impossible geography, he is always 
 true when dealing with man, his passions, his virtues, his 
 vices. 
 
 The theatre became involved in bitter controversy in 
 1589, which led to a stopping of stage plays. There was 
 an attempt to make the stage a means of dealing out the 
 bitterest political invective. This tended toward the 
 degradation of both plays and players. In 1594 the 
 London players were divided into two companies, the 
 
HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 43 
 
 Lord Chamberlain's and the Lord Admiral's, which alone 
 received licenses. These were directed by respectable 
 men. 
 
 To the Lord Chamberlain's Company, which moved to 
 the Globe on the Bankside, in 1599, Shakespeare and 
 Richard Burbage, believed to be the greatest of the 
 Elizabethan actors, belonged. These early theatres were 
 rude in the extreme. Nothing in the way of scenery and 
 other accessories aided the Elizabethan dramatists. The 
 parts of women were played by boys and continued to be 
 until the period of the Restoration drama, 1660, as no 
 woman was allowed in the theatre unless masked. 
 
 The playhouses of this period were of the plainest, 
 most uninviting sort, but we must conclude that what was 
 lacking in stage setting and in the general equipment of 
 the Elizabethan theatre was more than compensated for 
 in the excellence of the Elizabethan actors. Shake- 
 speare's advice to the players in " Hamlet " furnishes 
 sufficient evidence that very high ideals of the actor's art 
 characterized the period. It is difficult to imagine a boy 
 doing justice to some of the immortal women of Shake- 
 speare, and yet by a careful training they may have be- 
 come able to give fair representations. The theatre was 
 adapted to conventions of strolling players. The pit at 
 least was open to the sky : there was no scenery, in the 
 modern sense of the word, there being not even a curtain. 
 The fashionable part of the audience sat in chairs on 
 either side of the stage, smoking and eating and, if they 
 saw fit, railing at the performance. The costumes were 
 of the prevailing fashion, no attempt being made by stage 
 appointments or dress to represent to the eye the real 
 
44 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 picture of the play being presented. It is by no means 
 sure, however, that these conditions are to be considered 
 unfavorable to the drama. A demand was made upon 
 the imagination of both poet and spectator, and both met 
 the demand. 
 
 But what made this age and its vShakespeare ? The 
 Renaissance had brought to England, as it had brought to 
 Continental Europe, new life. The best of the old life 
 had come with its treasures. These were counted over, 
 this old life was re-lived. The best products of the 
 civilization of that race were transplanted and took root 
 on English soil. The art of printing had made the classi- 
 cal literature a possible possession to the many. Books 
 were multiplied, and so the accumulated thought of the 
 past became the heritage of the people, England had 
 finished her Hundred Years' War, she had lost her conti- 
 nental possessions and had commenced her own free, 
 national life ; so that through her losses the individual 
 national development became a possibility. Elizabeth's 
 reign was a period of peace, thus providing a time favor- 
 able for the growth of literature. The voyages of dis- 
 covery and exploration had awakened a spirit of adven- 
 ture. The queen had given much encouragement to 
 literature and had shown special interest in dramatic 
 representation. The chivalric devotion of the English 
 people to their virgin queen had nurtured a tenaency 
 toward emphasizing the picturesque elements in the 
 English life of the times. 
 
 When the age of Elizabeth is studied in comparison 
 with other periods, even superficially, it is easily discerned 
 that no other age in the history of the English people has 
 
HISTORY OF THE DRAMA, 45 
 
 possessed so many conditions favorable to the production 
 of a great literature. When every source of the greatness 
 of the age has been made clear ; when everything known 
 about the man Shakespeare has been carefully gleaned ; 
 we still wait for an answer to our query, " How came this 
 Shakespeare to be so great ? " We have reached the 
 limit of our ability to measure him. Spiritual products 
 elude the grasp ; genius is inexplicable. 
 
 The Historical Plays. 
 
 Shakespeare shows most wonderful power in the de- 
 lineation of individual and domestic life. This alone 
 would have made him one of the greatest poets of any 
 age ; but when, in addition to this, he possesses marvel- 
 ous power in perceiving and interpreting the inner truths 
 of great political and national movements, he at once 
 transcends all others in the scope of his genius. 
 
 Some of the closest students have declared that from 
 his historical plays they have learned more of English his- 
 tory than from all other sources. Of course this does not 
 mean that the plays represent anything that can be called 
 scholarly research. Unlike Ben Jonson, who scrupu- 
 lously followed classical originals for many of the speeches 
 in his Roman plays, Shakespeare usually did not go be- 
 yond Plutarch for his ancient history, or Holinshed for 
 his modern. But he caught the spirit and significance of 
 the historic movements, and wove the series of events into 
 an artistic whole in such a way that the product is both 
 history and poetry — history in that it deals with the nar- 
 ration of concrete facts ; poetry in that it idealizes the 
 substance and discloses the real truth that underlies it. 
 
46 THE HISTORICAL PLAYS. 
 
 In the drama of individual life the poet is true to the 
 ethical principle, that the deed returns upon the doer. 
 In the broader field of political action the deed means 
 more, it goes far beyond the narrow circle of the individ- 
 ual life. No man can live to himself alone, but every- 
 one, however narrow his circle of influence, stands charged 
 with grave responsibility. When a man's deeds control the 
 fate of thousands there is proportionately greater good or 
 evil resulting. The poet had a broad field in the great his- 
 torical movements which he chose for dramatic representa- 
 tion, to teach the great lessons to be drawn from national 
 growth and decay. It matters not whether he seized 
 upon these great periods in Roman and English history 
 because of their dramatic and artistic elements as serving 
 his purpose best, or whether he meant to teach great ethi- 
 cal lessons drawn from the lives of two great nations. 
 Both the artistic and the ethical are present in the dra- 
 mas, and it is unimportant what the poet meant to do, if 
 only we can interpret the message which he really brings. 
 His exact purpose has been, and will doubtless remain, a 
 matter for dispute. On the one side we have the opin- 
 ion of Ulrici,^ who suggests that in the " Roman cycle of 
 plays he brings before us the political life and the history 
 of the progress of the Roman people (the basis of mod- 
 ern political life) in all its essential movements ; ' Cori- 
 olanus ' give us the contests between the plebeians and 
 patricians and the progressive development of the repub- 
 lic ; 'Julius Caesar,' the last, fruitless struggles of the 
 dying republic with the rise of the new monarchical form 
 of government ; ' Antony and Cleopatra,' the downfall of 
 
 1 Shalrs/'carc's Dramatic Art. English translation, p. 34S. 
 
THE HISTORICAL PLAYS. 4/ 
 
 the oligarchy and the nature of the empire; 'Titus An- 
 dronicus,' the inevitable decay of the ancient spirit and 
 position of the Roman empire, in face of the Germanic 
 nations, and the new principle of life which the latter in- 
 troduced into the political history of Europe. For al- 
 though ' Titus Andronicus ' is not one of the actual his- 
 torical dramas, it may, nevertheless, to some extent, be 
 included among them here, inasmuch as it is semi-histori- 
 cal in so far as it represents, not indeed any real actions 
 and characters, but still a definite period in an historical 
 coloring, and therefore its interpretation is to be found 
 only in the character of the epoch. The whole cycle 
 shows us the lofty power and virtue of a mighty empire, 
 of a great nation, but also its deep, tragic decay. How- 
 ever, the tragic pathos cannot produce its full effect 
 here ; for, as in the case of every separate tragedy, the 
 tragic fate of the hero finds its compensation in the new 
 life which arises thence to the whole nation, so the cycle 
 closes in a truly historical spirit by gently pointing to 
 the new glory of European humanity, which was to 
 be developed within the sphere of the Germanic family 
 of nations." 
 
 Dowden,^ on the other hand, speaking of the same cycle 
 of plays, gives far less weight to their political teachings. 
 He says : " Important, however, as the political signifi- 
 cance doubtless is, there is something more important ; 
 whether at any time Shakespeare was concerned as deeply 
 about corporate life, ecclesiastical, political, or even na- 
 tional, as he was about the life and destiny of the individ- 
 ual man, may well be questioned. But at this time the 
 
 1 Shakespeare'' s Mind and Art, p. 277. 
 
48 THE HISTORICAL PLAVS. 
 
 play of social forces certainly did not engage his imagina- 
 tion with exclusive or supreme interest. The struggle of 
 patrician and plebeian is not the subject of ' Coriolanus,' 
 and the tragedy resolves itself by no solution of that 
 political problem. Primarily, the tragedy is that of an 
 individual soul." 
 
 The second series of chronicle-histories consists of the 
 ten dramas founded upon English history. They begin 
 with " King John " and end with " Henry VIII." They 
 were written at widely different times, and the reigns were 
 not taken up in chronological order. In some of them 
 Shakespeare appears to have been only a collaborator ; 
 others are old plays recast and touched up ; in others still 
 we have some of the poet's best and most characteristic 
 work. It is probably useless, therefore, to seek for a con- 
 sistent method or purpose throughout the cycle. 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 Historical Basis of "Henry VHI." 
 
 Henry VIII. came to the throne at the age of eighteen 
 richly endowed with good looks, with great energy, with a 
 bright mind, fully in sympathy with the New Learning. 
 The rival houses of York and Lancaster were happily 
 united in himself. He was heir to enormous wealth, and 
 dispensed favors with such liberality as to draw to himself 
 those whom he cared to attract, while he at the same time 
 dealt mercilessly with those who had largely created his 
 material power. He was hailed with the wildest joy by 
 his people, and certainly no sovereign ever ascended the 
 English throne with more brilliant promise of a glorious 
 reign. This young king, possessed of great possibilities, 
 came to the throne at a time the like of which had 
 never before existed. Great movements w^ere at work in 
 society, great changes were preparing. Distant discover- 
 ies were revealing a new world. The voyagers brought 
 home stories of new lands, peopled by new races, and 
 the air was full of new life and eagerness. For several 
 generations the Renaissance on one side, and the reli- 
 gious Reformation on the other, had been gathering 
 strength in England, and intiuencing the national life. 
 Social and moral reforms were set forth in books like 
 More's "Utopia"; English scholars went to Italy to 
 
52 HISTORICAL BASIS OF HENRY VIII. 
 
 Study under the Greek masters who had fied from Con- 
 stantinople ; a new learning and a new religion were 
 developing side by side. 
 
 Green/ speaking of this whole movement, says : " But 
 from the first it was manifest that the revival of letters 
 would take a turn in England very different from the turn 
 it had taken in Italy, a tone less literary, less largely 
 human, but more moral, more religious, more practical in 
 its bearings both upon society and politics. The awak- 
 ening of a rational Christianity, whether in England or 
 in the Teutonic world at large, began with the Italian 
 studies of John Colet; and the vigor and earnestness of 
 Colet were the best proof of the strength with which the 
 new movement was to affect English religion. He came 
 back to Oxford utterly untouched by the Platonic mysti- 
 cism or the semi-serious infidelity which characterized 
 the group of scholars round Lorenzo the Magnificent. 
 He was hardly more influenced by their literary enthu- 
 siasm. The knowledge of Greek seems to have had one 
 almost exclusive end for him, and this was a religious 
 end. Greek was the key by which he could unlock the 
 Gospels and the New Testament, and in these he thought 
 that he could find a new religious standing-ground. It 
 was this resolve of Colet to fling aside the traditional 
 dogmas of his day, and to discover a rational and practi- 
 cal religion in the Gospels themselves, which gave its 
 peculiar stamp to the theology of the Renaissance." 
 
 This John Colet was born in London in 1466, and 
 educated at Oxford. His lectures no doubt contributed 
 to the Reformation which came in the following genera- 
 
 1 A Shorter History of the English People^ chap. \'I, p. 304. 
 
HISTORICAL BASIS OF HENRY VIII. 53 
 
 tion. He was an intimate friend of Erasmus and of Sir 
 Thomas More. He stood for the simplest interpretation 
 of the Christian religion. He cared not for the disputa- 
 tions relative to dogma, but declared that he found in the 
 life and sayings of Christ all that was necessary for a 
 rational faith. 
 
 The little group of English scholars who had thought 
 and worked, who had ushered in the dawn of a new day, 
 were rejoiced at the accession of Henry VHl. Small 
 encouragement had been received at the hand of his 
 father, but they hoped for much from the new king. He 
 was really in sympathy with the new order. Colet had 
 the support of Warhani, Archbishop of Canterbury, and 
 also of the king himself. The educational reform began 
 in the founding by Colet of his Grammar School along- 
 side St. Paul's, of which he was dean. The movement 
 spread until it touched the universities. Every depart- 
 ment of education felt the new life. New methods were 
 introduced. New grammars were prepared, and the anti- 
 quated ways were laid aside. 
 
 We may turn now from social conditions to explain 
 the political relations of the young king. Henry VH., 
 the father of Henry VIH., cherished enmity toward 
 France, but was afraid to stand unaided against her, and 
 so sought to form an alliance with Spain. This was 
 brought about by securing the marriage of his eldest son, 
 Arthur, to Catharine of Arragon, the daughter of the 
 Spanish sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella. Arthur 
 lived but five months after the marriage. It was desired 
 by both Ferdinand and Henry VII. that the families be 
 reunited by marrying the young Prince Henry, who was 
 
54 HISTORICAL BASIS OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 but twelve years old, to Catharine. It was unlawful for 
 one to marry his brother's wife, and so a dispensation 
 was sought from the Pope, and reluctantly granted. 
 Then a little later Henry VII. came to feel that in order 
 that he might remain in a safe position with reference to 
 both France and Spain, he must oppose the union. So, 
 when the prince was fourteen years of age, he was 
 required to disavow by formal act the obligations con- 
 tracted in his name. The king's father had fallen ill and 
 the queen had died, and the king had come to look upon 
 these misfortunes as indications of the displeasure of 
 Heaven, concerning his action relative to the betrothal 
 of his son to his brother's widow. But when, four years 
 later, the prince succeeded to the throne, he consum- 
 mated the marriage. This union seemed to be a happy 
 one for a period of fifteen years, when there appeared 
 among the ladies of his court Anne Boleyn, a beautiful 
 young woman. With her advent, scruples about his 
 marriage to Catharine seem to have taken possession of 
 the king. There had arisen doubt about the succession 
 to the crown. Of the children born to Henry VIII. and 
 Catharine but one survived, and that one the delicate 
 girl. Princess Mary. There had been a question about 
 the legitimacy of the marriage in the first place, and then 
 the facts that all the boys born to the royal pair had died, 
 that no woman had ever sat upon the English throne, 
 and that the precedent was against permitting it, — all 
 these threw additional discredit on the union. It is, no 
 doubt, true that there did exist among the English people 
 a dread of having a time come when there might arise a 
 question as to the succession. The country had suffered 
 
HISTORICAL BASIS OF HENRY VIII. 55 
 
 from the terrible Wars of the Roses too much not to con- 
 template with dismay the danger of another contiict of 
 rival claimants to the throne. It is but fair to state that 
 some legitimate reasons did exist sufficient to bring some 
 unrest to the mind of the king, but it is not likely that a 
 man of his imperious will would have yielded to these 
 fears had not the personal charms of Anne Boleyn fasci- 
 nated the sensual monarch. Catharine, six years his 
 senior, had lost the charm of youth, and no longer was 
 sufficiently attractive to hold the heart of her royal hus- 
 band. He was a sensual, vain, despotic man, but he 
 was still possessed of some qualities of character that 
 made him a powerful ruler. He never lost the good 
 will of his subjects. He seems to have had that rare 
 insight which made him able to estimate accurately the 
 state of public opinion, and the tact to yield to it while 
 really leading it. But in his demand for a divorce he dis- 
 regarded the outraged feelings of his people, and acted 
 in utter defiance of their real will. After granting a dis- 
 pensation to allow the marriage, and, in view of the 
 Catholic doctrine against divorce in general, the Church 
 would have stultified itself by granting Henry VHI. a 
 divorce from Queen Catharine. 
 
 Thomas Wolsey, who had risen from the lower walks 
 in life, had become the power behind the throne. King 
 Henry VHI. had affiliated with those of lower rank than 
 himself, and had treated those of high birth with much 
 harshness. He could best serve his purposes by curbing 
 the ambition of those who by right of birth dared to 
 thwart his desires, and by making those who served him 
 the creatures of his caprice. Wolsey was a strong, un- 
 
56 HISTORICAL BASIS OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 scrupulous man who served his king, but always with an 
 eye to serving himself. He was Henry's chief minister, 
 and had been honored by the bestowal of the cardinal's 
 hat ; with ambition still unsatisfied, he coveted the papal 
 chair. So Wolsey favored the divorce, in the hope of 
 forming by the marriage of the king to a French princess 
 an alliance which would help on his personal ends. The 
 learned men of the Church, on the other hand, declared 
 the divorce unrighteous, and Charles V., the nephew of 
 Catharine, opposed it. In these perplexing circumstances 
 the Pope could only refuse to grant it, and Wolsey, in 
 spite of his diplomacy, failed to gain his purpose. 
 
 Catharine, with all the proud dignity of her Castilian 
 blood, persistently refused to consent to anything which 
 would even suggest that she had not been the true and 
 lawful wife of the king. The Catharine of history was 
 not remarkable either for intelligence or beauty. Though 
 the daughter of Isabella, renowned for her beauty, Catha- 
 rine did not inherit the physical charms of her mother. 
 She is reported to have been self-willed and somewhat 
 arrogant, but simple and earnest in her ways, possessed 
 of rare judgment, and withal thoroughly religious; and 
 she is said to have led a most devotedly pious life. 
 When but sixteen years old she had left her native land 
 to come to England as the bride of the young Prince 
 Arthur, and through all the years of her residence in a 
 foreign country, while she had been the faithful wife, 
 practicing with the greatest integrity the housewifely vir- 
 tues, she remained true to the political interests of 
 Spain, and greatly admired her nephew, Charles V., Em- 
 peror of Germany, who was a powerful rival of her hus- 
 
HISTORICAL BASIS OF HENRY VIII. 57 
 
 band. Henry, though repeatedly unfaithful to his mar- 
 riage vows, had still been cherished by the wronged 
 queen. But when it came to a question as to her being 
 his lawful wife, then she arose in all the power of her 
 proud, wronged womanhood and declared that she would 
 not submit. 
 
 Henry had inherited a coarse, selfish nature from his 
 father and many conditions came into his life which 
 tended to develop the unscrupulous, tyrannical side of 
 his character. He had acquired an unusual degree of 
 knowledge in a wide range of subjects. He was the 
 victim of the most abject flattery, and few could have 
 been more willing subjects to its wiles. His will, always 
 imperious, grew to the most gigantic proportions. When 
 the Pope, Clement VH., had dared to cross his royal will, 
 Henry took unto himself prerogatives that a man of less 
 daring would have hesitated long before assuming. The 
 king had become wrought up to the highest pitch of 
 resentment by the many subterfuges employed to dispose 
 of the vexed question of the divorce. The Pope had 
 consented to the trial of the case by a commission of 
 legates in England, and just at the time when Henry was 
 most hopeful of a decision in his favor the commission 
 was adjourned and the case called to the Pope's tribunal 
 at Rome. This delay and manifest evasion on the part 
 of the Pope greatly angered the king ; and his anger fell 
 upon Cardinal Wolsey, for managing affairs so as to sub- 
 ject him to these repeated humiliations, too grievous to 
 be borne by one of his temper. Wolsey's fall resulted. 
 Wolsey had done all that mortal man could do to foster 
 the despotic will of his sovereign, and sadly enough fell a 
 
58 HISTORICAL BASIS OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 victim to his own doing. One follower of Wolsey re- 
 mained true to him, and through his darkest hours minis- 
 tered to the needs of the fallen man. This man was 
 Thomas Cromwell. He became a most potent factor in 
 the momentous years that followed the downfall of the 
 gre^t Cardinal. Notwithstanding he had stood as the 
 friend of Wolsey, he came into the good graces of the 
 king. 
 
 Parliament had declared that there should be no 
 further appeals to the Papal Court. The Pope threat- 
 ened the king with excommunication if he did not 
 restore Catharine to her place as queen. At last Henry 
 formed a secret union with Anne Boleyn. Cranmer, who 
 had succeeded Warham as the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 had been an ardent supporter of the king in his purpose 
 to secure a divorce. Proceedings in Cranmer's court 
 at once began and resulted in the declaration that the 
 marriage with Catharine was invalid. Cranmer a short 
 time after crowned Anne Boleyn Queen of England in 
 place of the deposed Catharine. 
 
 It was Cromwell's supreme aim to raise the king to 
 absolute authority on the ruins of every rival power 
 within the realm. So he boldly suggested to Henry that 
 he take the matter of the divorce into his own hands, 
 that he declare the marriage void by the exercise of his 
 own supremacy. This struck Henry as being the solu- 
 tion to his problem, and the " Act of Supremacy " was 
 the result. It was ordered that the king " shall be 
 taken, accepted, and reputed, the only supreme head on 
 earth of the Churcii of England, and shall have and 
 enjoy annexed and united to the Imperial Crown of this 
 
HISTORICAL BASIS OF HENRY VIII. 59 
 
 realm as well the title and state thereof as all the honors, 
 jurisdictions, authorities, immunities, profits, and com- 
 modities to the said dignity belonging, with full power to 
 visit, repress, redress, reform, and amend all such errors, 
 heresies, abuses, contempts and enormities, which by any 
 manner of spiritual authority or jurisdiction might or may 
 lawfully be reformed." Schafif in an article on the Church 
 of England says : " The Church of England dates its 
 existence as a national body, independent of the papal 
 see, from the passage of the Act of Supremacy (1534) 
 and received its distinctive doctrinal character at the 
 adoption of the forty-two articles in the reign of Edward 
 VI. (subsequently reduced to thirty-nine under Elizabeth) 
 and the approval of the Book of Common Prayer." 
 
 Dr. Schafif in this quotation states the time at which 
 the English Church became independent of the Roman 
 See. It is not to be understood that the English Church 
 had not existed before this time. Much discussion has 
 arisen as to just what was the nature of the change in 
 the Church at the time of Henry VIII. It is certainly 
 important to note in this connection that the English 
 Church had existed centuries before this period. St. 
 Augustine of Canterbury (a.d. 596) writes of the Church 
 of England long before England as a state existed. Bede, 
 the historian, in his life of St. Augustine, written in the 
 eighth century, uses the same term, "Church of England." 
 
 In " Magna Charta " (a.d. 12 15) it is provided that the 
 Church of England is to retain its ancient rights and 
 liberties inviolate. The English Church before the Refor- 
 mation was governed by its own Canon Law% though it 
 was subject to the Pope of Rome. It is maintained not 
 
60 HISTORICAL BASIS OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 only that the Church of England dates its origin from 
 apostolic times, but also that its doctrines were originally 
 apostolic doctrines and that the reformers of the six- 
 teenth century meant a return to the pure, simple faith 
 upon which the Church had been founded. 
 
 The rupture from Rome in England was not, in the 
 first instance, the product of the protest of religious 
 principle against ecclesiastical abuse, however widely 
 prevalent reform sentiments were among all classes. It 
 was a political necessity to which Henry VIII. resorted 
 in order to accomplish and to justify his divorce from 
 Catharine and his marriage with Anne Boleyn. \A^hen in 
 the next year Henry formally took the title of " On earth 
 Supreme Head of the Church of England," and soon 
 after Cromwell took the post of Vicar-General of the king 
 in all ecclesiastical matters, new significance was given to 
 the step that had been taken. Cromwell was not a 
 priest but a layman, and therefore his elevation was 
 full of meaning. It is believed that Henry's taking 
 this title did not signify that he meant to be independ- 
 ent of Rome, but it did mean that the clergymen 
 were ever after to be under his rule, and subject to his 
 dictates. 
 
 In the earlier changes which the king made, in the 
 contest about the Pope's jurisdiction, in the reform of 
 the Church courts, in the narrowing of the province of 
 the clergy, the people had stood by him, but when it 
 became evident that the clergy were to be compelled 
 to become mere slaves, to be completely under the will of 
 the king, when the monasteries were suppressed, then 
 the people failed to support the reform movement. The 
 
HISTORICAL BASIS OF " HENRY VIII." 6l 
 
 monasteries had early shown antagonism to the New 
 Learning as well as to the king in his attitude toward the 
 Roman See. So these were the first to feel the resent- 
 ment of Henry and his chief adviser, Cromwell. The 
 last step was taken by Cromwell when he claimed for the 
 crown the right to dictate the form of faith and doctrine 
 to be held and taught throughout the land. Erasmus, 
 Colet, and the other reformers had hope that a reforma- 
 tion would come through the instrumentalities of increas- 
 ing education and piety ; but Cromwell determined to 
 compel the acceptance of a new faith by the arbitrary 
 power of the crown. Henry himself drew up the Articles 
 of Religion. In these were retained some of the old 
 doctrines of the Roman- Church, but the thought of the 
 reformers found no small place in the expression of the 
 new creed. 
 
 In the foregoing brief sketch it has been the aim to 
 give a glimpse of the age and the chief characters which 
 form the basis of Shakespeare's drama, "Henry VIII.," 
 in order that the poet's conception may be compared with 
 the events and characters of history. 
 
 Suggestions for the Study of "Henry VIII." 
 
 The question of most vital interest at the very beginning 
 of the study of a piece of literature is, " How can I make 
 this contribute most to my culture ? " What others have 
 seen in a drama, for instance, is of comparatively little 
 value except as it helps us to see for ourselves the truth 
 contained therein. Nothing will take the place of a 
 persistent study of the thing itself. When much study 
 
62 THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 has been bestowed upon the piece of Uterature with the 
 earnest purpose of interpreting the author's message as it 
 appeals to our own souls, then it is very profitable to seek 
 to know what it has meant to others. 
 
 An author is most fairly judged by the work that he 
 has done, but in order to understand his work we need to 
 know something about his age and his personal life. 
 As a preparation, then, for the study of Shakespeare a 
 knowledge of his age with its dramatic elements, its pecu- 
 liar characteristics, is essential. He was the creature of 
 his age as he became its voice. Shakespeare could not 
 have been Shakespeare in any other than the Elizabethan 
 age. We need to know not only the times which made him 
 and which he helped to make, but also the man himself. 
 It is helpful to know at least so much of Shakespeare's 
 life as will disclose the fibre of the man. Nothing can 
 better unfold the man than the work he has done, but 
 when we find unmistakable evidence on every page of his 
 work that the nature that prompted such sentiments coin- 
 cides with the whole conduct of his life so far as it is 
 known, then is knowledge doubly sure. 
 
 It is painful to note the undue emphasis often placed 
 upon such episodes in the life of Shakespeare as the 
 deer-stealing. Such a boyish escapade has no signifi- 
 cance in measuring the real man. That kind of biog- 
 raphy which dwells unduly upon the foibles and 
 weaknesses of its subject misses its purpose. The 
 effort should be to see the soul of the man as revealed 
 in his life. We believe that it is not possible for the 
 message the poet bears to be better than the man. If 
 we are fair, we shall judge every production as a 
 
THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 63 
 
 work of art, as an expression of the divine, whatever be 
 the Hfe of the artist, but we shall find that no very 
 good thing comes out of a very bad heart. All artists 
 are human and subject to human frailties, but how unfair 
 to judge their work by the worst act of their lives! 
 Then we would recommend such a study of the times 
 and life of the author as shall give the clearest setting to 
 his work. 
 
 As the next step in the study of this historical play, we 
 need to understand the authentic history of the period. 
 The more complete this study of the period can be, the 
 more ready will one be to measure the real value of the 
 view given by the poet. The poet doubtless gives the 
 more accurate picture of the time, as a rule, but if one 
 has mastered the outline of events as they really did occur 
 then certainly can the spirit pervading all be the more 
 fully grasped. If one knows the conditions in England 
 upon Henry's accession, if one understands the character 
 of the king and his attitude toward the movements 
 of his time, it is possible more clearly to see the poet's 
 method and purpose. 
 
 After this preparation, the careful study of the play 
 may properly begin. Frequent readings of the play with 
 the purpose of getting a clear connected view of the whole 
 are valuable. This connected view logically precedes an 
 analysis of the different parts. The student should pay 
 constant attention to the exact meaning of the text, and 
 make faithful use of all of the explanatory notes in some 
 good edition. When the narrative is well in mind, it is 
 helpful, as a second step, to write it out in connected form. 
 Let this reading and writing be done without the aid of 
 
64 THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 critical comments or characterizations made by others. Let 
 it be an independent study, tlie aim of which shall be to 
 obtain a mastery over the technical outline of the story 
 told. In studying this narrative, violations of the historical 
 record should be observed, such as the placing of the 
 birth of Elizabeth after the death of Queen Catharine. 
 The purpose of the poet is best served by giving a formal 
 legitimacy to the birth of the great queen during whose 
 reign Shakespeare lived. Had Elizabeth's birth been 
 represented as occurring when it actually did, before the 
 death of Catharine, it would have been an offense against 
 the artistic sense. 
 
 About thirty years have passed since the period pre- 
 sented in the drama of Richard III. The time of Henry 
 VII. was not included in the series of plays for a very 
 obvious reason. The period did not contain the dramatic 
 elements which would appeal to the poet, who, it must be 
 remembered, wrote primarily for the stage. This fact 
 will explain many things otherwise difficult to under- 
 stand. The reign of Henry VII. was a sort of transition 
 period, as it were, a time of healing the nation's wounds 
 after the long, cruel experience in the reign of Richard 
 III. We have then, in the play of " Henry VIII.," the 
 end of the series, significant in this, that it is the culmina- 
 tion of the period of which it is a part and the beginning 
 of a new order. 
 
 The play opens twelve years after the accession of 
 Henry VIII. The year 152 1, in which it begins, is mem- 
 orable as the year in which Henry received from the - 
 Pope the title " Defender of the Faith," because of 
 his celebrated book against Luther and his heretical 
 
THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 6$ 
 
 doctrines. It is equally remarkable that the drama ends 
 in the very year, 1533, in which the English Parliament 
 cut loose from the authority of the Pope forever. The 
 picture of Henry is a much more favorable one than 
 could have been given had the succeeding years of his 
 life been included in the drama. It is well to remember 
 that the Henry of history is seen in view of all his mon- 
 strous deeds, for which it is not possible for even the 
 most ardent admirer to apologize, while the Henry of the 
 drama is seen in the most significant period of his life as 
 the author of far-reaching changes. 
 
 In the opening scene of Act I. we have the central 
 figure in the Duke of Buckingham, who stands as the rep- 
 resentative of the nobility. Under the houses of York 
 and Lancaster, the nobility had meant a very different 
 power from what is in this new era. Here Buckingham, 
 Norfolk, Abergavenny, are assuming the old attitude and 
 conspiring to maintain the authority of the nobles. As 
 they have seen their power diminishing they have become 
 aware that Wolsey, whom they naturally regard as a man 
 unworthy of the position into which he hab come, is 
 steadily depriving them of their prerogatives. These 
 nobles have been in France, where they have seen the 
 magnificent pageant afforded by the gorgeous prepara- 
 tions made for the meeting of Henry VIII. and Francis I., 
 the king of France, upon that ever-memorable " Field of 
 the Cloth of Gold." By these extravagances the nobles 
 had been impoverished beyond endurance. 
 
 Buckingham and Wolsey are the leaders of opposing 
 parties, the latter in favor of the alliance with France, 
 and the former opposed to it. Wolsey feels that his owri 
 
66 THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 advancement must be gained by getting rid of Bucking- 
 ham and breaking down the power of the nobles. 
 
 In the second scene is given an introduction to Catha- 
 rine which reveals her as having not only the good of the 
 subjects at heart, but also the full confidence of the king. 
 When the king says to her, 
 
 Arise, and take place by us ; half your suit 
 Never name to us ; you have half our power ; 
 The other moiety, ere you ask, is given ; 
 Repeat your will, and take it, 
 
 he speaks to a wife whom he respects and loves. 
 When she makes her plea for the removal of the exac- 
 tions from which the people are suffering, Catharine 
 dares to say plainly that the cardinal is reproached, and 
 follows this by the expression of the tenderest regret that 
 the king has not escaped criticism. Following this ap- 
 peal comes a word in behalf of Buckingham. 
 
 All the shrewdness of Wolsey is not sufficient to coun- 
 teract the influence of the queen in the matter of the 
 taxes. In Wolsey is seen at once the characteristic which 
 dominates his career. He turns to his own advantage 
 the willingness of the king to heed the grievance which is 
 the burden of Catharine's plea : — 
 
 Wolsey (aside to the secretary). A word with you: 
 Let there be letters writ to every shire, 
 Of the King's grace and pardon. The grieved commons 
 Hardly conceive of me; let it be noised 
 That through our intercession this revokement 
 And pardon comes : I shall anon advise you 
 Further in the proceeding. 
 
 In the remaining scenes in the first act the chief inter- 
 est is in the picture of the gay guests at the cardinal's 
 
THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 6/ 
 
 banquet and the introduction of the fascinating Anne 
 Boleyn to the susceptible king. 
 
 In treating the fate of Buckingham, the poet is true to the 
 spirit of the time. The Duke, though intellectually in har- 
 mony with the new era, still belonged to the old order in 
 his feelings toward the altered status of the nobles. He 
 had contempt for Wolsey, and not being unacquainted 
 with such methods as the cardinal used so effectively, he 
 fell a victim to his own schemes to thwart the intentions 
 of Wolsey. There is little in Buckingham's character, as 
 disclosed by the poet, to awaken admiration. In his 
 closing speeches there is a spirit of the disappointed man, 
 but not of the man who is able to rise above his mis- 
 fortunes. The burden of his thought expresses itself in 
 the form of a wail, directed toward those whom he has 
 befriended. His is not the attitude of a great man. He 
 is willing to forgive, but he does not rise above the 
 thought of his betrayal and wretchedness. He recounts 
 his honors, and then laments his losses, and so yields to 
 his fate. 
 
 After the fate of Buckingham has been decided, 
 comes the conflict between Catharine and Wolsey. The 
 king is a tool in the hands of Wolsey, but a very willing 
 one, it seems. When the poet introduces the subject of 
 the divorce, it is done in the most adroit way. The two 
 factors in the cause of Henry's demand are both sug- 
 gested, and yet, with such delicacy that though the effect 
 of the charms of Anne Koleyn upon the king is mentioned 
 first, yet the question of the conscience of the king re- 
 garding the legitimacy of his marriage is not made subor- 
 dinate. The prime mover is the cardinal, who, having 
 
68 THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII," 
 
 removed the representation of the troublesome nobility 
 to the end of satisfying his own ambition, now boldly 
 plans the divorce of the king and his marriage to the 
 French princess. 
 
 In the third scene of Act II. is given the first glimpse 
 of the character of Anne Boleyn. She seems capable of 
 seeing, at least intellectually, the threatened wrong to the 
 queen. It seems from the replies of the Old Lady that 
 she believes the words of Anne out of harmony with her 
 real desires. It is not, however, at all probable that 
 Anne does not to an extent feel the great and terrible 
 wrong which is coming upon the great queen. 
 
 When the Old Lady says, 
 
 Alas, poor lady ! 
 She is a stranger now again, 
 
 and Anne replies, 
 
 So much the more 
 Must pity drop upon her. Verily, 
 I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born. 
 And range with humble livers in content, 
 Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, 
 And wear a golden sorrow, 
 
 she is revealing a heart capable of feeling. But when 
 so short a time after this she accepts, at the hands of the 
 king, the title and emoluments of " Marchioness of Pem- 
 broke," she shows the strength of her ambition, which so 
 easily overcomes her impulsive sympathy for the queen. 
 
 In the court scene in the Hall of Black-Friars, Catha- 
 rine rises in her dignity and refuses to have Wolsey for 
 her judge. She charges him with being her most 
 malicious foe. Wolsey is chagrined by Catharine's 
 
THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 69 
 
 accusation, and proceeds to ask that the king free him 
 from the charge of having suggested to him the cause 
 for divorce. In reply the king sets forth at length the 
 cause of his scruples. 
 
 The queen having appealed to the Pope and then 
 retired, refusing to return, the court is adjourned. The 
 king is vexed with the delay of the cardinals and wishes 
 for the absent Cranmer. 
 
 The opening scene of the third act is the finest part of 
 the whole drama. That interview of Catharine with the 
 cardinals is the scene in which the great strength of the 
 queen shows itself. Ever conscious of her weakness, and 
 yet as confident in the righteousness of her cause, she 
 copes well with the cunning of the wily cardinals. All 
 through the picture which Shakespeare gives of Catharine 
 she is shown to be the wife — the wife first, and after- 
 wards the queen : — 
 
 Wolsey, Peace to your Highness. 
 
 Catharine. Your graces find me here part of a housewife : 
 
 I would be all, against the worst may happen. 
 
 What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords ? 
 
 When Wolsey asks her to withdraw to a private room 
 for their conference, she replies : 
 
 Speak it here ; 
 There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience, 
 Deserves a corner : would all other women 
 Could speak this with as free a soul as I do 1 
 My lords, I care not — so much I am happy 
 Above a number — if my actions 
 Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw 'em. 
 Envy and base opinion set against 'em, 
 I know my life so even. If your business 
 Do seek me out, and that way I am wife in, 
 Out with it boldly : truth loves open deaUng. 
 
70 THE STUDY OF HENRY VIII. 
 
 In this protest against secret proceedings she is 
 revealed as adhering with the utmost tenacity to fair 
 and open dealing. In no part of the drama does the 
 poet present her as having done or said anything out of 
 harmony with this keynote of her character. Her fear- 
 lessness and faith in her reply to Wolsey when he has 
 assured her of the correctness of the advice of Campeius 
 is characterized by the sublimity of tone which belongs to 
 the expression of a heroic soul : — 
 
 Ye tell nie what ye wish for both, my ruin : 
 Is this your Christian counsel ? out upon ye ! 
 Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a Judge 
 That no king can corrupt. 
 
 The crushing sorrow of her heart finds utterance in 
 almost prophetic words when she says : 
 
 The more shame for ye ; holy men I thought ye, 
 
 Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; 
 
 But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye ; 
 
 Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort ? 
 
 The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady, 
 
 A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd ? 
 
 I will not wish ye half my miseries ; 
 
 I have more charity : but say, I warn'd ye ; 
 
 Take heed, for Heaven's sake, take heed, lest at once 
 
 The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. 
 
 In the closing speech to the cardinals is seen the poor 
 queen in a most human and especially in a most womanly 
 way showing that the love she still bears the king is so 
 overpowering her as to make her even express humility 
 in the presence of those deservedly hated cardinals. 
 
 The discovery of the cardinal's letter to the Pope has 
 begun the breach between the king and the cardinal. 
 This is the more easily accomplished since the king has 
 
THE STUDY OF HENRY VIII. 7I 
 
 grown impntient of delay, and, of course, is inclined to 
 charge it to the bad management of Wolsey. Wolsey is 
 about to see the " spleeny Lutheran," Anne Boleyn, take 
 the place of the queen, which he had hoped to fill by one 
 who would prove of advantage to himself. 
 
 As soon as Wolsey becomes aware of the king's anger 
 and its cause, he at once foresees the end : — 
 
 I've touched the highest point of all my greatness ; 
 And, from that full meridian of my glory, 
 I haste now to my setting : 1 shall fall 
 Like a bright exhalation in the evening, 
 And no man see me more. 
 
 Surrey thrusts upon the unwilling ears of the cardinal 
 a recital of the wrongs committed by him — how he had 
 robbed the land of noble Buckingham ; how he had sent 
 Surrey to Ireland thus to remove his aid ; how he had 
 gleaned all the land's wealth into his own hands by 
 extortion. Then follows a statement of the charges 
 made as reasons for the demand that he render up the 
 Great Seal. 
 
 The poet has put into the mouth of Wolsey himself the 
 most fitting words with which to express the cause of his 
 downfall : ■ — 
 
 I have ventured 
 Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
 This many Summers in a sea of glory ; 
 But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
 At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
 Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 
 
 His soul has come to itself when he uses these 
 words : 
 
72 THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 Why, well ; 
 Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell, 
 I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
 A peace above all earthly dignities, 
 A still and quiet conscience. 
 
 He hears with the utmost calmness of the choice of his 
 successor, Sir Thomas More, and of the appointment of 
 Cranmer as archbishop of Canterbury. In his reference 
 to Anne's public recognition as queen he gives the key to 
 what he considers his fatal error in opposing the king's 
 passion for her : — 
 
 There was the weight that pull'd me down. 
 
 This Wolsey, guilty as he knows himself to have been, 
 of tyranny, deceit, duplicity, and a long catalogue of wrong 
 doings, yet has come to a genuine repentance. This last 
 speech to Cromwell is the expression of a sincerely repent- 
 ant heart. The small soul breaks down beneath a load of 
 disappointment and suffering, but the great soul bears and 
 grows stronger by reason of the struggle. Wolsey had 
 never approached such greatness as now finds utterance 
 in these last words to Cromwell : 
 
 Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee 
 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
 
 Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not : 
 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
 
 Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 
 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the King; 
 
 And, — pr'ythee, lead me in : 
 
 There take an inventory of all I have, 
 
 To the last penny ; 'tis the King's ! my robe. 
 
 And my integrity to Heaven, is all 
 
THE STUDY OF HENRY VHI. 73 
 
 I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell I 
 Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
 I served my King, He would not in mine age 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies. 
 
 The fourth act opens with the description of the gor- 
 geous coronation scene with the beautiful new queen as 
 the supreme object in all eyes. There appears, wearing 
 his new honors, Thomas Cromwell, already master of the 
 jewelhouse, and member of the Privy Council. 
 
 Then follows the touching scene in the closing hours of 
 Catharine's life. Through all her failing physical strength, 
 she still preserves the same dignity of character and re- 
 sents any suggestion that she is other than the true Queen 
 of the Realm. When the messenger addresses her as 
 " your Grace " she at once resents this insult and demands 
 that she be addressed as becomes her rank, " Your High- 
 ness." This has by some been thought a weakness in 
 her character, but it seems to be truly admirable. Had 
 she ever admitted to herself or to any one else that she 
 could be stripped of her honor as a wife and queen, she 
 would have lost the one thing which compels respect. 
 
 The gentleness, love, and devout piety shown in her 
 closing message to the king complete the beautiful 
 character of the queen. Her mother heart cherished the 
 darling daughter and so a last appeal is made to the 
 father : 
 
 A little 
 To love her for her mother's sake, that loved him, 
 Heaven knows how dearly. 
 
 Then in her very last words again she speaks in that 
 strain of lofty dignity : 
 
74 THE STUDY OF HENRY VHI. 
 
 \Yhen I'm dead, good wench, 
 Let me be used with honour ; strew me over 
 With maiden flowers tliat all the world may know 
 I was a chaste wife to my grave : embalm me. 
 Then lay me forth ; although unqueen'd yet Uke 
 A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. 
 I can no more. 
 
 Catharine was loving, gentle, religious, and withal high- 
 spirited, and held tenaciously to her rights as wife. Had 
 she been willing to be divorced, to give her assent to have 
 her marriage declared void, her child branded as illegiti- 
 mate for state reasons she might have been a better queen 
 from the standpoint of the state, but she would have lost 
 much of the charm which her character possessed, as she, 
 refusing to be unqueened, is seen clinging with true wifely 
 devotion to an unworthy husband. She is more womanly, 
 even if it be maintained that she is not so queenly. She 
 appeals to our love and admiration as a woman, and we 
 feel that out of her long sorrow she went to a fuller 
 realization of true life and its supremest duties. 
 
 In the closing act, the birth of Elizabeth occurs, followed 
 by the baptismal festival in which Cranmer as Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury officiates. So in this scene, the 
 great Elizabeth is made the center of interest. Amid the 
 brilliant reign of the great queen, all ablaze with the glory 
 of a new time, the dramatist could well predict the splen- 
 dor of her reign and make the words of Cranmer full of 
 meaning : 
 
 Let me speak, Sir, 
 For Heaven now bids me ; and the words I utter 
 Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth. 
 This royal infant — Heaven still move about her ! — 
 Though in her cradle, yet now promises 
 Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings. 
 Which time shall bring to ripeness. 
 
THE STUDY OF HENRY VIII. 75 
 
 In reviewing the play as a whole the most interesting 
 question to the student of literature is, " What is its signif- 
 icance ? What purpose is served by this representation of 
 historical events ? " 
 
 From the standpoint of the ethical significance it seems 
 that the evil element has triumphed, the good become 
 tragic. The king after all his perfidy is blest by the birth 
 of a coveted daughter. The play ends in the most auspi- 
 cious way, for the king; but the good queen, who stands 
 for the best in life, goes down amid the wreck of ruin 
 wrought by the wicked passion of the king. Has the 
 highest purpose of art been served when evil thus triumphs? 
 It may well be doubted. It would be fruitless to spend 
 one's time in trying to discover what the poet meant by 
 this closing drama of his great Historical Series. We can 
 find in it the triumph of a principle, that of the freeing of 
 England from foreign domination in Church and State. 
 That Henry was the instrument of this important change 
 which meant so much in the history of England does not 
 contradict the truth of life, that out of evil motives and 
 evil deeds, good is made to come. The poet is true to 
 his instinct when he makes the interest of the play cluster 
 about Catharine. The halo that settles about her head 
 is the finest tribute that could be paid to the religion for 
 which she stands. The play is worthy of study if for 
 nothing else than the fine portraits of Wolsey and Cath- 
 arine ; it is worthy of study also because it sets forth the 
 culmination of a period of national development, the 
 period in which England passed from the life of the 
 middle ages into that of the modern world. 
 
 Not until the play has been studied in some such way 
 
76 THE STUDY OF " HENRY VIII." 
 
 as is here suggested will the use of commentaries be 
 profitable. When the reader has sufificient knowledge to 
 form intelligent independent opinions, then will a study 
 of the characterizations and interpretations given by oth- 
 ers be of real value. To consult them earlier would be 
 often to substitute ready-made opinions for original 
 thought. In addition to the interpretation of the thought 
 and teaching of the piece of literature, the study of form 
 is of great value. But this minute examination of form 
 should come second, since a critical view of anything 
 naturally succeeds the broad, general view of the subject. 
 What is said is of far more importance than the way in 
 which it is said. The unconscious effect of beautiful 
 form will make itself a great factor in one's estimate of 
 the thought revealed. The effect is in danger of being 
 marred by too minute inquiry into how it is brought 
 about. Still a study of style is important, especially as a 
 means of attaining a power of expressing one's own 
 thoughts in terms that are clear, forcible, and beautiful. 
 By observing closely the elements of a masterly style one 
 is able to recognize something of the sources of power ; 
 yet, when one has recounted the beauties of Shakespeare's 
 style, and, at the same time, pointed out his faulty figures 
 of speech and his anachronisms, one is led to wonder how 
 it is that greatness seems to transcend all law and become 
 a law unto itself. 
 
 If the study of Shakespeare's form leads one to note 
 the striking passages and to study them till they come to 
 be a real possession, then has a most valuable addition 
 to one's knowledge been made. A critical study of the 
 meter, the uses made of prose and verse, the relation of 
 
THE STUDY OF HENRY VIII. "J^ 
 
 the opening scenes to the theme of the drama, the rise 
 and decline — if there be such — in the author's genius, 
 the internal evidence of the work of Shakespeare as dis- 
 tinguished from the work of others, — all these things are 
 of value in a later study of the poet. They are never val- 
 ueless ; but, if choice must be made, that kind of study 
 which makes the greatest return in the way of the more 
 practical side of living is to be placed first. 
 
 The study of " Henry VIII." will not have served its en- 
 tire purpose unless it create a desire to begin with " King 
 John " and to study the English historical plays in their 
 chronological order, thus securing a connected view not 
 only of the history of this greatest epoch, but more than 
 this, catching the spirit that the poet reveals as the one 
 vitalizing force which made the epoch what it was. 
 
INTRODUCTION,! 
 
 History of the Play. 
 
 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH was undoubtedly 
 among the latest of the Poet's writing : Mr. Grant 
 White thinks it was the very last ; nor am I aware of any 
 thing that can be soundly alleged against that opinion. The 
 play was never printed till in the folio of 1623. It is first 
 heard of in connection with the burning of the Globe theatre, 
 on the 29th of June, 16 13: at least I am fully satisfied 
 that this is the piece which was on the stage at that time. 
 Howes the chronicler, recording the event some time after 
 it occurred, speaks of " the house being filled with people to 
 behold the play of Henry the Eighth^ And we have a letter 
 from Thomas Lorkin to Sir Thomas Puckering, dated 
 " London, this last of June," with the following : " No longer 
 since than yesterday, while Burbage's company were acting 
 at the Globe the play of Henry the Eighth, and there shooting 
 off certain chambers in way of triumph, the fire catched, and 
 fastened upon the thatch of the house, and there burned so 
 furiously, as it consumed the whole house." But the most 
 particular account is in a letter from Sir Henry Wotton to his 
 nephew, dated July 2, 1613 : " Now, to let matters of State 
 sleep, I will entertain you at the present with what happened 
 this week at the Bankside. The King's Players had a new 
 play called All is True, representing some principal pieces 
 in the reign of Henry the Eighth, which was set forth with 
 
 1 From Hudson's Schnol Shakespeare. 
 
8o KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 many extraordinary circumstances of pomp and majesty. 
 Now King Henry making a masque at the Cardinal Wolsey's 
 house, and certain cannons being shot off at his entry, some 
 of the paper or other stuff wherewith one of them was stopped 
 did hght on the thatch, where, being thought at first but an 
 idle smoke, and their eyes being more attentive to the show, 
 it kindled inwardly, and ran round like a train, consuming 
 within less than an hour the whole house to the very ground. 
 This was the fatal period of tliat virtuous fabric ; wherein yet 
 nothing did perish but wood and straw, and a few forsaken 
 cloaks." 
 
 Some of the circumstances here specified clearly point to 
 the play which has come down to us as Shakespeare's. 
 Sir Henry, to be sure, speaks of the piece by the title "Ail 
 is True " ; but the other two authorities describe it as " the 
 play of Henry the Eighth^ And it is worth noting that 
 Lorkin, in stating the cause of the fire, uses the very word, 
 chambers, which is used in the original stage-direction of the 
 play. So that the discrepancies in regard to the name infer 
 no more than that the play then had a double title, as many 
 other plays also had. And the name used by Sir Henry is 
 unequivocally referred to in the Prologue, the whole argu- 
 ment of which turns upon the quality of the piece as being 
 true. Then too the whole play, as regards the kind of in- 
 terest sought to be awakened, is strictly correspondent with 
 what the Prologue claims in that behalf : a scrupulous fidelity 
 to Fact is manifestly the law of the piece ; as if the author 
 had here undertaken to set forth a drama made up emphati- 
 cally of "chosen truth," insomuch that it might justly bear 
 the significant title All is True. 
 
 The piece in performance at the burning of the Globe 
 theatre is described by Wotton as a new play ; and it will 
 
INTRODUCTION. 8 1 
 
 hardly be questioned that he knew well what he was saying. 
 The internal evidence of the piece itself all draws to the 
 same conclusion as to the time of writing. In that part of 
 Cranmer's prophecy which refers to King James, we have 
 these lines : 
 
 Wherever the bright Sun of heaven shall shine, 
 The honour and the greatness of his name 
 Shall be, and make new nations : he shall flourish, 
 And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches 
 To all the plains about him. 
 
 On a portrait of King James once owned by Lord Bacon, 
 the King is styled Imperii Atlantici Conditor. And all 
 agree that the first allusion in the lines just quoted is to the 
 founding of the colony in Virginia, the charter of which was 
 renewed in 1612, the chief settlement named Jamestown, 
 and a lottery opened in aid of the colonists. The last part 
 of the quotation probably refers to the marriage of the 
 King's daughter Elizabeth with the Elector Palatine, which 
 took place in February, 1613. The marriage was a theme 
 of intense joy and high anticipations to the English people, 
 as it seemed to knit them up with the Protestant interest of 
 Germany ; anticipations destined indeed to a sad reverse in 
 the calamities that fell upon the Elector's House. Con- 
 current with these notes of seeming allusion to passing 
 events, are the style, language, and versification ; in which 
 respects it is hardly distinguishable from Coriolauiis and the 
 other plays known to have been of the Poet's latest period. 
 
 All which considered, I am quite at a loss why so many 
 editors and critics should have questioned whether Shake- 
 speare's drama were the one in performance at the burning 
 of the Globe theatre. They have done this partly under the 
 assumption that Shakespeare's play could not have been new 
 
82 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 at that time. But I cannot find such assumption at all 
 sustained by any arguments they have produced. It is true, 
 a piece described as "The Interlude of King Henry the 
 Eighth " was entered at the Stationers' in February, 1605. 
 There is, however, no good reason for ascribing this piece 
 to Shakespeare : on the contrary, there is ample reason for 
 supposing it to have been a play by Samuel Rowley, en- 
 titled " When you see me you know me, or the famous 
 chronicle history of King Henry the Eighth," and published 
 in 1605. 
 
 Some, again, urge that Shakespeare's play must have been 
 written before the death of Elizabeth, which was in March, 
 1603. This is done on the ground that the Poet would not 
 have been likely to glorify her reign so largely after her 
 death. And because it is still less likely that during her life 
 he would have glorified so highly the reign of her successor, 
 therefore resort is had to the theory, that in 1613 the play 
 was revived under a new title, which led Wotton to think it 
 a new play, and that the Prologue was then written, and 
 the passage referring to James interpolated. But all this is 
 sheer conjecture, and is directly refuted by the Prologue 
 itself, which clearly supposes the forthcoming play to be then 
 in performance for the first time, and the nature and plan of 
 it to be wholly unknown to the audience : to tell the people 
 they were not about to hear 
 
 A noise of targets, or to see a fellow 
 
 In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, 
 
 had been flat impertinence in case of a play that had been 
 on the stage several years before. As to the passage touch- 
 ing James, I can perceive no such signs as have been alleged 
 of its being an after-insertion : the awkardness of connection, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 83 
 
 which has been affirmed as betraying a second hand or a 
 second time, is altogether imaginary : the Hnes knit in as 
 smoothly and as logically with the context, before and after, 
 as any other lines in the speech. 
 
 Nor can I discover any indications of the play's having 
 been written with any special thought of pleasing Elizabeth. 
 The design, so far as she is concerned, seems much rathei 
 to have been to please the people, by whom she was all- 
 beloved during her life, and, if possible, still more so when, 
 after the lapse of a few years, her prudence, her courage, 
 and her magnanimity save where her female jealousies were 
 touched, had been set off by the blunders and infirmities of 
 her successor. For it is well known that the popular feel- 
 ing ran back so strongly to her government, that James had 
 no way but to fall in with the current, notwithstanding the 
 strong causes which he had, both public and personal, to 
 execrate her memory. The play has an evident making in 
 with this feeling, unsolicitous, generally, of what would have 
 been likely to make in, and sometimes boldly adventurous 
 of what would have been sure to make out, with the object 
 of it. Such an appreciative delineation of the meek and 
 honourable sorrows of Catharine, so nobly proud, yet in that 
 pride so gentle and true-hearted ; her dignified submission, 
 wherein her rights as a woman and a wife are firmly and 
 sweetly asserted, yet the sharpest eye cannot detect the least 
 swerving from duty ; her brave and eloquent sympathy with 
 the plundered people, pleading their cause in the face of 
 royal and reverend rapacity, this too with an energetic sim- 
 plicity which even the witchcraft of Wolsey's tongue cannot 
 sophisticate ; and all this set in open contrast with the 
 worldly-minded levity, and the equivocal or at least qualified 
 virtuL>, of licr rival, and with the headstrong, high-handed, 
 
84 KING HENRV THE EIGHTH. 
 
 conscience-shamming selfishness of the King ; — surely the 
 Poet must have known a great deal less, or a great deal 
 more, than anybody else, of the haughty daughter of that 
 rival and that King, to have thought of pleasing her by such 
 a representation. 
 
 Historic Basis of the Action. 
 
 The historical matter of the play, so far as relates to the 
 fall of Wolsey and the divorce of Catharine, was derived, 
 originally, from George Cavendish, who was gentleman-usher 
 to the great Cardinal, and himself an eye-witness of much 
 that he describes. His Life of Master Wolsey is among the 
 best specimens extant of the older English literature ; the 
 narrative being set forth in a clear, simple, manly elo(|uence, 
 which the Poet, in some of his finest passages, almost literally 
 transcribed. Whether the book had been printed in Shake- 
 speare's time, is uncertain ; but so much of it as fell within 
 the plot of the drama had been embodied in the chronicles 
 of Holinshed and Stowe. In the fifth Act, the incidents, 
 and in many cases the very words, are taken from Fox the 
 martyrologist, whose Acts and Monuments of the Chmrh, 
 first published in 1563, had grown to be a very popular book 
 in the Poet's time. 
 
 The " fierce vanities " displayed in the Field of the Cloth 
 of Gold, with an account of which the play opens, occurred 
 in June, 1520, and the death of Buckingham in May, 1521. 
 The court assembled for the divorce began its work on the 
 iSth of June, 1529, and was dissolved, without concluding 
 any thing, on the 23d of July. On the 17th of October fol- 
 lowing, Wolsey resigned the Great Seal, and died on the 29th 
 of November, 1530. In July, 1531, Catharine withdrew 
 from the Court, and took up her abode at Ampthill. Long 
 
INTRODUCTION. 8$ 
 
 before this time, the King had been trying to persuade Anne 
 Boleyn, one of the Queen's Maids of Honour, to be a sort 
 of left-hand wife to him ; but an older sister of hers had 
 already held that place, and had enough of it : so she was 
 resolved to be his right-hand wife or none at all ; and, as the 
 Queen would not recede from her appeal to the Pope, Anne 
 still held off till she should have more assurance of the 
 divorce being carried through. In September, 1532, she 
 was made Marchioness of Pembroke, and was privately 
 married to the King on the 25th of January, 1533. Cranmer 
 became Archbishop of Canterbury the next March, and went 
 directly about the business of the divorce, which was finished 
 on the 24th of May. This was followed, in June, by the 
 coronation of the new Queen, and in September by the birth 
 and christening of the Princess Elizabeth. Soon after the 
 divorce, Catharine removed to Kimbolton, where, in the 
 course of the next year, 1534, she had to digest the slaugh- 
 ter of her steadfast friends, Fisher and More ; as the peculiar 
 temper of the King, being then without the eloquence of the 
 great Cardinal or the virtue of the good Queen to assuage 
 it, could no longer be withheld from such repasts of blood. 
 Catharine died on the 8th of January, 1536, which was some 
 two years and four months after the birth of Elizabeth. The 
 play, however, reverses the order of these two events. As for 
 the matter of Cranmer and the Privy Council, in Act v., 
 this did not take place till 1544, more than eleven years after 
 the event with which the play closes. 
 
 Authorship of the Play. 
 
 Dr. Johnson gave it as his opinion that the Prologue and 
 Epilogue of this play were not written by Shakespeare. And 
 I believe all the critics who have since given any special heed 
 
S6 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 to the matter have joined in that opinion. I have not for 
 many years had the shghtest doubt on the subject. And I 
 am equally clear in the same opinion touching the Epilogues 
 to T/ie Tempest and King Henry the Fourth, and the 
 Chorus to the fourth Act of The Winter's Tale. Nor, in- 
 deed, does it seem possible that any one having a right 
 taste for Shakespeare should judge otherwise, after compar- 
 ing those pieces with the Induction to the Second Part of 
 Henry the Fourth, and the Choruses in King Hetiry the 
 Fifth ; all which ring the true Shakespearian gold for work- 
 manship in that kind. It was very common for the dramatic 
 writers of the time to have such trimmings of their plays done 
 by some friend. Who wrote the Prologue and Epilogue to 
 Henry the Eighth has been somewhat in question. The well- 
 known intimacy and friendship between Jonson and Shake- 
 speare have naturally drawn men's thoughts to honest Ben as 
 the author of them : but, as the style answers equally well to 
 the motions of another hand ; and as we have unquestionable 
 marks of another hand in the body of the play ; a conjectural 
 ascription of the matter to Jonson is not properly in order. 
 
 It is now, I think, as good as settled that this play was the 
 joint production of Shakespeare and John Fletcher ; some- 
 what more than half of it belonging to the latter. Dr. John- 
 son had the sagacity to observe that the genius of Shake- 
 speare comes in and goes out with Catharine ; and that the 
 rest of the play might be easily conceived and easily written. 
 But this germ of criticism did not grow to any tangible results 
 till our own day. As far back, however, as 1850, Mr. James 
 Spedding, a critic of approved perspicacity and judgment, 
 published an article in The Gentle7nan''s Magazine, discours- 
 ing the theme with lucid statement and cogent argument ; 
 and all the more satisfactory, that it lands in definite and 
 
INTRODUCTION. 87 
 
 well-braced conclusions. On the appearance of this article, 
 Mr. Samuel Hickson, another discriminating and judicious 
 critic, put forth a brief paper in N^ofcs and Queries, express- 
 ing an entire concurrence with Mr. Spedding, and also saying 
 that he had reached the same conclusion three or four years 
 before ; this too without having any communication with him, 
 or any knowledge of him, even of his name ; but that the 
 want of a favourable opportunity had kept him from making 
 his thoughts known. Nor was this a mere general con- 
 currence : it was an entire agreement in the details, and ex- 
 tending even to the assignment of scenes and parts of scenes 
 to their respective authors. Still more recently, Mr. F. G. 
 Fleay has brought his metrical tests and his figures to bear 
 upon the question ; and the result is a full confirmation 
 both of the general and the particular conclusions reached 
 by the two other gentlemen. 
 
 Of course the evidence on which this judgment proceeds 
 is altogether internal, as the play has come down to us with- 
 out any outside tokens or suggestions of another hand than 
 Shakespeare's in the making of it. And the most striking 
 and available parts of that evidence, though not the strongest, 
 have reference to the qualities of style and versification. But 
 Fletcher's peculiarities in this point are so strongly marked ; 
 rather say, he has an habitual mannerism of diction and 
 metre so pronounced ; that no one thoroughly at home in 
 his acknowledged workmanship can easily fail to taste his 
 presence in whatever he wTote : and, as certain portions of 
 the play in hand have the full measure of his idiom in those 
 respects, so it is nowise strange that several critics, once 
 started on the track, should all tie up in the same result. 
 
 For my own part, I have slowly and reluctantly grown, or 
 been drawn, into the same upshot with the writers named, 
 
88 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 and am now thoroughly satisfied that the conckision they 
 have reached is substantially right. The details of this con- 
 clusion are as follows: — That the first and second scenes 
 of Act i. are Shakespeare's ; also the third and fourth scenes 
 of Act ii. ; also about three sevenths of the second scene in 
 Act iii., down to the King's parting from Wolsey with the 
 words, " and then to breakfast with what appetite you have " ; 
 also the first scene of Act v. : and that all the rest of the 
 play is Fletcher's ; namely, the third and fourth scenes of 
 Act i., the first and second of Act ii., the first, and about four 
 sevenths of the second in Act iii., the whole of Act iv., the 
 second, third, and fourth of Act v., also the Prologue and 
 Epilogue. Mr. Fleay makes the whole number of blank- 
 verse lines in the play to be 2613, of which 1467 are Fletch- 
 er's, thus leaving only 1146 to Shakespeare. 
 
 From the forecited distribution I see no reason to dissent, 
 except that, as Mr. Spedding admits, some of the portions 
 assigned to Fletcher have traces of a superior workman. In 
 particular, the latter part of the second scene in Act iii., all 
 after the exit of the King, seems to me a mixture of Fletcher 
 and Shakespeare : though the Fletcher element prepon- 
 derates, still I feel some decided workings of the master- 
 hand. The same, though in a somewhat less degree, of the 
 coronation scene, the first in Act iv. Certainly, if Fletcher 
 wrote the whole of these, he must have been, for the time, 
 surprised out of himself, and lifted quite above his ordinary 
 plane ; even the best that he does elsewhere giving no 
 promise of such touches as we find here. On the other 
 hand, I doubt whether the first scene of Act v. be pure 
 Shakespeare : at all events, it seems by no means equal to 
 his other portions of the play. And, as the two authors 
 probably wrote in conjunction, it might well be that some 
 
INTRODUCTION. 89 
 
 whole scenes were done by each, while in others their hands 
 worked together, or the one revised and finished what the 
 other had first written ; thus giving us choice bits of Shake- 
 spearian gold mingled with the Fletcherian silver. 
 
 Mr. Spedding's essay is so fine a piece of criticism in 
 itself, so calm and just in temper, and withal cuts so near the 
 heart of the subject, that I cannot well resist the impulse to 
 reproduce a considerable portion of it. After a clear state- 
 ment of his conclusion, together with the grounds of it, he 
 proceeds as follows : 
 
 The opening of the play — the conversation between Bucking- 
 ham, Norfolk, and Abergavenny — seemed to have the full stamp 
 of Shakespeare, in his latest manner: the same close-packed 
 expression ; the same life, and reality, and freshness ; the same 
 rapid and abrupt turnings of thought, so quick that language can 
 hardly follow fast enough ; the same impatient activity of intel- 
 lect and fancy, which, having once disclosed an idea, cannot 
 wait to work it orderly out ; the same daring confidence in the 
 i-esources of language, which plunges headlong into a sentence 
 without knowing how it is to come forth ; the same careless 
 metre which disdains to produce its harmonious effects by the 
 ordinary devices, yet is evidently subject to a master of harmony ; 
 the same entire freedom from book-language and commonplace ; 
 all tlie qualities, in short, which distinguish the magical hand 
 which has never yet been successfully imitated. 
 
 In the scene in the Council-chamber which follows, where the 
 characters of Catharine and Wolsey are brought out, I found the 
 same characteristics equally strong. 
 
 But the instant I entered upon the third scene, in which 
 the Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and Lovell converse, I was 
 conscious of a total change. I felt as if I had passed suddenly 
 out of the language of nature into the language of the stage, or of 
 some conventional mode of conversation. The structure of the 
 verse was quite different, and full of mannerism. The expression 
 
90 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 became suddenly diffuse and languid. The wit wanted mirth 
 and character. And all this was equally true of the supper- 
 scene which closes the first Act. 
 
 The second Act brought me back to the tragic vein, but it was 
 not the tragic vein of Shakespeare. When I compared the 
 eager, impetuous, and fiery language of Buckingham in the 
 first Act with the languid and measured cadences of his farewell 
 speech, I felt that the difference was too great to be accounted 
 for by the mere change of situation, without supposing also a 
 change of writers. The presence of death produces great changes 
 in men, but no such change as we have here. 
 
 When, in like manner, I compared the Henry and Wolsey of 
 the scene which follows with the Henry and Wolsey of the Coun- 
 cil-chamber, I perceived a difference scarcely less striking. The 
 dialogue, through the whole scene, sounded still slow and arti- 
 ficial. 
 
 The next scene brought another sudden change. And, as in 
 passing from the second to the third scene of the first Act, I had 
 seemed to be passing all at once out of the language of nature 
 into that of convention ; so, in passing from the second to the 
 third scene of the second Act, (in which Anne Boleyn appears, I 
 may say for the first time, for in the supper-scene she was merely 
 a conventional court lady without any character at all,) I seemed 
 to pass not less suddenly from convention back again into nature. 
 And, when I considered that this short and otherwise insignifi- 
 cant passage contains all that we ever see of Anne, and yet how 
 clearly the character comes out, how very a woman she is, and 
 yet how distinguishable from any other individual woman, I had 
 no difficulty in acknowledging that the sketch came from the 
 same hand which drew Perdita. 
 
 Next follows the famous trial-scene. And here I could as little 
 doubt that I recognized the same hand to which we owe the trial 
 of Hermione. When I compared the language of Henry and of 
 Wolsey throughout this scene to the end of the Act, with their 
 language in the Council-chamber, (Act i. scene 2,) I found that 
 it corresponded in all essential features: when I compared it 
 
INTRODUCTION. 9I 
 
 with their language in the second scene of the second Act, I 
 perceived tliat it was altogether different. Catharine also, as she 
 appears in this scene, was exactly the same person as she was in 
 the Council-chamber; but, when I went on to the first scene of 
 the third Act, which represents her interview with Wolsey and 
 Campeius, I found her as much changed as Buckingham was 
 after his sentence, though without any alteration of circum- 
 stances to account for an alteration of temper. Indeed the 
 whole of this scene seemed to have all the peculiarities of 
 Fletcher, both in conception, language, and versification, with- 
 out a single feature that reminded me of Shakespeare ; and, 
 since in both passages the true narrative of Cavendish is followed 
 minutely and carefully, and both are therefore copies from the 
 same original and in the same style of art, it was the more easy 
 to compare them with each other. 
 
 In the next scene, (Act iii. scene 2,) I seemed again to get 
 out of Fletcher into Shakespeare ; though probably not into 
 Shakespeare pure ; a scene by another hand perhaps, which 
 Shakespeare had only remodelled, or a scene by Shakespeare 
 which another hand had worked upon to make it fit the place. 
 The speeches interchanged between Henry and Wolsey seemed 
 to be entirely Shakespeare's ; but, in the altercation between 
 Wolsey and the lords which follows, I could recognize little or 
 nothing of his peculiar manner, while many passages were 
 strongly marked with the favourite Fletcherian cadence : and as 
 for the famous "Farewell, a long farewell," &c., though asso- 
 ciated by means of Enfield'' s Speaker with my earliest notions of 
 Shakespeare, it appeared (now that my mind was opened to 
 entertain the doubt) to belong entirely and unquestionably to 
 Fletcher. 
 
 Of the fourth Act I did not so well know what to think. For 
 the most part it seemed to bear evidence of a more vigorous 
 hand than Fletcher's, with less of mannerism, especially in the 
 description of the coronation, and the character of Wolsey ; and 
 yet it had not to my mind the freshness and originality of Shake- 
 speare. It was pathetic and graceful, but one could see how it 
 
92 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 was done. Catharine's last speeches, however, smacked strongly 
 again of Fletcher. And, all together, it seemed to me that, if 
 this Act had occurred in one of the plays written by Beaumont 
 and Fletcher in conjunction, it would probably have been thought 
 that both of them had a hand in it. 
 
 The first scene of the fifth Act, and the opening of the second, 
 I should again have confidently ascribed to Shakespeare, were it 
 not that the whole passage seemed so strangely out of place. I 
 could only suppose that the task of putting the whole together 
 had been left to an inferior hand ; in which case I should con- 
 sider this to be a genuine piece of Shakespeare's work, spoiled 
 by being introduced where it has no business. In the execution 
 of the christening-scene, on the other hand, (in spite again of the 
 earliest and strongest associations,) I could see no evidence of 
 Shakespeare's hand at all ; while in point of design it seemed 
 inconceivable that a judgment like his could have been content 
 with a conclusion so little in harmony with the prevailing spirit 
 and purpose of the piece. 
 
 As regards the point of diction and metre, the argument 
 turns very much upon the use of verses with a redundant 
 syllable at the end, or what arc commonly called lines with 
 double endings, but what I sometimes designate as lines 
 with amphibractic endings. This, at all events, is the 
 handiest, and perhaps the most telling, item to be urged 
 in illustration of the point. And here it will not be out 
 of place to obser\'e that Shakespeare's regular verse is the 
 iambic pentameter. This, however, he continually diversi- 
 fies with metrical irregularities, introducing trochees, spon- 
 dees, anapests, dibrachs, tribrachs, and sometimes dactyls, in 
 various parts of his lines. But his most frequent irregularity 
 is by ending his verses with amphibrachs ; and this occurs 
 much oftener in his later plays than in his earlier ; and in 
 some of his plays, as in the Shakespeare portions of the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 93 
 
 one now in hand, we have about one third of the hnes 
 ending with amphibrachs. The purpose of this is, to prevent 
 or avoid monotony ; just as great composers enrich and 
 deepen their harmonies by a skilful use of discords. Now 
 Fletcher's use of this irregularity is far more frequent than 
 Shakespeare's : commonly not less than two thirds of his 
 lines, and often a larger proportion, having amphibractic 
 endings. So excessive is this usage with him, that, besides 
 rendering the movement of his verse comparatively feeble 
 and languid, it becomes a very emphatic mannerism : in fact, 
 it just works the irregularity itself into a new monotony, 
 and a monotony of the most soporific kind. For nothing 
 has so much the effect of a wearisome sameness as a con- 
 tinual or too frequent recurrence of the same variation : 
 even the studied and uniform regularity, or what Cowper 
 terms "the creamy smoothness," of Pope's versification is 
 less monotonous to the ear, than such an over-use of one 
 and the same mode of diversity. And this, together with 
 certain other traits of style and diction not easy to describe, 
 imparts to Fletcher's verse a very peculiar and rather heavy 
 swing and cadence, often amounting to downright sing-song 
 and humdrum. Many times, in reading him, I have, almost 
 before I knew it, caught my thoughts drowsing off into a 
 half-somnolent state, from this constant and uniform oscilla- 
 tion, so to speak, of his language and metre. Vastly differ- 
 ent is all this in Shakespeare ; whose metrical irregularities 
 are always so ordered as to have the effect of jogging the 
 attention into alertness and keeping it freshly awake. 
 
 To make the point clear to the apprehension of average 
 readers, I will next produce several of Fletcher's best and 
 most characteristic passages ; enough to give a full and fair 
 taste of his habitual manner. The first is from The Knight 
 
94 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 of Malta, ii. 5, where Oriana, the heroine, being falsely 
 accused of crime, and sentenced to die, unless a champion 
 appear and vindicate her honour in single combat, makes 
 the following speech as she goes up to the scaffold : 
 
 Thus I ascend ; nearer, I hope, to Heaven ! 
 
 Nor do I fear to tread this dark black mansion, 
 
 The image of my grave : each foot we move 
 
 Goes to it still, each hour we leave behind us 
 
 Knolls sadly toward it. — My noble brother, — 
 
 For yet mine innocence dares call you so, — 
 
 And you the friends to virtue, that come hither, 
 
 The chorus to this tragic scene, behold me. 
 
 Behold me with your justice, not with pity, 
 
 (My cause was ne'er so poor to ask compassion,) 
 
 Behold me in this spotless white I wear. 
 
 The emblem of my life, of all my actions ; 
 
 So ye shall find my story, though I perish. 
 
 Behold me in my sex : I am no soldier ; 
 
 Tender and full of fears our blushing sex is, 
 
 Unharden'd with relentless thoughts ; unhatcht 
 
 With blood and bloody practice : alas, we tremble 
 
 But when an angry dream afflicts our fancies ; 
 
 Die with a tale well told. Had I been practised, 
 
 And known the way of mischief, travell'd in it. 
 
 And given my blood and honour up to r^ach it ; 
 
 Forgot religion, and the line I sprung on : 
 
 O Heaven ! I had been fit then for Thy justice. 
 
 And then in black, as dark as Hell, I had howl'd here. 
 
 Last, in your own opinions weigh mine innocence: 
 
 Amongst ye I was planted from an infant, 
 
 (Would then, if Heaven had so been pleased, I had perish'd), 
 
 Grew up, and goodly, ready to bear fruit, 
 
 The honourable fruit of marriage : 
 
 .A-nd am I blasted in my bud with treason? 
 
 Boldly and basely of my fair name ravish'd. 
 
 And hither brought to find my rest in ruin? 
 
 But He that knows all, He that rights all wrongs, 
 
 And in His time restores, knows me! — I've spoken. 
 
 The next is the main part of two speeches made by 
 
INTRODUCTION. 95 
 
 Caesar, with Pompey's lifeless head before him, in The 
 False One, ii. i : 
 
 Thou glory of the world once, now the pity, 
 Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus? 
 What poor fate foUow'd thee, and pluck'd thee on, 
 To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian? 
 The light and life of Rome o a blind stranger. 
 That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness. 
 Nor worthy circumstance shew'd what a man was? 
 That never heard thy name sung but in banquets. 
 And loose lascivious pleasures to a boy, 
 That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, 
 No study of thy life, to know thy goodness? 
 And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend. 
 Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee. 
 In soft relenting tears? Hear me, great Pompey ; 
 If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee ! 
 Thou hast most unnobly robb'd me of my victory, 
 My love and mercy. 
 
 Ptol. Hear me, great Caesar I 
 
 Ctssar. I have heard too much : 
 
 And study not with smooth shows to invade 
 My noble mind, as you have done my conquest. 
 You're poor and open : I must tell you roundly, 
 That man that could not recompense the benefits. 
 The great and bounteous services, of Pompey, 
 Can never dote upon the name of Cassar. 
 Though I had hated Pompey, and allow'd his ruin, 
 I gave you no commission to perform it : 
 Hasty to please in blood are seldom trusty; 
 And, but I stand environ'd with my victories, 
 My fortune never failing to befriend me. 
 My noble strengths and friends about my person, 
 I durst not try you, nor expect a courtesy 
 Above the pious love you shew'd to Pompey. 
 You've found me merciful in arguing with ye : 
 Swords, hangmen, fires, destructions of all natures, 
 Demolishments of kingdoms, and whole ruins, 
 Are wont to be my orators. Turn to tears. 
 
96 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 You wretched and poor seeds of sun-burnt Egypt ; 
 And, now you've found the nature of a conqueror 
 That you cannot decline, with all your flatteries ; 
 That, where the day gives light, will be himself still ; 
 Know how to meet his worth with humane courtesies! 
 Go, and embalm those bones of that great soldier; 
 Howl round about his pile, fling on your spices, 
 Make a Sabcean bed, and place this phcenix 
 Where the hot Sun may emulate his virtues, 
 And draw another Pompey from his ashes. 
 Divinely great, and fix him 'mongst the Worthies? 
 
 The following is one of Lisander's speeches in The Lover" i 
 Progress, ii. 3 : 
 
 Can Heaven be pleased with these things? 
 To see two hearts tliat have been twined together, 
 Married in friendship, to the world two wonders. 
 Of one growth, of one nourishment, one health. 
 Thus mortally divorced for one weak woman? 
 Can Love be pleased? Love is a gentle spirit; 
 The wind that blows the April flowers not softer : 
 She's drawn with doves, to show her peacefulness : 
 Lions and bloody pards are Mars's servants. 
 Would you serve Love? do it with humbleness. 
 Without a noise, with still prayers and soft murmurs: 
 Upon her altars offer your obedience. 
 And not your brawls ; she's won with tears, not terrors : 
 That fire you kindle to her deity, 
 Is only grateful when it's blown with sighs. 
 And holy incense flung witli white-hand innocence: 
 You wound her now ; you are too superstitious : 
 No sacrifice of blood or death she longs for. 
 
 I add another characteristic strain from the same play, 
 
 iv. 4 : 
 
 Lisander. V the depth of meditation, do you not 
 Sometimes think of Olinda? 
 
 Lidian. I endeavour 
 
 To raze her from my memory, as I wish 
 You would do the whole sex; for know, Lisander, 
 The greatest curse brave man can labour under 
 
INTRODUCTION. 97 
 
 Is the strong witchcraft of a woman's eyes. 
 Where I find men, I preach this doctrine to 'em : 
 As you're a scholar, knowledge make your mistress, 
 The hidden beauties of the Heavens your study; 
 There shall you find fit wonder for your faith. 
 And for your eye inimitable objects : 
 As you're a profess'd soldier, court your honour ; 
 Though she be stern, she's honest, a brave mistress ! 
 The greater danger you oppose to win her, 
 She shows the sweeter, and rewards the nobler : 
 Woman's best loves to hers mere shadows be ; 
 For after death she weds your memory. 
 These are my contemplations. 
 
 In the foregoing extracts we have 114 complete lines, of 
 which 79 end with amphibrachs, thus leaving 35 with iambic 
 endings ; a proportion of something more than two to one. 
 Cranmer's long speech at the close of the play in hand 
 contains 49 lines, of which 34 have amphibractic endings, 
 and 15 iambic ; also a proportion of somewhat more than 
 two to one. The average proportion in Buckingham's three 
 speeches on going to his execution is about the same ; and 
 so through all the Fletcherian portions of the play. Besides 
 this most obvious feature, Fletcher has another trick of 
 mannerism, frequently repeating a thought, or fraction of a 
 thought, with some variation of language ; which imparts 
 a very un-Shakespearian diffuseness to his style, as of an 
 author much more fluent and fertile in words than in matter. 
 This trait also is repeatedly exemplified in the forecited 
 passages : so that, by comparing those passages with the 
 parts of the play ascribed to Fletcher, any one having an 
 eye and an ear for such things can easily identify the two 
 as proceeding from one and the same source. 
 
 But the play has another very striking and decided char- 
 acteristic which I was for a long time quite unable to account 
 
98 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 for. The structure and ordering of the piece as a whole is 
 very unlike Shakespeare's usual workmanship, especially that 
 of his closing period. Coleridge aptly notes it as " a sort of 
 historical masque or show-play " ; for so, to be sure, it has 
 several masque-like scenes, that interrupt the proper dra- 
 matic continuity ; as the supper-scene at Wolsey's house, i. 
 4, and the scene of the coronation, iv. i. In other words, 
 the piece is far from evincing great skill or judgment in the 
 high point of dramatic architecture. Judged by the standard 
 of Shakespeare's other plays, it is by no means a well organ- 
 ized specimen. We can trace in it no presiding idea, no 
 governing thought. Though some of the parts are noble in 
 themselves, still they have no clear principle of concert and 
 unity, no right artistic centre : they rather give the impres- 
 sion of having been put together arbitrarily, and not under 
 any organic law. The various threads of interest do not 
 pull together, nor show any clear intelligence of each other ; 
 the whole thus seeming rather a mechanical juxtaposition of 
 parts than a vital concrescence. In short, the current both 
 of dramatic and of historic interest is repeatedly broken and 
 disordered by misplaced and premature semi-catastrophes, 
 which do not help each other at all ; instead of flowing on 
 with continuous and increasing volume to the one proper 
 catastrophe. The matter is well stated by Gervinus : "The 
 interest first clings to Buckingham and his designs against 
 Wolsey, but with the second Act he leaves the stage ; then 
 Wolsey draws the attention increasingly, and he too disappears 
 in the third Act ; meanwhile our sympathies are drawn more 
 and more to Catharine, who also leaves tlie stage in the 
 fourth Act : then, after being thus shattered through four 
 Acts by circumstances of a tragic character, we have the 
 fifth Act closing with a merry festivity, for which we are not 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 99 
 
 prepared, and crowning the King's base passion with victory, 
 in which we take no warm interest." 
 
 By way of accounting for all this, I probably cannot do 
 better than to quote again from Mr. Spedding, who discourses 
 the point as follows : 
 
 It was not unusual in those days, when a play was wanted in a 
 hurry, to set two or three or even four hands at work upon it ; 
 and the occasion of the Princess Elizabeth's marriage may very 
 Hkely have suggested the production of a play representing the 
 marriage of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn. Such an occasion 
 would sufficiently account for the determination to treat the sub- 
 ject not tragically ; the necessity for producing it immediately 
 might lead to the employment of several hands ; and thence 
 would follow inequality of workmanship and imperfect adaptation 
 of the several parts to each other. But this would not explain 
 the incoherency and inconsistency of the main design. Had 
 Shakespeare been employed to make a design for a play which 
 was to end with the happy marriage of Henry and Anne Boleyn, 
 we may be sure that he would not have occupied us through the 
 iirst four Acts with a tragic and absorbing interest in the 
 decline and death of Queen Catharine, and through half the 
 fifth with a quarrel between Cranmer and Gardiner, in which we 
 have no interest. 
 
 On the other hand, since it is by Shakespeare that all the prin- 
 cipal matters and characters are inlroduced, it is not likely that 
 the general design of the piece would be laid out by another. I 
 should rather conjecture that he had conceived the idea of a 
 great historical drama on the subject of Henry VIII. which would 
 have included the divorce of Catharine, the fall of Wolsey, the 
 rise of Cranmer, the coronation of Anne Boleyn, and the final 
 separation of the English from the Romish Church, which, being 
 the one great historical event of the reign, would naturally be 
 chosen as the focus of poetic interest : that he had proceeded in the 
 execution of this idea as far perhaps as the third Act, which might 
 
100 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 have included the estabHshment of Cranmer in the seat of highest 
 ecclesiastical authority ; when, finding that his fellows of the 
 Globe were in distress few a new play to honour the marriage of 
 the Lady Elizabeth with, he thought that his half-finished work 
 might help them, and accordingly handed them his manuscript 
 to make what they could of it ; that they put it into the hands of 
 Fletcher, (already in high repute as a popular and expeditious 
 playwright,) who, finding the original design not very suitable 
 to the occasion and utterly beyond his capacity, expanded the 
 three Acts into five, by interspersing scenes of show and mag- 
 nificence, and passages of description, and long poetical conver- 
 sations, in which his strength lay ; dropped all allusion to the 
 great ecclesiastical revolution, which he could not manage and 
 for which he had no materials supplied him ; converted what 
 should have been the middle into the end ; and so turned out a 
 splendid " historical masque, or shew-play," which was no doubt 
 very popular then, as it has been ever since. 
 
 Ecclesiastical Leanings. 
 
 It is a question of no little interest, how far and in what 
 §grt the authors of this play stand committed to the Refor- 
 mation ; if at all, whether more as a religious or as a national 
 movement. They certainly show a good mind towards Cran- 
 mer ; but nothing can be justly argued from this, for they 
 show the same quite as much towards Catharine ; and the 
 King's real motives for putting her away are made plain 
 enough. There are however several expressions, especially 
 that in Cranmer's prophecy touching Elizabeth, — "In her 
 days God shall be truly known," — which indicate pretty 
 clearly how the authors regarded the great ecclesiastical 
 question of the time ; though it may be fairly urged that in 
 all these cases they do but make the persons speak char- 
 acteristically, without practising any ventriloquism about them. 
 
INTRODUCTION, lOI 
 
 Not that I have any doubt as to their being what would now 
 be called Protestants. That they were truly such, is quite 
 evident, I think, in the general complexion of the piece, 
 which, by the way, is the only one of Shakespeare's plays 
 where this issue enters into the structure and life of the 
 work. Surely no men otherwise minded would have selected 
 and ordered the materials of a drama so clearly with a view 
 to celebrate Elizabeth's reign, all the main features of which 
 were identified with the Protestant interest by foes as wel) 
 as friends. But, whether the authors were made such more 
 by religious or by national sympathies, is another question, 
 and one not to be decided so easily. For the honour and inde- 
 pendence of England were then so bound up with that cause, 
 that Shakespeare's sound English heart, and the strong current 
 of patriotic sentiment that flowed through his veins, were enough 
 of themselves to secure it his cordial adhesion. That there was, 
 practically, no breath for the stout nationality of old England 
 but in the atmosphere of the Reformation, left no choice to 
 such a thoroughgoing Englishman as he everywhere approves 
 himself. All which sets off the more clearly his judicial 
 calmness in giving to the characters severally their due, and 
 in letting them speak out freely and in their own way the 
 mind that is within them. That, in his view, they could best 
 serve his ends by being true to themselves, is sufficient proof 
 that his ends were right. 
 
 Political and Social Characteristics. 
 
 The social and civil climate of England as shown in this 
 piece is very different from that in the other plays of the his- 
 toric series. A new order of things has evidently sprung up 
 and got firm roothold in the land. Nor have we far to seek 
 for the causes of this. All through the time of Henry the 
 
I02 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 Eighth, owing to the long frenzy of civil slaughter which had 
 lately possessed the nation, the English people were in 
 nervous dread of a disputed succession. In the course of 
 that frenzy, the old overgrown nobility became greatly re- 
 duced in numbers and crippled in strength, so as to be no 
 longer an effective check upon the constitutional head of the 
 State. The natural effect was to draw the throne into much 
 closer sympathy with the people at large : the King had to 
 throw himself more and more upon the commons ; which of 
 course brought on a proportionable growth of this interest. 
 So, in these scenes, we find the commons highly charged 
 with a sense of their rising strength, and the rulers, from the 
 King downwards, quailing before their determined voice. 
 The best chance of power and consequence is felt to be by 
 "gaining the love of the commonalty." On the other hand, 
 the people, being thus for the first time brought into direct 
 intercourse with the throne, and being elated with the novelty 
 of having the King with them, become highly enthusiastic in 
 his cause ; they warm up intensely towards his person, and 
 are indeed the most obsequious of all orders to any stretches 
 of prerogative that he may venture in their name ; the growth 
 of his power being felt by them as the growth of their own. 
 So that this state of things had the effect for a while of greatly 
 enchancing the power of the crown. Henry the Eighth was 
 almost if not altogether autocratic in his rule. Both he and 
 Elizabeth made themselves directly responsible to the people, 
 and the people in turn made them all but irresponsible. 
 
 Nor do the signs of a general transition-process stop here. 
 Corresponding changes in ideas and manners are going on. 
 Under the long madness of domestic butchery, the rage for 
 war had in all classes thoroughly spent itself Military skill 
 and service is no longer the chief, much less the only path 
 
INTRODUCTION. IO3 
 
 to preferment and power. Another order of abilities has 
 come forward, and made its way to the highest places of 
 honour and trust. The custom is gradually working in of 
 governing more by wisdom, and less by force. The arts of 
 war are yielding the chief seat to the arts of peace : learning, 
 eloquence, civic accomplishment, are disputing precedence 
 with hereditary claims : even the highest noblemen are get- 
 ting ambitious of shining in the new walks of honour, and of 
 planting other titles to nobility than birth and family and 
 warUke renown ; insomuch that the princely Buckingham, 
 graced as he is with civil abilities, and highly as he values 
 himself upon them, complains that "a beggar's book out- 
 worths a noble's blood." 
 
 This new order of things has its crowning exponent in 
 Wolsey, whose towering greatness in the State is because he 
 really leads the age in the faculties and resources of solid 
 statesmanship. But his rapid growth of power and honour 
 not only turns his own head, but provokes the envy and 
 hatred of the old nobility, whose untamed pride of blood 
 naturally resents his ostentatious pride of merit. And he has 
 withal in large measure the overgrown upstart's arrogance 
 towards both the class from which he sprang and the class 
 into which he has made his way. Next to Wolsey, the King 
 himself, besides having strong natural parts, was the most 
 accomplished man in the same arts, and probably the ablest 
 statesman that England had in his time. But his nature was 
 essentially coarse, hard, and sinister ; his refinement was 
 but skin-deep, and without any roothold in his heart ; and, 
 from the causes already noted, his native infirmities got 
 pampered into the ruffianism, at once cold and boisterous, 
 which won him the popular designation of " bluff King Hal," 
 and which is artfully disguised indeed by the authors, yet 
 not so but that we feel its presence more than enough. 
 
I04 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 General Notes of Characterization. 
 
 I have already observed how the interest of this play is 
 broken and scattered by incoherences of design and execution. 
 The interest, however, of the several portions is deep and gen- 
 uine while it lasts ; at least, till we come to the fifth Act. We 
 are carried through a series of sudden and most afflicting 
 reverses. One after another, the mighty are broken and the 
 lofty laid low ; their prosperity being strained to a high pitch, 
 as if on purpose to deepen their plunge, just when they have 
 reached the summit, with their hearts built up and settled to 
 the height of their rising, and when the revolving wheel of 
 time seems fast locked with themselves at the top. 
 
 First, we have Buckingham in the full-blown pride of rank 
 and talents. He is wise in counsel, rich in culture and ac- 
 complishment, of captivating deportment, learned and elo- 
 quent in discourse. A too self-flattering sense of his strength 
 and importance has made him insolent and presumptuous ; 
 and his self-control lias failed from the very elevation that 
 rendered it most needful to him. In case of Henry's dying 
 without issue, he was the next male heir to the throne in the 
 Beaufort branch of the Lancastrian House. So he plays with 
 aspiring thoughts, and practises the arts of popularity, and 
 calls in the aid of fortune-tellers to feed his ambitious 
 schemes, and at the same time by his haughty bearing stings 
 the haughtiness of Wolsey, and sets that wary, piercing eye 
 in quest of matter against him. Thus he puts forth those 
 leaves of hope which, as they express the worst parts of 
 himself, naturally provoke the worst parts of others, and so 
 invite danger while blinding him to its approach ; till at 
 length all things within and around are made ripe for his 
 upsetting and ruin ; and, while he is exultingly spreading 
 
INTRODUCTION. IO5 
 
 snares for the Cardinal, he is himself caught and crushed 
 with the strong toils of that master-hand. 
 
 Next, we have the patient and saintly Catharine sitting in 
 state with the King, all that she would ask being granted ere 
 she asks it ; sharing half his power, and appearing most 
 worthy of it when most free to use it. She sees blessings 
 flowing from her hand to the people, and the honour and 
 happiness of the nation reviving as she pleads for them ; and 
 her state seems secure, because it stands on nothing but 
 virtue, and she seeks nothing but the good of all within her 
 reach. Yet even now the King is cherishing in secret the 
 passion that has already supplanted her from his heart, and 
 his sinister craft is plotting the means of divorcing her from 
 his side, and at the same time weaving about her such a net 
 of intrigue as may render her very strength and beauty of 
 character powerless in her behalf; so that before she feels 
 the meditated wrong all chance of redress is foreclosed, and 
 she is left with no defence but the sacredness of her sorrows. 
 
 Then we have the overgreat Cardinal, who, in his pleni- 
 tude of inward forces, has cut his way and carried himself 
 upward over whatever offered to stop him. He walks most 
 securely when dangers are thickest about him ; and is sure 
 to make his purpose so long as there is any thing to hinder 
 him ; because he has the gift of turning all that would thwart 
 him into the ministry of a new strength. His cunning hand 
 quietly gathers in the elements of power, because he best 
 knows how to use it, and wherein the secret of it lies : he 
 has the King for his pupil and dependant because his magic 
 of tongue is never at a loss for just the right word at just 
 the right time. By his wisdom and eloquence he assuages 
 Henry's lawless tempers, and charms his headstrong caprice 
 into prudent and prosperous courses, and thus gets the keep- 
 
I06 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 ing of his will. That he can always sweeten the devil out of 
 the King, and hold him to the right, is hardly to be sup- 
 posed ; but even when such is not the case he still holds the 
 King to him by his executive ability and art in putting the 
 wrong smoothly through. His very power, however, of ris- 
 ing against all opposers serves, apparently, but to aggravate 
 and assure his fall, when there is no further height for him 
 to climb; and at last, through his own mere oversight and 
 oblivion, he loses all, from his having no more to gain. 
 
 Yet in all these cases, inasmuch as the persons have their 
 strength inherent, and not adventitious, therefore they carry 
 it with them in their reverses ; or rather, in seeming to lose 
 it, they augment it. For it is then seen, as it could not be 
 before, that the greatness which was in their circumstances 
 served to obscure that which was in themselves. Bucking- 
 ham is something more and better than the gifted and ac- 
 complished nobleman, when he stands before us unpropped 
 and simply as " poor Edward Bohun " ; his innate nobility 
 being then set free, and his mind falling back upon its naked 
 self for the making good his title to respect. Wolsey, also, 
 towers far above the all-performing and all-powerful Cardinal 
 and Chancellor who " bore his blushing honours thick upon 
 him," when, stripped of every thing that fortune and favour 
 can give or take away, he bestows his great mind in parting 
 counsel upon Cromwell ; when he comes, " an old man 
 broken with the storms of State," to beg "a* little earth for 
 charity " ; and when he has really " felt himself, and found 
 the blessedness of being little." 
 
 Nor is the change in our feelings towards these men, after 
 their fall, merely an effect passing within ourselves : it pro- 
 ceeds in part upon a real disclosure of something in them 
 that was before hidden beneath the superinducings of place 
 
INTRODUCTION. lO/ 
 
 and circumstance. Their nobler and better qualities shine 
 out afresh when they are brought low, so that from their fall 
 we learn the true causes of their rising. And because this 
 real and true exaltation springs up naturally in consequence 
 of their fall, therefore it is that from their ruins the authors 
 build " such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow." 
 
 Character of Wolsey. 
 
 Wolsey is indeed a superb delineation, strong, subtile, com- 
 prehensive, and profound. All the way from his magnificent 
 arrogance at the start to his penetrating and persuasive wis- 
 dom on quitting the scene, the space is rich with deep and 
 telling lines of character. The corrupting influences of place 
 and power have stimulated the worser elements of his nature 
 into an usurped predominance : pride, ambition, duplicity, 
 insolence, vindictiveness, a passion for intriguing and circum- 
 venting arts, a wilful and elaborate stifling of conscience and 
 pity, confidence in his potency of speech making him reck- 
 less of truth and contemptuous of simplicity and purity, 
 — these are the faults, all of gigantic stature, that have got 
 possession of him. When the reverse, so sudden and deci- 
 sive, overtakes him, its first effect is to render him more 
 truthful. In the great scene, iii. 2, where Norfolk, Suffolk, 
 and Surrey so remorselessly hunt him down with charges and 
 reproaches, his conscience is quickly stung into resurgence ; 
 with clear eye he begins to see, in their malice and their ill- 
 mannered exultation at his fall, a reflection of his own moral 
 features, and with keen pangs of remorse he forthwith goes 
 to searching and hating and despising in himself the things 
 that show so hateful and so mean in his enemies ; and their 
 envenomed taunts have the effect rather of composing his 
 
I08 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 mind tlian of irritating it. To be sure, he at first stings back 
 again ; but in his upworkings of anger his long-dormant hon- 
 esty is soon awakened, and this presently calms him. 
 
 His repentance, withal, is hearty and genuine, and not a 
 mere exercise in self-cozenage, or a fit of self-commiseration : 
 as he takes all his healthy vigour and clearness of under- 
 standing into the process, so he is carried through a real 
 renovation of the heart and rejuvenescence of the soul : 
 his former sensibility of principle, his early faith in truth 
 and right, which had been drugged to sleep with the high- 
 wines of state and pomp, revive ; and with the solid sense 
 and refreshment of having triumphed over his faults and 
 put down his baser self, his self-respect returns ; and he 
 now feels himself stronger with the world against him than 
 he had been with the world at his beck. As the first prac- 
 tical fruit of all this, and the best proof of his earnestness 
 in it, he turns away his selfishness, and becomes generous, 
 preferring another's welfare and happiness to his own : for 
 so he bids Cromwell fly from him, and bestow his services 
 where the benefits thereof will fall to the doer ; whereas a 
 selfish man in such a case would most of all repine at losing 
 the aid and comfort of a cherished and trusted servant. 
 Finally, in his parting counsel to Cromwell, there is a home- 
 felt calmness and energy of truth, such as assures us that the 
 noble thoughts and purposes, the deep religious wisdom, 
 which launched him, and for some time kept with him, in 
 his great career, have been reborn within him, and are far 
 sweeter to his taste than they were before he had made 
 trial of their contraries. No man could speak such words 
 as the following, unless his whole soul were in them : 
 
 Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 
 By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 
 
INTRODUCTION. IO9 
 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win by't? 
 
 Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee : 
 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
 
 Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 
 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. 
 
 Thy God's, and truth's : then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 
 
 Thou fall'st a bless6d martyr. 
 
 Queen Catharine. 
 
 t 
 
 The delineation of Catharine differs from the two fore- 
 going, in that she maintains the same simple, austere, and 
 solid sweetness of mind and manners through all the 
 changes of fortune. Yet she, too, rises by her humiliation, 
 and is made perfect by suffering, if not in herself, at least 
 to us ; for it gives her full sway over those deeper sym- 
 pathies which are necessary to a just appreciation of the 
 profound and venerable beauty of her character. She is 
 mild, meek, and discreet ; and the harmonious blending of 
 these (|ualities with her high Castilian pride gives her a very 
 peculiar charm. Therewithal she is plain in mind and 
 person ; has neither great nor brilliant parts ; and of this 
 she is fully aware, for she knows herself thoroughly : but she 
 is nevertheless truly great, — - and this is the one truth about 
 her which she does not know, — from the symmetry and 
 composure wherein all the elements of her being stand and 
 move together : so that she presents a remarkable instance 
 of greatness in the whole, with the absence of it in the parts. 
 How clear and exact her judgment and discrimination ! yet 
 we scarce know whence it comes, or how. From the first 
 broaching of the divorce, she knows the thing is all a fore- 
 gone conclusion with the King ; she is also in full possession 
 of the secret why it is so : she feels her utter helpless- 
 
no KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 ness, being, as she is, in a land of strangers, with a ca- 
 pricious tyrant for the party against her, so that no man will 
 dare to befriend her cause with honest heartiness ; that no 
 trial there to be had can be any thing but a mockery of 
 justice, for the sole purpose will be to find arguments in 
 support of what is predetermined, and to set a face of truth 
 on a body of falsehood : she has no way therefore but to 
 take care of her own cause ; her only help lies in being true 
 to herself; and indetd the modest, gentle, dignified wisdom 
 with which she schools herself to meet the crisis is worth a 
 thousand-fold more than all the defences that any learning 
 and ingenuity and eloc^uence could frame in her behalf. 
 
 Her power over our better feelings is in no small degree 
 owing to the impression we take, that she sees through her 
 husband perfectly, yet never in the least betrays to him, and 
 hardly owns to herself, what mean and hateful qualities she 
 knows or feels to be in him. It is not possible to over-state 
 her simple artlessness of mind ; while nevertheless her sim- 
 plicity is of such a texture as to be an overmatch for all the 
 unscrupulous wiles by which she is beset. Her betrayers, 
 with all their mazy craft, can neither keep from her the secret 
 of their thoughts nor turn her knowledge of it into any blem- 
 ish of her innocence ; nor is she less brave to face their pur- 
 pose than penetrating to discover it. And when her resolu- 
 tion is fixed, that " nothing but death shall e'er divorce her 
 dignities," it is not, and we feel it is not, that she holds the 
 accidents of her position for one iota more than they are 
 worth ; but that these are to her the necessary symbols of 
 her honour as a wife, and the inseparable garments of her 
 delicacy as a woman ; and as such they have so grown in 
 with her life, that she cannot survive the parting with them ; 
 to say nothing of how they are bound up with her sentiments 
 
INTRODUCTION. Ill 
 
 of duty, of ancestral reverence, and of self-respect. More- 
 over many hard, hard trials have made her conscious of her 
 sterling virtue : she has borne too much, and borne it too 
 well, to be ignorant of what she is and how much better things 
 she has deserved ; she knows, as she alone can know, that 
 patience has had its perfect work with her : and tliis knowl- 
 edge of her solid and true worth, so sorely tried, so fully 
 proved, enhances to her sense the insult and wrong that are 
 put upon her, making them eat like rust into her soul. 
 
 One instance deserves special noting, where, by the pecu- 
 liar use of a single word, the authors well illustrate how Cath- 
 arine "guides her words with discretion," and at the same 
 time make her suggest the long, hard trial of temper and 
 judgment which she has undergone. It is in her dialogue 
 with the two Cardinals, when they visit her at Bridewell : 
 
 Bring me a constant woman to her husband, 
 One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure ; 
 And to that woman, when she has done most, 
 Yet will I add an honour, — a great patience. 
 
 How much more is here understood than is expressed ! 
 By the cautious and well-guarded but pregnant hint con- 
 veyed in the last three words, the mind is thrown back upon 
 the long course of trials she has suffered, and still kept her 
 suffering secret, lest the knowledge thereof should defeat the 
 cherished hope of her heart ; with what considerate forbear- 
 ance and reserve she has struggled against the worst parts of 
 her husband's character ; how she has wisely ignored his sins 
 against herself, that so she might still keep alive in him a 
 seed of grace and principle of betterment ; thus endeavour- 
 ing by conscientious art to make the best out of his strong 
 but hard and selfish nature. Yet all this is so intimated as 
 not to compromise at all the apprehensive delicacy which 
 befits her relation to him, and belongs to her cliaracter. 
 
112 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 The scope of this suggestion is well shown by a passage 
 in the Life of Wolsey, referring to things that took place 
 some time before the divorce was openly mooted. The 
 writer is speaking of Anne Boleyn : " After she knew the 
 King's pleasure and the bottom of his secret stomach, then 
 she began to look very haughty and stout, lacking no man- 
 ner of jewels and rich apparel that might be gotten for 
 money. It was therefore judged by-and-by through the 
 Court of every man, that she being in such favour might 
 work masteries with the King, and obtain any suit of him 
 for her friend. All this while, it is no doubt but good Queen 
 Catharine, having this gentlewoman daily attending upon 
 her, both heard by report and saw with her eyes how it 
 framed against her good ladyship : although she showed 
 neither unto Mistress Anne Boleyn nor unto the King any 
 kind or spark of grudge or displeasure ; but accepted all 
 things in good part, and with wisdom and great patience 
 dissembled the same, having Mistress Anne in more estima- 
 tion, for the King's sake, than she was before." 
 
 Catharine in her seclusion, and discrowned of all but her 
 honour and her sorrow, is one of the authors' noblest and 
 sweetest deliverances. She there leads a life of homely sim- 
 plicity. Always beautiful on the throne, in her humiliation 
 she is more beautiful still. She carries to the place no 
 grudge or resentment or bitterness towards any ; nothing 
 but faitli, hope, and charity ; a touching example of womanly 
 virtue and gentleness ; hourly in Heaven for her enemies ; 
 her heart garrisoned with " the peace that passeth all 
 understanding." Candid and plain herself, she loves and 
 honours plainness and candour in others ; and it seems a 
 positive relief to her to hear the best spoken that can be of 
 the fallen great man who did more than all the rest to 
 
INTRODUCTION, II3 
 
 work her fall. Her calling the messenger "a saucy fellow," 
 who breaks in so abruptly upon her, discloses just enough 
 of human weakness to make us feel that she is not quite 
 an angel yet ; and in her death-scene we have the divinest 
 notes of a "soul by resignation sanctified." 
 
 Delineation of Henry. 
 
 The portrait of the King, all the circumstances considered 
 in which it was drawn, is a very remarkable piece of work, 
 being no less true to the original than politic as regards the 
 authors : for the cause which Henry had been made to serve, 
 though against his will, and from the very rampancy of his 
 vices, had rendered it a long and hard process for the na- 
 tion to see him as he was. The authors keep the worst parts 
 of his character mainly in the background, veiling them 
 withal so adroitly and so transparently as to suggest them 
 to all who are willing to see them : in other words, they do 
 not directly expose or affirm his moral hatefulness, but 
 place it silently in facts, and so make him characterize 
 himself in a way to be felt : nay, they even make the other 
 persons speak good things of him, but at the same time let 
 him refute and reprove their words by his deeds. At all 
 events, the man's hard-hearted and despotic capriciousness 
 is brought to points of easy inference ; yet the matter is 
 carried by the authors with such an air of simplicity as if they 
 were hardly aware of it ; though, when one of the persons 
 is made to say of Henry, " His conscience has crept too 
 near another lady," it is manifest that the authors under- 
 stood his character perfectly. His little traditional pecu- 
 liarities of manner, which would be ridiculous, but that his 
 freaky fierceness of temper renders them dreadful ; and his 
 
I 14 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 mixture of hypocrisy and fanaticism, which endeavours to 
 misderive his bad passions from Divine sources, and in the 
 strength of which he is enabled to beheve a he, even while 
 he knows it to be a lie, and because he wishes it true ; — all 
 these things are shown up, without malice indeed, but with- 
 out mercy too. — Such and so great is the psychagogic re- 
 finement displayed in this delineation. 
 
 In the whole matter of the divorce, Henry is felt to be 
 acting from motives which he does not avow : already pos- 
 sessed with a criminal passion for which he is lawlessly bent 
 on making a way, he still wants to think he has strong pub- 
 lic reasons for the measure, and that religion and conscience 
 are his leading inducements ; and he shows much cunning 
 and ability in pressing these considerations into view : but 
 it is plain enough that he rather tries to persuade himself 
 they are true than really beheves them to be so ; though 
 there is no telling how far, in this effort to hide the real 
 cause from the world, he may strangle the sense of it in his 
 own breast. All this, however, rather heightens the mean- 
 ness than relieves the wickedness of his course. The power 
 or the poison of self-deceit can indeed work wonders ; and 
 in such cases it is often extremely difficult to judge whether 
 a man is wilfully deceiving others or unconsciously deceiv- 
 ing himself : in fact, tlie two often slide into each other, so 
 as to compound a sort of honest hypocrisy, or a state be- 
 tween belief and not-belief: but Henry wilfully embraces 
 and hugs and holds fast the deceit, and rolls all arguments 
 for it as sweet morsels under his tongue, because it offers a 
 free course for his carnal-mindedness and raging self-will. 
 But the history of his reign after the intellect of Wolsey 
 and the virtue of Catharine were removed is the best com- 
 mentary on the motives that swayed him at this time ; and 
 there T must leave him. 
 
INTRODUCTION. II5 
 
 Characteristics of Anne. 
 
 In the brief delineation of Anne Boleyn there is gathered 
 up the essence of a long story. She is regarded much less 
 for what she is in herself than for the gem that is to proceed 
 from her ; and her character is a good deal screened by the 
 purpose of her introduction, though not so much but that it 
 peeps significantly through. With little in her of a positive 
 nature one way or the other j with hardly any legitimate 
 object-matter of respect or confidence, she appears notwith- 
 standing a rather amiable person ; possessed with a girlish 
 fancy and hankering for the vanities and glitterings of state, 
 but having no sense of its duties and dignities. She has a 
 kindly heart, but is so void of womanly principle and deli- 
 cacy as to be from the first evidently elated by those royal 
 benevolences which to any just sensibility of honour would 
 minister nothing but humiliation and shame. She has a real 
 and true pity for the good Queen, which however goes alto- 
 gether on false grounds ; and she betrays by the very terms 
 of it an eager and uneasy longing after what she scarcely 
 more fears than hopes the Queen is about to lose. As for 
 the true grounds and sources of Catharine's noble sorrow, 
 she strikes vastly below these, and this in such a way as to 
 indicate an utter inability to reach or conceive them. Thus 
 the effect of her presence is to set off and enhance that deep 
 and solid character of whose soul truth is not so much a 
 quality as the very substance and essential form ; and who, 
 from the serene and steady light thence shining within her, 
 much rather than from acuteness or strength of intellect, is 
 enabled to detect the duplicity and serpentine policy which 
 are playing their engines about her. For this thorough in- 
 tegrity of heart, this perfect truth in the inward parts, is as 
 
Il6 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 hard to be deceived as it is incapable of deceiving. I can 
 well imagine that, with those of the audience who had 
 any knowledge in English history, — and many of them 
 no doubt had much, — the delineation of Anne, broken off 
 as it is at the height of her fortune, must have sent their 
 thoughts forward to reflect how the self-same levity of char- 
 acter, which lifted her into Catharine's place, soon afterwards 
 drew upon herself a far more sudden and terrible reverse. 
 And indeed some such thing may be needful, to excuse the 
 authors for not carrying out the truth of history from seed- 
 time to harvest, or at least indicating the consummation of 
 that whereof they so faithfully unfold the beginnings. 
 
 The moral effect of this play as a whole is very impres- 
 sive and very just. And the lesson evolved, so far as it 
 admits of general statement, may be said to stand in showing 
 how sorrow makes sacred the wearer, and how, to our hu- 
 man feelings, suffering, if borne with true dignity and 
 strength of soul, covers a multitude of sins ; or, to carry 
 out the point with more special reference to Catharine, it 
 consists, as Mrs. Jameson observes, in illustrating how, by 
 the union of perfect truth with entire benevolence of char- 
 acter, a queen, and a heroine of tragedy, though "stripped 
 of all tlie pomp of place and circumstance," and without 
 any of "the usual sources of poetical interest, as youth, 
 beauty, grace, fancy, commanding intellect, could depend 
 on the moral principle alone to touch the very springs of 
 feeling in our bosoms, and melt and elevate our hearts 
 through the purest and holiest impulses." 
 
117 
 
 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 King Henry the Eighth. 
 Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal. 
 Campeius, Cardinal, and Legate. 
 Capucius, Ambassador from the 
 
 Emperor Charles V. 
 Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of 
 
 Canterbury. 
 Howard, Duke of Norfolk. 
 Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. 
 Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. 
 Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey. 
 Lord Chamberlain. 
 Lord Chancellor. 
 Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester. 
 LONGLAND, Bishop of Lincoln. 
 Neville, Lord Abergavenny. 
 William Lord Sands. 
 Sir Henry Guildford. 
 Sir Thomas Lovell. 
 
 Sir Nicholas Vaux. 
 
 Cromwell, Servant to Wolsey. 
 
 Griffith, Gentleman -Usher to 
 Queen Catharine. 
 
 Butts, Physician to the King. 
 
 Secretaries to Wolsey. Garter, King- 
 at-Arms. 
 
 Surveyor to Buckingham. 
 
 Brandon, and a Sergeant-at-Arms. 
 
 Door-Keeper of the Council-Cham- 
 ber. A Crier. 
 
 Page to Gardiner. 
 
 A Porter, and his Man. 
 
 Catharine of Arragon, Wife to 
 King Henry. 
 
 Anne Boleyn, her Maid of Honour. 
 
 An old Lady, Friend to Anne Boleyn. 
 
 Patience, Woman to Queen Cath- 
 arine. 
 
 Sir Anthony Denny. 
 Several Bishops, Lords, and Ladies in the Dumb-Shows ; Women attending 
 on the Queen ; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants. 
 
 Scene. — Cklefiy in London and Westminster; once at Kimbolton. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 I come no more to make you laugh : things now. 
 That bear a weighty and a serious brow, 
 Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe. 
 
Il8 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. PROLOGUE. 
 
 Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, 
 
 We now present. Those that can pity, here 
 
 May, if they think it well, let fall a tear ; 
 
 The subject will deserve it. Such as give 
 
 Their money out of hope they may believe, 
 
 May here find truth too. Those that come to see 
 
 Only a show or two, and so agree 
 
 The play may pass, if they be still and willing, 
 
 I'll undertake may see away their shilling 
 
 Richly in two short hours. Only they 
 
 That come to hear a merry bawdy play, 
 
 A noise of targets, or to see a fellow 
 
 In a long motley coat guarded i with yellow, 
 
 Will be deceived ; for, gentle hearers, know. 
 
 To rank our chosen truth with such a show 
 
 As Fool and fight is, besides forfeiting 
 
 Our own brains, and th' opinion that we bring 
 
 Or make, — that only truth we now intend, — 
 
 Will leave us ne'er an understanding friend.- 
 
 Therefore, for goodness' sake, and as you're known 
 
 The first and happiest^ hearers of the town. 
 
 Be sad, as we would make ye : think ye see 
 
 The very persons of our history 
 
 1 This long motley coat was the usual badge dress of the professional 
 Fool. — Guarded \s faced or trimmed. See The Merchant, page iii, note 30. 
 
 2 This seems to imply a reference to what, as shown in the preface, there 
 is good reason for thinking to have been originally the first title of the play. 
 For by advertising the play under the title All is True the authors would 
 naturally beget an opinion or expectation of truth in what was to be shown ; 
 which opinion or expectation would be forfeited or destroyed by the course 
 in question. 
 
 3 Happy is here used for propitious, or favourable, which is one of the 
 senses of the corresponding Latin y/ordfelix. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. II 9 
 
 As they were living : think you see them great, 
 And foUow'd with the general throng and sweat 
 Of thousand friends ; then, in a moment, see 
 How soon this mightiness meets misery : 
 And, if you can be merry then, I'll say 
 A man may weep upon his wedding-day. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — London. An Ante-chamber in the Palace. 
 
 Enter, on one side, the Duke of Norfolk ; on the other, the 
 Duke ^Buckingham and the Lord Abergavenny. 1 
 
 Buck. Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done 
 Since last we saw- in France? 
 
 1 Thomas Howard, the present Duke of Norfolk, is the same person who 
 figures as Earl of Surrey in King Richard III. His father's rank and titles, 
 having been lost by the part he took with Richard, were restored to him by 
 Henry VIII. in 1514, soon after his great victory over the Scots at Flodden. 
 His wife was Anne, third daughter of Edward IV., and so, of course, aunt 
 to the King. He died in 1525, and was succeeded by his son Thomas, Earl 
 of Surrey. The Poet, however, continues them as duke and earl to the end 
 of the play ; at least he does not distinguish between them and their suc- 
 cessors. — Edward Stafford, the Buckingham of this play, was son to Henry, 
 the Buckingham of King Rickaj-d III. The father's titles and estates, hav- 
 ing been declared forfeit and confiscate by Richard, were restored to the 
 son by Henry VII. in the first year of his reign, 1485. In descent, in wealth, 
 and in personal gifts, the latter was the most illustrious nobleman in the 
 Court of Henry VIII. In the record of his arraignment and trial he is 
 termed, says Holinshed, " the floure and mirror of all courtesie." His oldest 
 daughter, Elizabeth, was married to the Earl of Surrey; Mary, his youngest, 
 to George Neville, Lord Abergavenny. 
 
 2 That is, "since last we saw each other!' or met. So in Cymbeline, i. i : 
 
I20 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I, 
 
 Nor. I thank your Grace, 
 
 Healthful ; and ever since a fresh admirer 
 Of what I saw there. 
 
 Buck. An untimely ague 
 
 Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber, when 
 Those suns of glory, those two lights of men. 
 Met in the vale of Andren. 
 
 Nor. 'Twixt Guines and Arde.^ 
 
 I was then present, saw them salute on horseback ; 
 Beheld them, when they 'lighted, how they clung 
 In their embracement, as ^ they grew together ; 
 Which had they, what four throned ones could have weigh'd 
 Such a compounded one ? 
 
 Buck. All the whole time 
 
 [ was my chamber's prisoner. 
 
 Nor. Then you lost 
 
 The view of earthly glory : men might say, 
 Till this time pomp was single, but now married 
 To one above itself. Each following day 
 Became the last day's master, till the next 
 Made former wonders its : ^ to-day, the French, 
 All clinquant,^ all in gold, like heathen gods, 
 
 "When shall we see again?" — "How have ye done?" answers precisely 
 to our phrase, " How have you been ? " though we still say, " How do you 
 do ? " 
 
 3 Guynes and Arde are the names of two towns in Picardy, where the 
 English and French respectively set up their tents and pavilions. Andren 
 is the name of a valley between them, where the two Kings met. 
 
 * As for as if; a common usage. 
 
 5 Its for its own. Each later day mastered, that is, surpassed or outdid, 
 the one before it, and was itself in turn outdone by the next day; which 
 next seemed to carry in its hand the splendours of all the days preceding. 
 
 6 Clinquant \% commonly explained here as meoximg glittering, shining: 
 Richardson says it is used " for the jingling noise of the ornaments " ; which 
 is certainly the usual sense of the word. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 121 
 
 Shone down the English ; and, to-morrow, they 
 
 Made Britain India ; every man that stood 
 
 Show'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were 
 
 As cherubins, all gilt : the madams too, 
 
 Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear 
 
 The pride upon them, that''' their very labour 
 
 AVas to them as a painting : now this masque 
 
 Was cried incomparable ; and th' ensuing night 
 
 Made it a fool and beggar. The two Kings, 
 
 Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, 
 
 As presence did present them ; him in eye, 
 
 Still him in praise : and, being present both, 
 
 'Twas said they saw but one ; and no discerner 
 
 Durs wag his tongue in censure.*^ When these suns — 
 
 For so they phrase 'em — by their heralds challenged 
 
 The noble spirits to arms, they did perform 
 
 Beyond thought's compass ; that former fabulous story, 
 
 Being now seen possible enough, got credit, 
 
 That Bevis ^ was believed. 
 
 Buck. O, you go far. 
 
 Nor. As I belong to worship, and affect 
 In honour honesty, the tract ^° of every thing 
 
 ■^ That for so that or insomuch that ; a very frequent usage. — Of course 
 the meaning of what follows is, that their labour put colour into their cheeks. 
 ■ — Pride, here, is splendour of dress or adornment. 
 
 8 No discriminating observer durst express an opinion as to which made 
 the finest appearance. This use of censure occurs often. 
 
 9 The old romantic legend of Bevis of Hampton. This Bevis, a Saxon, 
 was for his prowess created Earl of Southampton by William the Conqueror. 
 
 1" Tract here has the sense, apparently, of course, process, or trace. 
 Johnson explains the passage thus : " The course of these triumphs and 
 pleasures, however well related, must lose in the description part of the 
 spirit and energy which were expressed in the real action." — To "belong 
 to worship " was to be in the rank of gentleman, or of the gentry. So " your 
 
122 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ■ ACT 1. 
 
 Would by a good discourser lose some life, 
 Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal ; 
 To the disposing of it nought rebell'd ; 
 Order gave each thing view ; the office did 
 Distinctly his full function. 
 
 Buck. Who did guide, 
 
 I mean, who set the body and the limbs 
 Of this great sport together, as you guess ? 
 
 Nor. One, certes, that promises no element ^^ 
 In such a business. 
 
 Buck. I pray you, who, my lord ? 
 
 Nor. All this was order'd by the good discretion 
 Of the right-reverend Cardinal of York. 
 
 Buck. The Devil speed him ! no man's pie is freed 
 From his ambitious finger. What had he 
 To do in these fierce ^^ vanities ? I wonder 
 That such a keech ^-^ can with his very bulk 
 
 Worship" was a common title of deference, though not so high as "your 
 Honour." — To affect a thing, as the word is here used, is to crave or desire 
 it, to aspire to it, to have a passion for it. 
 
 11 Elevient here is commonly explained to mean the first principles or 
 rudiments of knowledge. Is it not rather used in the same sense as when 
 we say of any one, that he is out of his element ? From Wolsey's calling, 
 they would no more think he could be at home in such matters, than a fish 
 could swim in the air, or a bird fly in the water. — Certes, mean'mg certainly, 
 is here a monosyllable. In some other places the Poet uses it as a dissyl- 
 lable. 
 
 12 This use oi fierce in the sense of excessive, or nearly that, is, common 
 in the old writers, and is sometimes met with in those of later date. Shake- 
 speare has it repeatedly. So in Cymbeline, v. S : " This fierce abridgement 
 hath to it circumstantial branches, which distinction should be rich in." 
 Also in Hamlet, i. I : " And even the like precurse oi fierce events." 
 
 13 A round lump of fat. It has been thought that there was some allu- 
 sion here to the Cardinal's being reputed the son of a butcher. We have 
 " Goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife," mentioned by Dame Quickly in 2 
 Henry fV., ii i. — In t'.ie next line, beneficial is used for beneficent. Walker 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 123 
 
 Take up the rays o' the beneficial Sun, 
 And keep it from the Earth. 
 
 Nor. Surely, sir. 
 
 There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends ; 
 For, being not propp'd by ancestry, whose grace 
 Chalks successors their way ; nor call'd upon 
 For high feats done to th' crown ; neither allied 
 To eminent assistants ; but, spider-like, 
 Out of s self-drawing web, he gives us note 
 The force of his own merit makes his way ; 
 A gift that Heaven gives ; which buys for him 
 A place next to the King. 
 
 Abcr. I cannot tell 
 
 What Heaven hath given him, — let some graver eye 
 Pierce into that ; but I can see his pride 
 Peep through each part of him : whence has he that ? 
 If not from Hell, the Devil is a niggard ; 
 Or has given all before, and he begins 
 A new hell in himself. 
 
 Btick. Why the Devil, 
 
 Upon this French going-out, took he upon him, 
 Without the privity o' the King, t' appoint 
 Who should attend on him ? He makes up the file 
 Of all the gentry ; i'' for the most part such 
 To whom as great a charge as little honour 
 He meant to lay upon ;'5 and his own letter, 
 
 notes upon it thus : " It is to be observed that the words benefit and benefi- 
 cial, in our old writers, almost uniformly involve the idea of a benefactor, 
 which has since been dropped, except in cases where the context implies 
 that idea, e.g., conferring or receiving a benefit." 
 
 1* The file is the list, roll, or schedule. 
 
 15 This use of to and upon may be merely a doubling of prepositions, 
 such as occurs repeatedly in Shakespeare ; but is, more likely, an instance 
 
124 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I 
 
 The honourable board of Council out, 
 Must fetch him in he papers. ^^ 
 
 Abet: I do know 
 
 Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have 
 By this so sicken 'd their estates, that never 
 They shall abound as formerly. 
 
 Buck. O, many 
 
 Have broke their backs with laying manors on 'em 
 For this great journey.^'' What did this vanity 
 But minister communication of 
 A most poor issue ? i^ 
 
 Nor. Grievingly I think, 
 
 The peace between the French and us not values 
 The cost that did conclude it. 
 
 Buck. Every man, 
 
 After the hideous storm that follow'd, was 
 A thing inspired ; and, not consulting, broke 
 Into a general prophecy, that this tempest, 
 
 of pretty bold ellipsis ; the sense being, " To whom he gave as great a charge 
 as he meant to lay upon them little honour." 
 
 IS His own letter, by his own single authority, and without the concur- 
 rence of the Council, tttust fetch him in whom he papers down. Wolsey 
 drew up a list of the several persons whom he had appointed to attend on 
 the King at this interview, and addressed his letters to them. 
 
 l'^ " In the interview at Andren," says Lingard, "not only the two kings, 
 but also their attendants, sought to surpass each other in the magnificence 
 of their dress, and the display of their riches. Of the French nobility it was 
 said that many carried their whole estates o>i their backs : among the English 
 the Duke of Buckingham ventured to express his marked disapprobation 
 of a visit which had led to so much useless expense." 
 
 18 That is, serve for the reporting or proclaiming of a paltry, worthless 
 result ; somewhat like the homely phrase, " Great cry, and little wool." 
 Staunton, however, explains it thus : " But furnish discourse on the poverty 
 of its result. Communication in the sense of talk or discourse is found re- 
 peatedly in the writers of Shakespeare's time." 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. I 25 
 
 Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded 
 The sudden breach on't.i^ 
 
 Nor. Which is budded out ; 
 
 For France hath flaw'd the league, and hath attach'd 
 Our merchants' goods at Bourdeaux. 
 
 Aber. Is it therefore 
 
 Th' ambassador is silenced ? 20 
 
 Nor. Marry, is't. 
 
 Aber. A proper title of a peace ; -' and purchased 
 At a superfluous rate ! 
 
 Buck. ^Vhy, all this business 
 
 Our reverend Cardinal carried. 
 
 Nor. Like't your Grace,^^ 
 
 The State takes notice of the private difference 
 Betwixt you and the Cardinal. I advise you, — 
 And take it from a heart that wishes towards you 
 Honour and plenteous safety, — that you read 
 The Cardinal's malice and his potency 
 Together ; to consider further, that 
 What his high hatred would effect wants not 
 A minister in his power. You know his nature, 
 That he's revengeful ; and I know his sword 
 Hath a sharp edge : it's long, and, 't may be said, 
 It reaches far ; and where 'twill not extend. 
 Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel, 
 
 13 So in Holinshed : " On Mondaie the eighteenth of June was such an 
 /%/(f^(7«j storme of winde and weather, that manie conjectured it did prog- 
 nosticate trouble and hatred shortlie after to follow betweene princes." — 
 Aboded v~, foreboded or prognosticated. 
 
 2" Silenced in his official capacity ; that is, refused a hearing. 
 
 21 " A fine thing indeed, to be honoured with the title or name of a peace ! " 
 
 22 "Please it your Grace," or, "May it please your Grace." This use of 
 the verb to like occurs very often in Elizabethan English. 
 
126 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. act I. 
 
 You'll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that rock 
 That I advise your shunning. 
 
 Elite r Cardinal Wolsey, the purse borne before him ; certain 
 of the Guard, and two Secretaries with papers. The Car- 
 dinal in his passage fixes his eye on Buckingham, and 
 Buckingham on him, both full of disdain. 
 
 Wol. The Duke of Buckingham's surveyor, ha? 
 Where's his examination? 
 
 I Seer. Here, so please you. 
 
 Wol. Is he in person ready? 
 
 I Seer. Ay, please your Grace. 
 
 Wol. Well, we shall then know more ; and Buckingham 
 Shall lessen this big look. \_Exeunt Wolsey and Train. 
 
 Buck. This butcher's cur -^ is venom-mouth'd, and I 
 Have not the power to muzzle him ; therefore best 
 Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar's book 
 Outworths a noble's blood.-^ 
 
 Nor. What, are you chafed? 
 
 23 There was a tradition that Wolsey was the son of a butcher. But his 
 father, as hath been ascertained from his will, was a burgess of considerable 
 wealth, having " lands and tenements in Ipswich, and free and bond lands 
 in Stoke"; which, at that time, would hardly consist with such a trade. 
 liolinshed, however, says, " This Thomas Wolsie was a poore man's sonnt 
 of Ipswich, and there born, and. being but a child, verie apt to be learned: 
 by his parents he was conveied to the universitie of Oxenford, where he 
 sliortlie prospered so in learning, as he was made bachellor of art when he 
 passed not fifteen years of age, and was called most commonlie thorough 
 the universitie the boie bachellor." 
 
 -■' It was natural at that time that Buckingham, though himself a man of 
 large and liberal attainments, should speak with disdain of learned poverty 
 in comparison with noble blood. Book is here put for learning. So in 2 
 Henry VI., iv. 7 : " Because my book preferred me to the King" ; preferred 
 in its old sense of recouunefided. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 12/ 
 
 Ask God for temperance ; ~'^ that's th' appliance only 
 Which your disease requires. 
 
 Buck. I read in's looks 
 
 Matter against me ; and his eye reviled 
 Me, as his abject object : at this instant 
 He bores me with some trick : -'' he's gone to th' King ; 
 I'll follow, and outstare him. 
 
 Nor. Stay, my lord. 
 
 And let your reason with your choler question 
 What 'tis you go about : to climb steep hills 
 Requires slow pace at first : anger is like 
 A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, 
 Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England 
 Can advise me like you : be to yourself 
 As you would to your friend. 
 
 Buck. I'll to the King ; 
 
 And from a mouth of honour quite cry down 
 This Ipswich fellow's insolence ; or proclaim 
 There's difference in no persons. 
 
 Nor. Be advised ; -^ 
 
 Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot 
 That it do singe yourself: we may outrun, 
 By violent swiftness, that which we run at, 
 And lose by over-running. Know you not, 
 The fire that mounts the liquor till't run o'er, 
 In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised : 
 I say again, there is no English soul 
 
 25 Temperance in the classical sense of moderation, self-command, or 
 self-restraint. Repeatedly so. 
 
 -'J Meaning, " he stabs or wounds me by some artifice." 
 2" Be advised is bethink yourself, that is, use your judgment, or be con- 
 siderate. Often so. 
 
128 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I, 
 
 More stronger to direct you than yourself, 
 If with the sap of reason you would quench, 
 Or but allay, the fire of passion. 
 
 Buck. Sir, 
 
 I'm thankful to you ; and I'll go along 
 By your prescription : but this top-proud-^ fellow, — 
 Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but 
 From sincere motions,-^ — by intelligence. 
 And proofs as clear as founts in July, when 
 We see each grain of gravel, I do know 
 To be corrupt and treasonous. 
 
 Nor. Say not, treasonous. 
 
 Buck. To th' King I'll say't ; and make my vouch as 
 strong 
 As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox. 
 Or wolf, or both, — for he is equal ravenous 
 As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief 
 As able to perform't ; his mind and place 
 Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally, — ■ 
 Only to show his pomp as well in France 
 As here at home, suggests ^o the King our master 
 To this last cosdy treaty, th' interview, 
 That swallow'd so much treasure, and like a glass 
 Did break i' the rinsing. 
 
 Nor. Faith, and so it did. 
 
 Buck. Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning Cardinal 
 The articles o' the combination drew 
 As himself pleased ; and they were ratified 
 
 23 Top-proud is superlatively proud, or over-topping all others in pride 
 So the Poet often uses the verb to top for to surpass. 
 
 2'J " Whom I speak of, not in malice, but from just and candid motives:' 
 80 To prompt, to move, to incite are among the old senses of to suggest. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. T 20 
 
 As he cried, Thus let he : to as much end 
 
 As give a crutch to th' dead : but our Court-Cardinal 
 
 Has done this, and 'tis well ; for Worthy Wolsey, 
 
 Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows, — 
 
 Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy 
 
 To th' old dam, treason, — Charles the Emperor, 
 
 Under pretence to see the Queen his aunt, 
 
 (For 'twas indeed his colour, but he came 
 
 To whisper Wolsey,) here makes visitation : 
 
 His fears were, that the interview betwixt 
 
 England and France might, through their amity, 
 
 Breed him some prejudice ; for from this league 
 
 Peep'd harms that menaced him : he privily 
 
 Deals with our Cardinal ; and, as I trow, — 
 
 Which I do well ; for, I am sure, the Emperor 
 
 Paid ere he promised ; whereby his suit was granted 
 
 Ere it was ask'd ; — but, when the way was made, 
 
 And paved with gold, the Emperor then desired 
 
 That he would please to alter the King's course, 
 
 And break the foresaid peace. Let the King know — 
 
 As soon he shall by me — that thus the Cardinal 
 
 Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases. 
 
 And for his own advantage. 
 
 N'or. I am sorry 
 
 To hear this of him ; and could wish he were 
 Something mistaken "^^ in't. 
 
 Back. No, not a syllable : 
 
 I do pronounce him in that very shape 
 He shall appear in proof. 
 
 31 No; that he had made a mistake, but that others mistook, or were 
 mistaken, in regard to liim ; misunderstood. 
 
130 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. act 1. 
 
 Enter Brandon, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, and two or 
 three of the Guard. 
 
 Bran. Your office, sergeant ; execute it. 
 
 Serg. Sir, 
 
 My lord the Duke of Buckingham and Earl 
 Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I 
 Arrest thee of high treason, in the name 
 Of our most sovereign King. 
 
 Buck. Lo, you, my lord. 
 
 The net has fall'n upon me ! I shall perish 
 Under device and practice. 
 
 Brafi. I am sorry, 
 
 To see-^- you ta'en from liberty, to look on 
 The business present : 'tis his Highness' pleasure 
 You shall to th' Tower. 
 
 Buck. It will help me nothing 
 
 To plead mine innocence ; for that dye is on me 
 Which makes my whitest part black. The will of Heaven 
 Be done in this and all things ! I obey. — 
 O my Lord Aberga'ny, fare you well ! 
 
 Bran. Nay, he must bear you company. — \_To Aberga- 
 VENNn^.] The King 
 Is pleased you shall to th' Tower, till you know 
 How he determines further. 
 
 Al?er. As the duke said. 
 
 The will of Heaven be done, and the King's pleasure 
 
 32 An obscure passage ; but (o see is an instance of the infinitive used 
 gerundively. So that the meaning comes something thus : "In seeing' you 
 deprived of freedom, I regret to be present on this occasion " ; or, as Staun- 
 ton words it, " I am sorry, since it is to see you deprived of liberty, that I am 
 a witness of this business." See Hamlet, page 169, note i. — The arrest of 
 Buckingham took place April 16, 1521. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 13 1 
 
 By me obey'd ! 
 
 Bra?i. Here is a warrant from 
 
 The King t' attach Lord Montacute ; ^-^ and the bodies 
 Of the dnke's confessor, John de la Car, 
 And Gilbert Peck, his chancellor, — 
 
 Buck. So, so ; 
 
 These are the limbs o' the plot : no more, I hope. 
 
 Bran. — A monk o' the Chartreux. 
 
 Buck. O, Nicholas Hopkins ? 
 
 Bran. He. 
 
 Buck. My siirveyor is false ; the o'er-great Cardinal 
 Hath shovv'd him gold ; my life is spann'd ^^ already : 
 I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, 
 Whose figure even this instant cloud puts out 
 By darkening my clear sun.^^ — My lord, farewell. \_Exeunt. 
 
 23 This was Henry Pole, grandson to George Duke of Clarence, and 
 eldest brother to Cardinal Pole. He had married Lord Abergavenny's 
 daughter. Though restored to favour at this juncture, he was executed for 
 another alleged treason in this reign. 
 
 3-1 Is measured, the end of it determined. Man's life is said in Scripture 
 to be but a span long. 
 
 35 " Stripped of my titles and possessions, I am but the shadow of what 
 I was ; and even this poor figure or shadow a cloud this very instant puts 
 out, reduces to nothing, by darkening my son of life." — Instant is passing 
 OT present. We have a like expression in Greene's Dorastus and Fawnia, 
 upon which The Winter's Tale was partly founded : " Fortune, envious of 
 such happie successe, turned her wheele, and darkened their bright suntie 
 of prosperitie with the mistie clouds of mishap and miserie." 
 
132 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT L 
 
 Scene II. — The Same. The Council- Chamber. 
 
 Cornets. Enter King Henry, Cardinal Wolsey, the Lords 
 of the Council, Sir Thomas Lovell, Ofificers, and Atten- 
 dants. The King enters leaning on the Cardinal's shoul- 
 der. 
 
 King. My life itself, and the best heart of it, 
 Thanks you for this great care : I stood i' the level 
 Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks 
 To you that choked it. — Let be call'd before us 
 That gentleman of Buckingham's : in person 
 I'll hear him his confessions justify ; 
 And point by point the treasons of his master 
 He shall again relate. 
 
 \The King takes his state. The Lords of the Council 
 take their several places. The Cardinal places 
 hifnself under the YAng'sfeet, on his right side. 
 
 A Noise within, crying Room for the Queen ! Enter Queen 
 Catharine, ushered by the Dukes of Norfolk and Suf- 
 folk : she kneels. The King rises frofn his state, takes 
 her up, kisses and places her by his side. 
 
 Cath. Nay, we must longer kneel : I am a suitor. 
 
 King. Arise, and take place by us : half your suit 
 Never name to us ; you have half our power : 
 The other moiety, ere you ask, is given ; 
 Repeat your will, and take it. 
 
 Cath. Thank your Majesty. 
 
 That you would love yourself, and in that love 
 Not unconsider'd leave your honour, nor 
 The dignity of your office, is the point 
 Of my petition. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 133 
 
 King. Lady mine, proceed. 
 
 Cath. I am solicited, not by a few, 
 And those of true condition, ^ that your subjects 
 Are in great grievance : there have been commissions 
 Sent down among 'em, which liave flaw'd the heart 
 Of all their loyalties : — wherein, although, 
 My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches 
 Most bitterly on you, as putter-on- 
 Of these exactions, yet the King our master, — 
 AVhose honour Heaven shield from soil ! — even he escapes 
 
 not 
 Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks 
 The sides of loyalty, and almost appears 
 In loud rebellion. 
 
 Nor. Not almost appears, — 
 
 It doth appear ; for, upon these taxations. 
 The clothiers all, not able to maintain 
 The many to them 'longing, have put off 
 The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who, 
 Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger 
 And lack of other means, in desperate manner 
 Daring th' event to th' teeth, are all in uproar, 
 And danger serves among them. 
 
 King. Taxation ! 
 
 ^V'herein ? and what taxation ? — My Lord Cardinal, 
 You that are blamed for it alike with us, 
 Know you of this taxation ? 
 
 Wol. Please you, sir, 
 
 1 Men oi true condition are men 'mcU disposed, or men of loyal tempers. 
 The use of condition in that sense is very frequent. 
 
 2 K putter-on is an instigator. So io put on was often used for Xo prompt, 
 to incite, or instigate. 
 
134 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT 1 
 
 I know but of a single part, in aught 
 
 Pertains to th' State ; and front but in that file 
 
 Where others tell ^ steps with me. 
 
 Cath. No, my lord, 
 
 You know no more than others ; but you frame 
 Things that are known alike ; '' which are not wholesome 
 To those which would not know them, and yet must 
 Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions, 
 Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are 
 Most pestilent to th' hearing ; and, to bear 'em,^ 
 The back is sacrifice to th' load. They say 
 They are devised by you ; or else you suffer 
 Too hard an exclamation. 
 
 King. Still exaction ! 
 
 The nature of it? in what kind, let's know^ 
 Is this exaction? 
 
 Cath. I am much too venturous 
 
 In tempting of your patience ; but am bolden'd 
 Under your promised pardon. The subjects' grief 
 Comes through commissions, which compel from each 
 The sixth part of his substance, to be levied 
 Without delay ; and the pretence for this 
 Is named, your wars in France : this makes bold mouths ; 
 Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze 
 Allegiance in them ; that their curses now 
 Live where their prayers did : and it's come to pass, 
 That tractable obedience is a slave 
 
 3 To tell was used for to count ; as in " keep tally," still in use. 
 
 * Are known in common. She means, that he originates measures, and 
 Ihcn gets the Council to father them ; so that he has the advantage, and 
 they bear the responsibility. 
 
 6 That is, in bearing them. See page 54, note 32. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 135 
 
 To each incensed will.^ I would your Highness 
 Would give it quick consideration, for 
 There is no primer business. 
 
 King. By my life, 
 
 This is against our pleasure. 
 
 Wol. And for me, 
 
 I have no further gone in this than by 
 A single voice ; and that not pass'd me but 
 By learned approbation of the judges. If I am 
 Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know 
 My faculties nc*- person, yet will be 
 The chronicles of my doing, let me say 
 'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake 
 That virtue must go through. We must not stint 
 Our necessary actions, in the fear 
 To cope malicious censurers ; which ever. 
 As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow 
 That is new-trimm'd, but benefit no further 
 Than vainly longing. What we oft do best, 
 By sick interpreters,'^ or weak ones, is 
 Not ours, or not allow'd ; what worst, as oft, 
 Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up 
 For our best action. If we shall stand still, 
 In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at, 
 We should take root here where we sit, or sit 
 
 6 The meaning seems to be, that the spirit of obedience succumbs ox gives 
 ■way to the violence or distemper of individual will. 
 
 "^ Heath thinks the epithet sick is here used in accordance with the Stoic 
 philosophy, which regarded the passions as so many diseases of the soul. 
 He adds, " By sick interpreters, therefore, the Poet intended such as are 
 under the actual influences of envy, hatred, or any other of the malevolent 
 passions." — Allow'd, in the next line, is approved. See The Winter's Tale, 
 page 49, note 29. 
 
136 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I. 
 
 State-Statues only. 
 
 King. Things done well, 
 
 And with a care, exempt themselves from fear ; 
 Things done without example, in their issue 
 Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent 
 Of this commission ? I believe, not any. 
 We must not rend our subjects from our laws. 
 And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each ? 
 A trembling ^ contribution ! Why, we take 
 From every tree lop,^ bark, and part o' the timber ; 
 And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd, 
 The air will drink the sap. To every county 
 Where this is question'd send our letters, with 
 Free pardon to each man that has denied 
 The force of this commission : pray, look to't ; 
 I put it to your care. 
 
 Wol. \_Aside to the Secretary.] A word with you : 
 Let there be letters writ to every shire. 
 Of the King's grace and pardon. The grieved commons 
 Hardly conceive of me ; let it be noised 
 That through our intercession this revokement 
 And pardon comes : I shall anon advise you 
 Further in the proceeding. \_Exit Secretary. 
 
 Enter Surveyor. 
 
 Cath. I'm sorry that the Duke of Buckingham 
 Is run in ^° your displeasure. 
 
 ^ Trembling, if it be the right word here, must be used causatively, that 
 is, in the sense of dreadful or terrible. The Poet uses divers intransitive 
 verbs in this way, such as cease, fall, Sec. 
 
 3 The lop of a tree is the branches, that which is lopped or cut off from 
 the timber-part or the trunk. 
 
 1" In for into ; the two being often used indiscriminately. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 137 
 
 King. It grieves many : 
 
 The gentleman is learned, and a most rare speaker ; 
 To Nature none more bound ; his training such, 
 That he may furnish and instruct great teachers, 
 And never seek for aid out of himseh". Yet see, 
 When these so noble benefits shall prove 
 Not well disjDosed. the mind growing once corrupt, 
 They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly 
 Than ever they were fair. This man so c6mplete, 
 Who was enroll'd 'mongst wonders, and when we, 
 Almost with listening ravish'd, could not find 
 His hour of speech a minute ; he, my lady. 
 Hath into monstrous habits put the graces 
 That once were his, and is become as black 
 As if besmear'd in Hell. Sit by us; you shall hear — 
 This was his gentleman in trust — of him 
 Things to strike honour sad. — Bid him recount 
 The fore-recited practices ; whereof 
 We cannot feel too little, hear too much. 
 
 Wol. Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what you, 
 Most like a careful subject, have collected 
 Out of the Duke of Buckingham. 
 
 King. Speak freely. 
 
 SuriK First, it was usual with him, every day 
 It would infect his speech, that, if the King 
 Should without issue die, he'd carry it so 
 To make the sceptre his : these very words 
 I've heard him utter to his son-in-law. 
 Lord Aberga'ny ; to whom by oath he menaced 
 Revenge upon the Cardinal. 
 
 IVol. Please your Highness, note 
 
 His dangerous conception in this point. 
 
138 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I 
 
 Not friended by his wish, to your high person 
 His will is most malignant ; and it stretches 
 Beyond you, to your friends. 
 
 Cath. My learn'd Lord Cardinal, 
 
 Deliver all with charity. 
 
 King. Speak on : 
 
 How grounded he his title to the crown, 
 Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him 
 At any time speak aught ? 
 
 Surv. He was brought to this 
 
 By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins. 
 
 King. What was that Hopkins ? 
 
 Stirv. Sir, a Chartreux friar, 
 
 His c6nfessor ; who fed him every minute 
 With words of sovereignty. 
 
 King. How know'st thou this ? 
 
 Surv. Not long before your Highness sped to France, 
 The duke being at the Rose, 11 within the parish 
 Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand 
 What was the speech among the Londoners 
 Concerning the French journey : I replied, 
 Men fear'd the French would prove perfidious, 
 To the King's danger. Presently the duke 
 Said, 'twas the fear, indeed ; and that he doubted ^^ 
 'Twould prove the verity of certain words 
 Spoke by a holy monk ; that oft, says he. 
 Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit 
 Joh?i de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour 
 
 11 This was " the Manor of the Rose," of which Cunningham, in his 
 Hand-book of London, says " a crypt remains between Duck's-foot-lane and 
 Merchant Tailor's School." 
 
 12 Doubted iov feared or suspected ; a frequent usage. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 139 
 
 To hear from httn a matter of some moment : 
 
 Whom after, under the confession^ s seal, 
 
 He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke 
 
 My chaplain to no creature living but 
 
 To me should utter, with demure confidence 
 
 This pausingly ensued: " Neither the King nor's heirs, 
 
 Tell you the duke, shall prosper : bid him strive 
 
 To gain the love o'' the commonalty : the duke 
 
 Shall govern England.''' 
 
 Cath. If I know you well, 
 
 You were the duke's surveyor, and lost your office 
 On the complaint o' the tenants : take good heed 
 You charge not in your spleen a noble person, 
 And spoil your nobler soul : I say, take heed ; 
 Yes, heartily beseech you. 
 
 King. Let him on. — 
 
 Go forward. 
 
 Sun\ On my soul, I'll speak but truth. 
 
 I told my lord the duke, by th' Devil's illusions 
 The monk might be deceived ; and that 'twas dangerous 
 For him to ruminate on this so far, until 
 It forged him some design, which, being believed, 
 It was much like to do : he answer'd. Tush, 
 It can do me no damage ; adding further. 
 That, had the King in his last sickness fail'd. 
 The Cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads 
 Should have gone off. 
 
 King. Ha ! what, so rank? Ah-ha ! 
 
 There's mischief in this man. — Canst thou say further? 
 
 Surv. I can, my liege. 
 
 King. Proceed. 
 
 Surv. Being at Greenwich, 
 
140 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT i. 
 
 After your Highness had reproved the duke 
 About Sir WilUam Blomer, — 
 
 King. I remember 
 
 Of such a time : being my servant sworn, 
 The duke retain'd him his. — But on ; what hence ? 
 
 Surv. If, quoth he, I for- this had been committed 
 To th^ Tower, as I thought, I would have plafd 
 The part my father meant to act upon 
 Th' usurper Richard ; who, being at Salisbury, 
 Made suit to cofne in' s presence ; which if granted. 
 As he made semblance of his duty, would 
 Have put his knife into hifn. 
 
 King. A giant traitor ! 
 
 Wol. Now, madam, may his Highness Hve in freedom, 
 And this man out of prison ? 
 
 Cath. God mend all ! 
 
 King. There's something more would out of thee ; what 
 say'st ? 
 
 Surv. After the duke his father, with the knife, 
 He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger, 
 Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes, 
 He did discharge a horrible oath ; whose tenour 
 Was, were he evil used, he would outgo 
 His father by as much as a performance 
 Does an irresolute purpose. 
 
 King. There's his period, 
 
 To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach'd ; 
 Call him to present trial : if he may 
 Find mercy in the law, 'tis his ; if none. 
 Let him not seek't of us : by day and night, 
 He's traitor to the height.^-' \^Exetint. 
 
 13 By day and night is simply an adjuration ; not meaning that he is a 
 traitor night and day ; which were a httle too flat. 
 
SCENE III. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. I4I 
 
 Scene III. — The Same. A Rooj?i in the Palace. 
 Enter the Lo7'd Chamberlain and Lo?-d Sands. ^ 
 
 Cham. Is't possible the spells of France should juggle 
 Men into such strange mysteries ? - 
 
 Sands. New customs, 
 
 Though they be never so ridiculous, 
 Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd. 
 
 Cham. As far as I see, all the good our English 
 Have got by the late voyage is but merely 
 A fit or two o' the face ; ^ but they are shrewd ones ; 
 For, when they hold 'em, you would swear directly 
 Their very noses had been counsellors 
 To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so. 
 
 Sands. They've all new legs, and lame ones : one would 
 take it. 
 That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin 
 Or springhalt reign'd among 'em. 
 
 Cham. Death ! my lord, 
 
 Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too, 
 That, sure, they've worn out Christendom. — 
 
 Enter Sir Thomas Lovell. 
 
 How now ! 
 What news, Sir Thomas Lovell ? 
 
 1 The author places this scene in 1521. Charles Somerset, Earl of Wor- 
 cester, was then Lord Chamberlain, and continued in the office until his 
 death, in 1526. But Cavendish, from whom this was originally taken, places 
 this event at a later period, when Lord Sands himself was chamberlain. Sir 
 William Sands, of the Vine, near Basingstoke, Hants, was created a peer in 
 1527. "He succeeded the Earl of Worcester as chamberlain. 
 
 - Mysteries are arts, and here artificial fashions. 
 
 3 A. fit of the face is 3. grimace, an artificial cast of the countenance. 
 
142 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I, 
 
 Lov. Faith, my lord, 
 
 I hear of none, but the new proclamation 
 That's clapp'd upon the court-gate. 
 
 Cham. What is't for? 
 
 Lov. The reformation of our travell'd gallants, 
 That fill the Court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. 
 
 Cham. I'm glad 'tis there : now I would pray our mon- 
 sieurs 
 To think an English courtier may be wise, 
 And never see the Louvre. 
 
 Lov. They must either — 
 
 For so run the conditions — leave those remnants 
 Of fool and feather,"* that they got in France, 
 With all their honourable points of ignorance 
 Pertaining thereunto, — as fights and fireworks ; 
 Abusing better men than they can be. 
 Out of a foreign wisdom ; — renouncing clean 
 The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings. 
 Short blister'd breeches^ and those types of travel, 
 And understand again like honest men ; 
 
 4 The text may receive illustration from Nashe's Life of Jack Wilton, 
 1594 : " At that time I was no common squire, no under-trodden torchbearer : 
 / had viy feather in my cap as big as a flag in the foretop ; my French 
 doublet gelte in the belly ; a paire of side-paned hose, that hung down like 
 two scales filled with Holland cheeses ; my long stock that sate close to my 
 dock; my rapier pendant, like a round sticke ; my blacke cloake of cloth, 
 overspreading my backe lyke a thornbacke or an elephant's care ; and, in 
 consummation of my curiositie, my handes without gloves, all a mode 
 French." Douce justly observes that Sir Thomas Lovell's is an allusion to 
 the feathers which were formerly worn by Fools in their caps, and which 
 are alluded to in the ballad of News and no News : " And feather's wagging 
 in a fool's cap." 
 
 5 This word blister'd describes with picturesque humour the appearance 
 of the slashed breeches, covered as they were with little puffs of satin lining 
 which thrust themselves mit thrniicrh the slashes. — GRANT WHITE. 
 
SCENE III. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 143 
 
 Or pack to their old playfellows : there, I take it, 
 
 They may, cum privilegio, wee ^ away 
 
 The lag end of their lewdness, and be laugh'd at. 
 
 Sands. 'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases 
 Are grown so catching. 
 
 Chain. What a loss our ladies 
 
 Will have of these trim vanities ! 
 
 Lov. Ay, marry, 
 
 There will be woe indeed, lords : the sly knaves 
 Have got a speeding trick to wheedle ladies ; 
 A French song and a fiddle has no fellow. 
 
 Satids. The Devil fiddle 'em ! I'm glad they're going; 
 For, sure, there's no converting of 'em : now 
 An honest country lord, as I am, beaten 
 A long time out of play, may bring his plain-song,'^ 
 And have an hour of hearing ; and, by'r Lady, 
 Held current music too. 
 
 Cham. Well said, Lord Sands ; 
 
 Your colt's tooth 8 is not cast yet. 
 
 Sands. No, my lord ; 
 
 Nor shall not, while I have a stump. 
 
 Cham. Sir Thomas, 
 
 6 Wee is, I take it, merely an Anglicized spelling of the French oui, and 
 is used as a verb. Of course it is meant in ridicule of the trick these French- 
 ified dandies have caught up of aping French idioms in their talk. — The 
 wit of this scene and the next, though of quite another tang than Shake- 
 speare's, is in Fletcher's liveliest and spiciest vein. See Critical Notes. 
 
 " Plain-song is an old musical term used to denote the simplicity of the 
 chant. His lordship's thought is that, the apish and fantastical embroidery 
 of French manners being put down by royal proclamation, the plain style 
 of old honest English manhood will now stand some chance of being heeded 
 again. 
 
 8 Colt' s-tooth IS an old expression for youiA/ulness generally. The Lord 
 Chamberlain means that Sands has not sown all his wild oats yet. 
 
144 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I. 
 
 Whither were you a-going? 
 
 Lov. To the Cardinal's : 
 
 Your lordship is a guest too. 
 
 Cham. O, 'tis true : 
 
 This night he makes a supper, and a great one, 
 To many lords and ladies ; there will be 
 The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you. 
 
 Lov. That churchman^ bears a bounteous mind in- 
 deed, 
 A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us ; 
 His dews fall everywhere. 
 
 Cham. No doubt he's noble ; 
 
 He had a black mouth that said other of him. 
 
 Sands. He may, my lord, — 'has wherewithal ; in him 
 Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine : 
 Men of his way should be most liberal ; 
 They're set here for examples. 
 
 Cham. True, they are so ; 
 
 But few now give so great ones. My barge stays ; i" 
 Your lordship shall along. — Come, good Sir Thomas, 
 We shall be late else ; which I would not be. 
 For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford, 
 This night to be comptrollers. 
 
 Sands. I'm your lordship's. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 9 Churchman was formerly used as a term of distinction for a priest, or 
 what is now called a clergyrfian. 
 
 10 The speaker is now in the King's palace at Bridewell, from whence he 
 is proceeding by water to York-Place. 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 145 
 
 Scene IV. — The Same. The Presence- Chamber in York- 
 Place. 
 
 Hautboys. A small table under a state for the Cardinal, a 
 longer table for the Guests. Enter, on one side, Anne 
 BoLEYN and divers Lords, Ladies, and Gentlewomen, as 
 guests ; on the other, enter Sir Henry Guildford. 
 
 Guild. Ladies, a general welcome from his Grace 
 Salutes ye all ; this night he dedicates 
 To fair content and you : none here, he hopes, 
 In all this noble bevy,i has brought with her 
 One care abroad ; he would have all as merry 
 As feast, good company, good wine, good welcome, 
 Can make good people. — O, my lord, you're tardy : 
 
 Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and Sir Thomas 
 
 LOVELL. 
 
 The very thought of this fair company 
 Clapp'd wings to me. 
 
 Cham. You're young. Sir Harry Guildford. — 
 
 Sweet ladies, will it please you sit ? — Sir Harry, 
 Place you that side ; I'll take the charge of this : 
 His Grace is entering. — Nay, you must not freeze ; 
 Two women placed together makes cold weather : — 
 My Lord Sands, you are one will keep 'em waking ; 
 Pray, sit between these ladies. 
 
 1 A bevy is a company. In the curious catalogue of " the companyes of 
 bestys and foules," in the Book of St. Albans, it is said to be the proper 
 term for a company of ladies, of roes, and of quails. Its origin is yet to 
 seek. Spenser has " a bevy of ladies bright" in his Shepherd's Calendar, 
 and " a lovely bevy of faire ladies " in his Faerie Queene ; and Milton has 
 " a bevy of fair dames." 
 
146 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I. 
 
 Sands. By my faith, 
 
 And thank your lordship. — By your leave, sweet ladies : 
 
 \_Seats himself betiveen Anne Boleyn and another Lady. 
 If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me ; 
 I had it from my father. 
 
 Anne. Was he mad, sir? 
 
 Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad ; in love too ; 
 But he would bite none : just as I do now, 
 He would kiss you twenty with a breath. \_Kisses her. 
 
 Cham. Well said, my lord. 
 
 So, now you're fairly seated. — Gentlemen, 
 The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies 
 Pass away frowning. 
 
 Sands. For my little cure,^ 
 
 Let me alone. 
 
 Hautboys. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, attended, and takes his 
 
 state. 
 
 Wol. Ye're welcome, my fair guests : that noble lady, 
 Or gentleman, that is not freely merry, 
 Is not my friend : this, to confirm my welcome ; 
 And to you all, good health. \_Drinks. 
 
 Sands. Your Grace is noble : 
 
 Let me have such a bowl may hold ^ my thanks, 
 And save me so much talking. 
 
 Wol. My Lord Sands, 
 
 I am beholding '' to you : cheer your neighbours. — 
 
 2 Cure, as the word is here used, is a parochial charge ; hence the word 
 curate, for one who ministers in such a charge. Of course his lordship is 
 speaking facetiously. 
 
 3 " Such a bowl as may hold," we should say. Such omission or ellipsis 
 of the relatives is very frequent in Shakespeare. 
 
 * This old use oi beholding, where we should use beholden, falls under the 
 general head of active and passive forms used indiscriminately. 
 
SCENE IV, KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 147 
 
 Ladies, you are not merry : — gentlemen. 
 Whose fault is this? 
 
 Sands. The red wine first must rise 
 
 In their fair cheeks, my lord ; then we shall have 'em 
 Talk us to silence. 
 
 Anne. You're a merry gamester, 
 
 My Lord Sands. 
 
 Sands. Yes, if I may make my play.^ 
 
 Here's to your ladyship : and pledge it, madam. 
 For 'tis to such a thing, — 
 
 Anne. You cannot show me. 
 
 Sands. I told your Grace they would talk anon. 
 [Drum and trumpets, and chambers ^ discharged, within. 
 
 Wol. What's that? 
 
 Cham. Look out there, some of ye. [Exit a Servant. 
 
 Wol. What warlike voice, 
 
 And to what end, is this ! — Nay, ladies, fear not ; 
 By all the laws of war ye're privileged. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Cham. How now ! what is't ? 
 
 Serv. A noble troop of strangers. 
 
 For so they seem : they've left their barge, and landed ; 
 And hither make, as great ambassadors 
 From foreign princes. 
 
 Wol. Good Lord Chamberlain, 
 
 Go, give 'em welcome ; you can speak the French tongue ; 
 
 5 That is, " if I may choose my g^ame." 
 
 6 Chambers are short pieces of ordnance, standing almost erect upon 
 their breechings, chiefly used upon festive occasions, being so contrived as 
 to carry great charges, and make a loud report. They had their name 
 from being little more than mere chambers to lodge powder ; that being the 
 technical name for the cavity in a gun which contains the powder. 
 
148 KING HENRV THE EIGHTH. ACT I. 
 
 And, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em 
 Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty 
 Shall shine at full upon them. — Some attend him. — 
 
 \_Exit Chamberlain, attended. All rise, and the 
 
 tables are removed. 
 You've now a broken banquet ; but we'll mend it. 
 A good digestion to you all : and once more 
 I shower a welcome on ye ; — welcome all. — 
 
 Hautboys. Enter the King and others, as Masquers, habited 
 like Shepherds, ushered by the Lord Chamberlain. They 
 pass directly before the Cardinal, and gracefully salute him. 
 
 A noble company ! what are their pleasures ? 
 
 Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they pray'd me 
 To tell your Grace, that, having heard by fame 
 Of this so noble and so fair assembly 
 This night to meet here, they could do no less. 
 Out of the great respect they bear to beauty, 
 But leave their flocks ; and, under your fair conduct, 
 Crave leave to view these ladies, and entreat 
 An hour of revels with 'em. 
 
 Wol. Say, Lord Chamberlain, 
 
 They've done my poor house grace ; for which I pay 'em 
 A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures. 
 
 [Ladies chosen for the dance. The King chooses 
 
 Anne Boleyn. 
 
 King. The fairest hand I ever touch'd ! O beauty, 
 Till now I never knew thee ! '^ \Music. Dance. 
 
 "^ This ineident of the King's dancing with Anne Boleyn did not occur 
 during the banquet at York-House, but is judiciously introduced here from 
 another occasion : A grand entertainment given by the King at Greenwich, 
 May 5, 1527, to the French ambassadors who had come to negotiate a mar- 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 149 
 
 IVo/. My lord,— 
 
 Cham. Your Grace ? 
 
 Wol. Pray, tell 'em thus much from me : 
 
 There should be one amongst 'em, by his person, 
 More worthy this place than myself ; to whom, 
 If I but knew him, with my love and duty 
 I would surrender it. 
 
 Cham. I will, my lord. 
 
 [ Goes to the Masquers, and returns. 
 
 Wol. What say they ? 
 
 Cham. Such a one, they all confess. 
 
 There is indeed ; which they would have your Grace 
 Find out, and he will take it. 
 
 Wol. Let me see then. — 
 
 \_Comes from his state. 
 By all your good leaves, gentlemen ; here I'll make 
 My royal choice.^ 
 
 King. \_Unmaskifig.'\ Ye've found him, Cardinal: 
 You hold a fair assembly ; you do well, lord : 
 You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you. Cardinal, 
 I should judge now unhappily. ^ 
 
 Wol. I'm glad 
 
 Your Grace is grown so pleasant. 
 
 King. My Lord Chamberlain, 
 
 riage between their King, Francis I., or his son, the Duke of Orleans, and 
 the Princess Mary. First a grand tournament was held, and three hundred 
 lances broken ; then came a course of songs and dances About midnight, 
 the King, the ambassadors, and six others withdrew, disguised themselves 
 as Venetian noblemen, returned, and took out ladies to dance, the King 
 having Anne Boleyn for his partner. 
 
 8 A royal choice, because it has a king for its object. 
 
 9 That is, waggishly, or mischievously. Shakespeare often uses unhappy 
 and its derivatives in this sense. See Much Ado, page 53, note 32. 
 
I 50 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT I. 
 
 Pr'ythee, come hither : what fair lady's that ? 
 
 Cham. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Boleyn's 
 daughter, — 
 The Viscount Rochford, — one of her Highness' women. 
 
 King. By Heaven, she is a dainty one. — Sweetheart, 
 I were unmannerly, to take you out. 
 
 And not to kiss you.i'' \_Kisses her.'] — A health, gentlemen 1 
 Let it go round. 
 
 Wol. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready 
 I' the privy chamber? 
 
 Lov. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Wol. Your Grace, 
 
 I fear, with dancing is a little heated. 
 
 King. I fear, too much. 
 
 Wol. There's fresher air, my lord, 
 
 In the next chamber. 
 
 King. Lead in your ladies, every one : — sweet partner, 
 I must not yet forsake you : let's be merry. — 
 Good my Lord Cardinal, I've half a dozen healths 
 To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure ^^ 
 To lead 'em once again ; and then let's dream 
 Who's best in favour. — Let the music knock it.^^ 
 
 \_Exeunt ivith trumpets. 
 
 1" A kiss was anciently the established fee of a lady's partner. Thus in 
 " A Dialogue between Custom and Veritie, concerning the Use and Abuse 
 of Dauncing and Minstrelsie " : 
 
 But some reply, what foole would daunce, 
 
 If that when daunce is doon 
 He may not have at ladyes lips 
 That which in daunce he woon. 
 
 11 Measure is the old name of a slow-measured dance, such as was used 
 on special occasions of state and ceremony. 
 
 12 The use of this phrase for " let the music play" or strike up, probably 
 sprung from beating time, or the beating of drums. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. I 5 I 
 
 ACT II. 
 Scene I. — London. A Street. 
 Enter two Gentlemen, meeting. 
 
 1 Gent. Whither away so fast? 
 
 2 Gent. O, God save ye ! 
 E'en to the hall, to hear what shall become 
 
 Of the great Duke of Buckingham. 
 
 1 Gent. I'll save you 
 That labour, sir. All's now done, but the ceremony 
 Of bringing back the prisoner. 
 
 2 Gent. Were you there? 
 / Gent. Yes, indeed, was I. 
 
 2 Gent. Pray, speak what has happen'd. 
 
 1 Gent. You may guess quickly what. 
 
 2 Gent. Is he found guilty ? 
 
 1 Gent. Yes, truly is he, and condemn'd upon't. 
 
 2 Gent. I'm sorry for't. 
 
 / Gent. So are a number more. 
 
 2 Gent. But, pray, how pass'd it? 
 
 / Gent. I'll tell you in a little. The great duke 
 Came to the bar ; where to his accusations 
 He pleaded still, not guilty, and alleged 
 Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. 
 The King's attorney, on the contrary, 
 Urged on th' examinations, proofs, confessions 
 Of divers witnesses ; which the duke desired 
 To have brought, viva voce, to his face : 
 At which appear'd against him his surveyor ; 
 
152 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT II. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor ; and John Car, 
 Confessor to him ; with that devil-monk, 
 Hopkins, that made this mischief. 
 
 2 Gent. That was he 
 
 That fed him with his prophecies ? 
 
 1 Gent. The same. 
 All these accused him strongly ; which he fain 
 Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not : 
 And so his peers, upon this evidence, 
 
 Have found him guilty of high treason. Much 
 He spoke, and learnedly, for life ; but all 
 Was either pitied in him or forgotten. 
 
 2 Getit. After all this, how did he bear himself? 
 
 1 Gent. When he was brought again to th' bar, to hear 
 His knell wrung out, his judgment, he was stirr'd 
 
 With such an agony, he swet extremely. 
 And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty : 
 But he fell to himself again, and sweetly 
 In all the rest show'd a most noble patience. 
 
 2 Gent. I do not think he fears death. 
 
 1 Gent. Sure, he does not ; 
 He never was so womanish : the cause 
 
 He may a little grieve at. 
 
 2 Gent. Certainly 
 The Cardinal is the end of this. 
 
 I Gent. 'Tis likely, 
 
 By all conjectures : first, Kildare's attainder, 
 Then deputy of Ireland ; who removed, 
 Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too, 
 Lest he should help his father. ^ 
 
 1 There was great enmitie betwixt the cardinal! and the earle, for that 
 on a time, when the cardinall tooke upon him to checke the earle, he had 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 153 
 
 2 Gent. That trick of State 
 
 Was a deep-envious one. 
 
 1 Gent At his return 
 No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, 
 And generally, whoever the King favours, 
 The Cardinal instantly will find employment,^ 
 And far enough from Court too. 
 
 2 Gent All the commons 
 Hate him perniciously, and, o' ray conscience, 
 Wish him ten fathom deep : this duke as much 
 
 They love and dote on ; call him bounteous Buckingham, 
 The mirror of all courtesy, — 
 
 1 Gent. Stay there, sir, 
 And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of. 
 
 ^«/.?r Buckingham from his arraignment ; Tipstaves before 
 him ; the axe with the edge towards hifn ; halberds on 
 each side : with him Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas 
 Vaux, Sir William Sands, and commo?i People. 
 
 2 Gent. Let's stand close,^ and behold him. 
 
 Buck. All good people. 
 
 You that thus far have come to pity me, 
 Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. 
 I have this day received a traitor's judgment, 
 
 like to have thrust his dagger into the cardinall. At length there was occa- 
 sion offered him to compasse his purpose, by the earle of Kildare's com- 
 ming out of Ireland. Such accusations were framed against him, that he 
 was committed to prison, and then by the cardinals good preferment the 
 earle of Surrie was sent into Ireland as the Kings deputie, there to remaine 
 rather as an exile than as lieutenant, as he himself well perceived. — HOL- 
 
 INSHED. 
 
 2 That is, will find employment /^r. The Poet has many like instances 
 of prepositions understood. 
 
 8 Close is secret, or out of sight. Often so. 
 
154 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT li 
 
 And by that name must die : yet, Heaven bear witness, 
 
 And if I have a conscience, let it sink me. 
 
 Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful ! 
 
 The law I bear no malice for my death ; 
 
 'T has done, upon the premises, but justice : 
 
 But those that sought it I could wish more Christians : 
 
 Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em : 
 
 Yet let 'em look they glory not in mischief. 
 
 Nor build their evils on the graves of great men ; 
 
 For then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em. 
 
 For further life in this world I ne'er hope, 
 
 Nor will I sue, although the King have mercies 
 
 More than I dare make faults. You few that loved me, 
 
 And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, 
 
 His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave 
 
 Is only bitter to him, only dying, 
 
 Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; 
 
 And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, 
 
 Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, 
 
 And lift my soul to Heaven. — Lead on, o' God's name. 
 
 Lov. I do beseech your Grace, for charity, 
 If ever any malice in your heart 
 Were hid against me, now forgive me frankly. 
 
 Buck. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you 
 As I would be forgiven : I forgive all ; 
 There cannot be those numberless offences 
 'Gainst me that I cannot take peace with : no black envy "* 
 Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his Grace ; 
 
 * Envy is continually used for malice in old English. We have the same 
 sense a little before in " That trick of State was a ^Q&^-envious one." — 
 " Take peace with " here evidently means forgive or pardon. Shakespeare 
 has no instance, I think, of the phrase so used. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. I 55 
 
 And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him 
 You met him half in Heaven : my vows and prayers 
 Yet are the King's ; and, till my soul forsake me, 
 Shall cry for blessings on him : may he live 
 Longer than I have time to tell his years ! 
 Ever beloved and loving may his rule be ! 
 And, when old time shall lead him to his end. 
 Goodness and he fill up one monument ! 
 
 Lov. To th' water-side I must conduct your Grace \ 
 Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux, 
 Who undertakes you to your end. 
 
 Vaux. Prepare there, 
 
 The duke is coming : see the barge be ready ; 
 And fit it with such furniture as suits 
 The greatness of his person. 
 
 Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas, 
 
 Let it alone ; my state now will but mock me. 
 When I came hither, I was Lord High-Constable 
 And Duke of Buckingham ; now, poor Edward Bohun : * 
 Yet I am richer than my base accusers. 
 That never knew what truth meant : I now seal it ; 
 And with that blood will make 'em one day groan for't. 
 My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, 
 Who first raised head against usurping Richard, 
 Flying for succour to his servant Banister, 
 Being distress'd, was by that wretch betray'd. 
 And without trial fell ; God's peace be with him ! 
 Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying 
 My father's loss, like a most royal prince, 
 
 5 The name of the Duke of Buckingham most generally known was Staf- 
 ford ; it is said that he affected the surname of Dohuti, because he was 
 Ivord High-Constable of England by inheritance of tenure from the Bohuns. 
 
I 56 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IL 
 
 Restored me to my honours, and, out of ruins, 
 
 Made my name once more noble. Now his son, 
 
 Henry the Eighth, Hfe, honour, name, and all 
 
 That made me happy, at one stroke has taken 
 
 For ever from the world. I had my trial, 
 
 And must needs say a noble one ; which makes me 
 
 A little happier than my wretched father : 
 
 Yet thus far we are one in fortunes : Both 
 
 Fell by our servants, by those men we loved most ; 
 
 A most unnatural and faithless service ! 
 
 Heaven has an end in all : yet, you that hear me, 
 
 This from a dying man receive as certain : 
 
 Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels 
 
 Be sure you be not loose ; ^ for those you make friends 
 
 And give your hearts to, when they once perceive 
 
 The least rub " in your fortunes, fall away 
 
 Like water from ye, never found again 
 
 But where they mean to sink ye. All good people, 
 
 Pray for me ! I must now forsake ye : the last hour 
 
 Of my long weary life is come upon me. 
 
 Farewell : 
 
 And when you would say something that is sad, 
 
 Speak how I fell. — I've done ; and God forgive me ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Buckingham and train. 
 I Gent. O, this is full of pity ! — Sir, it calls, 
 I fear, too many curses on their heads 
 
 s That is, loose of tongue, or given to blabbing your own secrets. So in 
 Othello, iii. 3 : 
 
 There are a kind of men so loose of soul 
 That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs. 
 
 ^ Rub is hindrance or obstruction. So in Hamlet's celebrated soliloquy : 
 " Ay, there's the rub" 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 157 
 
 That were the authors. 
 
 2 Gent. If the duke be guiltless, 
 
 'Tis full of woe : yet I can give you inkling 
 Of an ensuing evil, if it fall, 
 Greater than this. 
 
 1 Ge?it. Good angels keep it from us ! 
 What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, ^ sir? 
 
 2 Ge?it. This secret is so weighty, 'twill require 
 A strong faith to conceal it. 
 
 1 Gent Let me have it ; 
 I do not talk much. 
 
 2 Gent. I am confident ; 
 
 You shall, sir : did you not of late days hear 
 A buzzing ^ of a separation 
 Between the King and Catharine ? 
 
 / Getit. Yes, but it held not : 
 
 For, when the King once heard it, out of anger 
 He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight 
 To stop the rumour, and allay those tongues 
 That durst disperse it. 
 
 2 Gent. But that slander, sir, 
 
 Is found a truth now : for it grows again 
 Fresher than e'er it was ; and held i" for certain 
 The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinal, 
 Or some about him near, have, out of malice 
 To the good Queen, possess'd him with a scruple 
 That will undo her : to confirm this too, 
 
 8 Faith {qx fidelity ; still sometimes used in that sense. 
 
 9 A buzzing is a -whispering, or a rumour. Often so used. 
 
 1" We have the same elliptical form of expression a little before, in i. 3: 
 "And held current music too." That is, "and be held." Here, "and 'tis 
 hald." 
 
15^ KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT II. 
 
 Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately ; 
 As all think, for this business, 
 
 / Gent. 'Tis the Cardinal ; 
 
 And merely to revenge him on the Emperor 
 For not bestowing on him, at his asking, 
 Th' archbishopric of Toledo,^ i this is purposed. 
 
 2 Gent. I think you've hit the mark : but is't not cruel 
 That she should feel the smart of this ? The Cardinal 
 Will have his will, and she must fall. 
 
 I Gent. 'Tis woeful. 
 
 We are too open here to argue this ; 
 Let's think in private more. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Same. An Ante-chai}iber in the Palace. 
 
 Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading a letter. 
 
 Cham. My lord : The horses your lordship sent for, with 
 all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and fur- 
 nish'' d. They were yoiing and handsome, and of the best 
 breed in the North. JVlien they were ready to set out for 
 London, a man of my Lord Cardinal^ s, by commission and 
 main power, took ^em from me ; with this reason, — His 
 master would be served before a subject, if tiot before the 
 King; whicJi stopped our mouths, sir. 
 
 I fear he will indeed : well, let him have them : 
 He will have all, I think. 
 
 11 This was the richest See in Europe, and was considered the highest 
 ecclesiastical dignity in Christendom next to the Papacy. Wolsey did in 
 fact aspire to if as a stepping-stone to St. Peter's Chair ; and his disappoint- 
 ment therein was among his alleged causes for urging on the divorce. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 159 
 
 Enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.^ 
 
 Nor. Well met, my Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 Cham. Good day to both your Graces. 
 
 Si/f. How is the King employ'd? 
 
 Cham. I left him private, 
 
 Full of sad thoughts and troubles. 
 
 Nor. What's the cause ? 
 
 Cham. It seems the marriage with his brother's wife 
 Has crept too near his conscience. 
 
 Suf. No, his conscience 
 
 Has crept too near another lady. 
 
 Nor. 'Tis so : 
 
 This is the Cardinal's doing, the king-cardinal : 
 That blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune, 
 Turns what he list. The King will know him one day. 
 
 Suf. Pray God he do ! he'll never know himself else. 
 
 Nor. How holily he works in all his business ! 
 And with what zeal ! for, now he has crack'd the league 
 'Tween us and th' Emperor, the Queen's great-nephew, 
 He dives into the King's soul, and there scatters 
 Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, 
 Fears, and despairs ; and all these for his marriage : 
 And out of all these to restore the King, 
 He counsels a divorce ; a loss of her 
 That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years 
 About his neck, yet never lost her lustre ; 
 Of her that loves him with that excellence 
 That angels love good men with ; even of her 
 
 1 Charles Brandon, the present Duke of Suffolk, was son of Sir William 
 Brandon, slain by Richard at the battle of Bosworth. He was created Duke 
 ot Suffolk in February, 1514, and in March, 1515, was married to Mary, 
 youngest sister of the King, and widow of Louis the Twelfth of Fraoce. 
 
l60 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IL 
 
 That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, 
 Will bless the King : and is not this course pious ? 
 
 Cham. Heaven keep me from such counsel ! 'Tis most 
 true 
 These news are everywhere ; every tongue speaks 'em, 
 And every true heart weeps for't : all that dare 
 Look into these affairs see his main end, — 
 The French King's sister.- Heaven will one day open 
 The King's eyes, that so long have slept upon 
 This bold bad man. 
 
 Suf. And free us from his slavery. 
 
 Nor. We had need pray, 
 And heartily, for our deliverance ; 
 Or this imperious man will work us all 
 From princes into pages : all men's honours 
 Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion'd 
 Unto what pitch he please. 
 
 Suf. For me, my lords, 
 
 I love him not, nor fear him ; there's my creed : 
 As I am made without him, so Fll stand, 
 If the King please ; his curses and his blessings 
 Touch me alike, they're breath I not believe in. 
 I knew him, and I know him ; so I leave him 
 To him that made him proud, the Pope. 
 
 Nor. Let's in ; 
 
 And with some other business put the King 
 From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon 
 
 him : — 
 My lord, you'll bear us company ? 
 
 Chain. Excuse me ; 
 
 2 It was the main end or object of Wolsey to bring about a marriage be- 
 tween Henry and the French King's sister, the Duchess of Alen9on. 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 i6i 
 
 The King has sent me otherwhere : besides, 
 You'll find a most unfit time to disturb him. 
 Health to your lordships ! 
 
 Nor. Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain, 
 
 [^.x// Z<?;-rt:' Chamberlain. Norfolk opens a folding- 
 door. The King is discovered sitting, and read- 
 ing pensively. 
 
 Suf. How sad he looks ! sure, he is much afflicted. 
 
 King. Who's there, ha? 
 
 Nor. Pray God he be not angry. 
 
 King. Who's there, I say? How dare you thrust your- 
 selves 
 Into my private meditations ? 
 Who am I, ha? 
 
 Nor. A gracious king that pardons all offences 
 Malice ne'er meant : our breach of duty this way 
 Is business of Estate ; in which we come 
 To know your royal pleasure. 
 
 King. Ye're too bold : 
 
 Go to ; I'll make ye know your times of business : 
 Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha? — 
 
 Enter Wolsey and Campeius. 
 
 Who's there? my good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey, 
 
 The quiet of my wounded conscience ; 
 
 Thou art a cure fit for a king. — \To Campeius.] You're 
 
 welcome. 
 Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom : 
 Use us and it. — [ To Wolsey.] My good lord, have great care 
 I be not found a talker.^ 
 
 3 The meaning appears to be, " Let care be taken that my promise be 
 performed, that my professions of welcome be not found empty talk." 
 
l62 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT II. 
 
 Wo/. Sir, you cannot. 
 
 I would your Grace would give us but an hour 
 Of private conference. 
 
 Xing. [ To Nor. and Suf.] We are busy ; go. 
 
 JVor. \_Aside to Suf.] This priest has no pride in him ! 
 
 Suf. \_Aside to Nor.] Not to speak of : 
 
 I would not be so sick"* though for his place. 
 But this cannot continue. 
 
 Nor. [Aside to Suf.] If it do, 
 I'll venture one have-at-him. 
 
 Suf. \_Aside to Nor.] I another. 
 
 \_Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk. 
 
 Wol. Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom 
 Above all princes, in committing freely 
 Your scruple to the voice of Christendom : 
 Who can be angry now? what envy reach you? 
 The Spaniard,^ tied by blood and favour to her, 
 Must now confess, if they have any goodness, 
 The trial just and noble. All the clerks,^ 
 I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms 
 Have their free voices,''' Rome, the nurse of judgment, 
 Invited by your noble self, hath sent 
 
 * That is, so sick as he is proud. 
 
 ^ Spaniard is here equivalent to Spanish, as appears by they referring to 
 it. Adjectives singular were often thus used with the sense of plural sub- 
 stantives. 
 
 6 A clerk is, in the original meaning of the word, a scholar ; and in old 
 times, when learning was confined to the clergy, the word grew to mean a 
 clergyman. 
 
 '' Sent, at the end of the next line, is probably to be understood here. 
 Such is Singer's explanation. — Voices for opinions ox judgments. The ques- 
 tion of the divorce was in fact laid before all or most of the learned bodies 
 in Europe, who sent forward their opinions in writing; but it is pretty well 
 understood that some of their " free voices " were well paid for. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 63 
 
 One general tongue unto us, this good man, 
 This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius, 
 Whom once more I present unto your Highness. 
 
 Khig. And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome, 
 And thank the holy Conclave ^ for their loves : 
 They've sent me such a man I would have wish'd for. 
 
 Cam. Your Grace must needs deserve all strangers' ^ 
 loves, 
 You are so noble. To your Highness' hand 
 I tender my commission ; — by whose virtue i" — 
 The Court of Rome commanding — you, my Lord 
 Cardinal of York, are join'd with me their servant 
 In the unpartial judging of this business. 
 
 King. Two equal' 1 men. The Queen shall be acquainted 
 Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner? 
 
 IVoL I know your Majesty has always loved her 
 So dear in heart, not to deny her that '- 
 A woman of less place might ask by law, — 
 Scholars allow'd freely to argue for her. 
 
 King. Ay, and the best she shall have ; and my favour 
 To him that does best : God forbid else. Cardinal, 
 Pr'ythee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary : 
 I find him a fit fellow. \^Exit Wolsey. 
 
 ^ The holy Conclave is the College of Cardinals, in whose name Cam- 
 peius was sent as special Legate in the business. His right name is Cam- 
 peggio. He was an eminent canonist, and arrived in London, October 7, 
 1528, but in such a state of suffering and weakness, that he was carried in a 
 litter to his lodgings. 
 
 3 Strangers here meiLns foreigners. 
 
 1" By the virtue 0/ which; referring to the commission. 
 
 11 Equal \s impartial ; men equally favourable to both the parties. 
 
 12 In old English, that is very often used for the compound relative what, 
 that which. 
 
164 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT II. 
 
 Re-e7iter Wolsey, with Gardiner. 
 
 Wol. \_Aside to Gard.] Give me your hand : much joy 
 and favour to you ; 
 You are the King's now. 
 
 Ga7-d. \_Aside to Wol.] But to be commanded 
 For ever by your Grace, whose hand has raised me. 
 
 King. Come hither, Gardiner. \_^They converse apart. 
 
 Cam. My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace 
 In this man's place before him ? 
 
 Wol. Yes, he was. 
 
 Cain. Was he not held a learned man? 
 
 Wol. Yes, surely. 
 
 Cafn. Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread, then, 
 Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal. 
 
 Wol. How ! of me ? 
 
 Cam. They will not stick to say you envied him ; 
 And, fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous, 
 Kept him a foreign man still ; ^"^ which so grieved him, 
 That he ran mad and died. 
 
 Wol. Heaven's peace be with him ! 
 That's Christian care enough : for living murmurers 
 There's places of rebuke. He was a fool ; 
 For he would needs be virtuous : that good fellow, 1^ 
 If I command him, follows my appointment : 
 I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother. 
 We live not to be griped by meaner persons. 
 
 King. Deliver this with modesty to th' Queen. — 
 
 S^Exit Gardiner. 
 
 J3 Kept him employed abroad, or in foreign parts. Holinshed says that 
 Wolsey grew jealous of Dr. Pace's standing with the King, and so kept 
 shifting liim off on frivolous or unimportant embassies, till " at length he 
 took such grief therewith, that he fell out of his right wits." 
 
 1* He means Gardiner ; a " good fellow " because unscrupulous. 
 
SCENE III. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. l6$ 
 
 The most convenient place that I can think of 
 
 For such receipt of learning ^^ is Black- Friars ; 
 
 There ye shall meet about this weighty business : 
 
 My Wolsey, see it furnish'd. — O, my lord, 
 
 Would it not grieve an able man to leave 
 
 So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience, 
 
 O, 'tis a tender place ! and I must leave her. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III.^ — The Same. An Ante-chamber in the Queen's 
 Aparftnents. 
 
 Enter Anne Boleyn and an old Lady. 
 
 ^Anne. Not for that neither : here's the pang that pinches : 
 His Highness having lived so long with her, and she 
 So good a lady that no tongue could ever 
 Pronounce dishonour of her, — by my life. 
 She never knew harm-doing ; — O, now, after 
 So many courses of the Sun enthroned, 
 Still growing in majesty and pomp, the which 
 To leave's a thousand-fold more bitter than 
 'Tis sweet at first t' acquire, — after this process, 
 To give her the avanntf it is a pity 
 Would move a monster. 
 
 Old L. Hearts of most hard temper 
 
 Melt and lament for her. 
 
 Anne. O, God's will ! much better 
 
 She ne'er had known pomp : though't be temporal, 
 Yet, if that fortune's quarrel do divorce 
 
 15 A rather odd expression; but meaning "for the reception of such 
 learned men." Receipt, however, for the thing received occurs elsewhere. 
 See Kin£- Richard the Second, page 44, note 26. 
 
l66 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT II. 
 
 It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging 
 As soul and body's severing. 
 
 Old L. Alas, poor lady ! 
 
 She is a stranger now again. 
 
 Anne. So much the more 
 
 Must pity drop upon her. Verily, 
 I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born. 
 And range with humble livers in content. 
 Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, 
 And wear a golden sorrow. 
 
 Old L. Our content 
 
 Is our best having. 
 
 Anne. By my troth and maidenhood, 
 
 I would not be a queen. 
 
 Old L. Beshrew me, I would. 
 
 And venture maidenhood for't ; and so would you, 
 For all this spice of your hypocrisy : 
 You, that have so fair parts of woman on you, 
 Have too a woman's heart ; which ever yet 
 Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty ; 
 Which, to say sooth, are blessings ; and which gifts — 
 Saving your mincing ^ — the capacity 
 Of your soft cheveril conscience ^ would receive, 
 If you might please to stretch it. 
 
 1 Mincing is affectation. To mince is, properly, to cut up fine, as in mak- 
 ing fnince-meiLt. Hence it came to be used of walking affectedly, that is, 
 with very short steps, and so of affected behaviour generally. So in Isaiah, 
 iii. i6: "The daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched-forth 
 necks and wanton eyes, mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with 
 their feet." 
 
 2 Meaning the same as the "india-rubber consciences" of our time; 
 cheveril'bemg leather made of kid-skin, which was peculiarly yielding and 
 stretchy. See Twelfth Night, page 83, note 4. 
 
SCENE III. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 167 
 
 Anne. Nay, good troth, — 
 
 Old L. Yes, troth, and troth : you would not be a queen ? 
 
 Anne. No, not for all the riches under heaven. 
 
 Old L. 'Tis strange ; a three-pence bow'd would hire me. 
 Old as I am, to queen it : but, I pray you. 
 What think you of a duchess ? have you limbs 
 To bear that load of title ? 
 
 Anne. No, in truth. 
 
 Old L. Then you are weakly made : pluck off a little ; -^ 
 I would not be a young count in your way, 
 For more than blushing comes to. 
 
 Anne. How you do talk ! 
 
 I swear again, I would not be a queen 
 For all the world. 
 
 Old L. In faith, for little England 
 
 You'd venture an emballing : ^ I myself 
 Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd 
 No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who comes here ? 
 
 Enter the Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 Cham. Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know 
 The secret of your conference ? 
 
 Anne. My good lord, 
 
 Not your demand ; it values not your asking : 
 Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying. 
 
 Cham. It was a gentle business, and becoming 
 The action of good women : there is hope 
 All will be well. 
 
 3 Anne declining to be either a queen or a duchess, the old lady says 
 " pluck off a little" ; let us descend a little lower, and so diminish the glare 
 of preferment by bringing it nearer your own quality. 
 
 ■• That is, you would venture to be distinguished by the ball, the ensign 
 of royalty, used with the sceptre at coronations. 
 
l68 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT 
 
 Anne. Now, I pray God, amen ! 
 
 Cham. You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings 
 Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, 
 Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note's 
 Ta'en of your many virtues, the King's Majesty 
 Commends his good opinion to you, and 
 Does purpose honour to you no less flowing 
 Than Marchioness of Pembroke ; to which title 
 A thousand pound a-year, annual support, 
 Out of his grace he adds. 
 
 Anne. I do not know 
 
 What kind of my obedience 1 should tender ; 
 More than my all is nothing : nor my prayers 
 Are not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes 
 More worth than empty vanities ; yet prayers and wishes 
 Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship 
 Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience, 
 As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness ; 
 Whose health and royalty I pray for. 
 
 Cham. Lady, 
 
 I shall not fail t' approve the fair conceit * 
 The King hath of you. — [_Aside.'\ Pve perused her well ; 
 Beauty and honour in her are so mingled. 
 That they have caught the King : and who knows yet 
 But from this lady may proceed a gem 
 To lighten^ all this isle? — \_To her.'\ I'll to the King, 
 
 5 To approve is here to confirm, by the report he shall make, the good 
 opinion the King has formed. 
 
 6 The carbuncle was supposed to have intrinsic light, and to shine in the 
 dark; any other gem may reflect light but cannot give it. Thus in a Pal- 
 ace described in Amadis dc Gaiilc, 1619 : " In the roofe of a chamber hung 
 two lampes of gold, at the bottomes whereof were enchased two carbuncles, 
 
SCENE III. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH, 1 69 
 
 And say I spoke with you. 
 
 Anne. My honour'd lord. 
 
 [ Exit Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 Old L. Why, this it is ; see, see ! 
 I have been begging sixteen years in Court, — 
 Am yet a courtier beggarly, — nor could 
 Come i^at betwixt too early and too late 
 For any suit of pounds ; and you, O fate ! 
 A very fresh-fish here, — fie, fie upon 
 This c6mpeird fortune ! — have your mouth fiU'd up 
 Before you open't. 
 
 Anne. This is strange to me. 
 
 Old L. How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, '^ no. 
 There was a lady once — 'tis an old story — 
 That would not be a queen, that would she not, 
 For all the mud in Egypt : have you heard it ? 
 
 Anne. Come, you are pleasant. 
 
 Old L. With your theme, I could 
 
 O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke ! 
 A thousand pounds a-year, for pure respect ! 
 No other obligation ! By my life, 
 That promises more thousands : honour's train 
 Is longer than his foreskirt.^ By this time 
 I know your back will bear a duchess : say. 
 Are you not stronger than you were ? 
 
 Anne. Good lady, 
 
 Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, 
 
 which gave so bright a splendour round about the roome, that there was no 
 neede of any other light." 
 
 " Forty pence was in those days the proverbial expression of a small 
 wager. 
 
 8 Meaning, of course, that still ampler honours are forthcoming to her; 
 or that the banquet will outsweeten the foretaste. 
 
170 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT II. 
 
 And leave me out on't. Would I had no being, 
 If this salute my blood ^ a jot : it faints me, 
 To think what follows. 
 The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful 
 In our long absence : pray, do not deliver 
 What here you've heard to her. 
 
 Old L. What do you think me ? 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Same. A Hall in Black-Friars. 
 
 Trmnpets, sennet, and cornets. Efiter two Vergers, with 
 short silver wands ; next them, two Scribes, in the habit of 
 doctors ; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury ' alone , 
 after him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Rochester, and 
 Saint Asaph ; next them, with some small distance, follows 
 a Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal, and a 
 cardinal's hat ; then two Priests, bearing each a silver cross ; 
 then a Gentleman-usher bare-headed, acco77ipanied with a 
 Sergeant-at-arms bearing a silver mace ; then two Gentle- 
 men bearing two great silver pillars ; after them, side by 
 
 9 "Salute my blood" means about the same as raise or exhilarate my 
 spirits. The phrase sounds harsh ; but blood is often put for passion, or for 
 the passions generally ; and to salute easily draws into the sense of to encour- 
 age, or to stimulate by encouragement. So in the Poet's 121st Sonnet : 
 
 For why should others' false-adulterate eyes 
 Give salutation to my sportive blood ? 
 
 1 At this time, June 21, 1529, the Archbishop of Canterbury was William 
 Warham, who died in August, 1532, and was succeeded by Cranmer the 
 following March. — The whole of this long stage-direction is taken verbatim 
 from the original copy, and in most of its particulars was according to the 
 actual event. — The " two priests bearing each a silver cross," and the " two 
 gentlemen bearing two great silver pillars," were parts of Wolsey's official 
 pomp and circumstance ; the one being symbolic of his office as Archbishop 
 of York, the other of his authority as Cardinal Legate. 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. I/I 
 
 side, the two Cardinals, Wolsey and C\up'eav5 ; t7Uo Noble- 
 men laith the sivord and mace. Then etiter the King and 
 Queen, and their trains. The King takes place under the 
 cloth of state ; the two Cardinals sit laidcr him as judges. 
 The Queen takes place at some distance from the King. 
 The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in 
 manner of a consistory; betiiieen them, the '$>cnhe?>. The 
 Lords sit next the Bishops. The Crier and the rest of the 
 Attendants stand in convejiient order about the hall. 
 
 Wol. Whilst our commission from Rome is read, 
 Let silence be commanded. 
 
 King. What's the need? 
 
 It hath already publicly been read, 
 And on all sides th' authority allow'd ; 
 You may, then, spare that time. 
 
 Wol. Be't so. — Proceed. 
 
 Scribe. Say, Henry King of England, come into the court. 
 
 Crier. Henry King of England, &c. 
 
 King. Here. 
 
 Scribe. Say, Catharine Queen of England, come into the 
 court. 
 
 Crier. Catharine Queen of England, &c. 
 
 \The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her 
 chair, goes about the court, comes to the 
 King, and kneels at his feet ; then speaks? 
 
 Cath. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice ; 
 And to bestow your pity on me : for 
 I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, 
 
 2 Because she could not come directly to the king for the distance which 
 severed them, she took pain to go about unto the king, kneeling down at his 
 feet.— Cavendish. 
 
1/2 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. f 
 
 Born out of your dominions ; having liere 
 
 No judge indifferent,^ nor no more assurance 
 
 Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, 
 
 In what have I offended you ? what cause 
 
 Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure. 
 
 That thus you should proceed to put me off. 
 
 And take your good grace from me ? Heaven witness, 
 
 I've been to you a true and humble wife. 
 
 At all times to your will conformable ; 
 
 Ever in fear to kindle your dislike. 
 
 Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry, 
 
 As I saw it inclined. When was the hour 
 
 I ever contradicted your desire, 
 
 Or made it not mine too ? Which of your friends 
 
 Have I not strove to love, although I knew 
 
 He were mine enemy? what friend of mine, 
 
 That had to him derived your anger, did I 
 
 Continue in my liking? nay, gave not notice 
 
 He was from thence discharged? Sir, call to mind 
 
 That I have been your wife, in this obedience. 
 
 Upward of twenty years, and have been blest 
 
 With many children by you : if, in the course 
 
 And process of this time, you can report. 
 
 And prove it too, against mine honour aught, 
 
 My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty, 
 
 Against your sacred person,^ in God's name. 
 
 Turn me away ; and let the foul'st contempt 
 
 Shut door upon me, and so give me up 
 
 To th' sharpest kind of justice. Please you, sir, 
 
 The King, your father, was reputed for 
 
 S Indifferetit in its old sense of impartial. 
 
 ■* Aught is understood before " Against your sacred person." 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 73 
 
 A prince most prudent, of an excellent 
 
 And unmatch'd wit and judgment : Ferdinand, 
 
 My father, King of Spain, was reckon'd one 
 
 Tlie wisest prince tliat there had reign'd by many 
 
 A year before : it is not to be question 'd 
 
 That they had gather'd a wise council to them 
 
 Of every realm, that did debate this business. 
 
 Who deem'd our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly 
 
 Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may 
 
 Be by my friends in Spain advised ; whose counsel 
 
 I will implore : if not, i' the name of God, 
 
 Your pleasure be fulfiU'd ! 
 
 tVo/. You have here, lady, — 
 
 And of your choice, — these reverend fathers ; men 
 Of singular integrity and learning, 
 Yea, the elect o' the land, who are assembled 
 To plead your cause : it shall be therefore bootless 
 That longer you defer the court ; as well 
 For your own quiet, as to rectify 
 What is unsettled in the King. 
 
 Cam. His Grace 
 
 Hath spoken well and justly : therefore, madam, 
 It's fit this royal session do proceed ; 
 And that, without delay, their arguments 
 Be now produced and heard. 
 
 Ca/h. Lord Cardinal, — 
 
 To you I speak.^ 
 
 5 The acting of Mrs. Siddons has been much celebrated as yielding an 
 apt commentary on this passage. The efifect, it would seem, must have 
 been fine ; but perhaps the thing savours overmuch of forcing the Poet to 
 express another's thoughts. As thus interpreted, the Queen begins a reply 
 to Campeius ; and then, some movement taking place, she forthwith changes 
 
1/4 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT li. 
 
 Wo/. Your pleasure, madam ? 
 
 Caf/i. Sir, 
 
 I was about to weep ; but, thinking that 
 We are a queen, — or long have dream'd so, — certain 
 The daughter of a king, my drops of tears 
 I'll turn to sparks of fire. 
 
 IVo/. Be patient yet. 
 
 Ca//i. I will, when you are humble ; nay, before, 
 Or God will punish me. I do believe. 
 Induced by potent circumstances, that 
 You are mine enemy ; and make my challenge^ 
 You shall not be my judge : for it is you 
 Have' blown this coal betwixt my lord and me ; 
 Which God's dew quench ! Therefore I say again, 
 I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul 
 Refuse'^ you for my judge ; whom, yet once more, 
 I hold my most malicious foe, and think not 
 At all a friend to truth. 
 
 IVo/. I do profess 
 
 You speak not like yourself ; who ever yet 
 Have stood to charity, and display'd th' effects 
 Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom 
 O'ertopping woman's power. Madam, you do me wrong : 
 I have no spleen against you ; nor injustice 
 For you or any : how far I've proceeded, 
 
 her purpose, turns round to Wolsey, and most pointedly and with the ut- 
 most dignity of injured virtue directs her speech to him, making you very 
 emphatic. 
 
 6 Challenge here is a law term. The criminal, when he refuses a jury- 
 man, says, " I challenge him." 
 
 ' Abhor and refuse are not the mere words of passion, but technical terms 
 of the canon law : detestor and recuso. The former, in the language of can- 
 onists, signifies no more than I protest against. — Blackstone. 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 75 
 
 Or how far further shall, is warranted 
 
 By a commission from the Consistory, 
 
 Yea, the whole Consistory of Rome. You charge me 
 
 That I have blown this coal : I do deny it. 
 
 The King is present : if 't be known to him 
 
 That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, 
 
 And worthily, my falsehood ! yea, as much 
 
 As you have done my truth. But, if he know 
 
 That I am free of your report, he knows 
 
 I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him 
 
 It lies to cure me ; and the cure is, to 
 
 Remove these thoughts from you : the which before 
 
 His Highness shall speak in, I do beseech 
 
 You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking, 
 
 And to say so no more. 
 
 Cath. My lord, my lord, 
 
 I am a simple woman, much too weak 
 
 T' oppose your cunning. You're meek-and-humble-mouth'd ; 
 You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,^ 
 With meekness and humility : but your heart 
 Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. 
 You have, by fortune, and his Highness' favours. 
 Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted 
 Where powers are your retainers ; and your words. 
 Domestics to you, serve your will as't please 
 
 * You have in appearance meekness and humility, as a token or outward 
 sign of your place and calling. But perhaps Heath's explanation is better : 
 " You testify your high rank in the Church, and your priestly character, by 
 that meekness and humility, the semblance of which you know perfectly 
 well how to assume. Every one knows that attestations are authenticated 
 by signing them ; whence, I suppose, by a pretty violent catachresis, the 
 Poet substituted the verb sign, instead of the more simple and obvious one, 
 attest." 
 
1 7^ KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT il. 
 
 Yourself pronounce their ofifice.^ I must tell you, 
 
 You tender more your person's honour than 
 
 Your high profession spiritual ; that again 
 
 I do refuse you for my judge ; and here, 
 
 Before you all, appeal unto the Pope, 
 
 To bring my whole cause 'fore his Holiness, 
 
 And to be judged by him. 
 
 [S/ie curtsies to the King, and offers to depart. 
 
 Cam. The Queen is obstinate, 
 
 Stubborn to justice, apt t' accuse it, and 
 Disdainful to be tried by't : 'tis not well. 
 She's going away. 
 
 King. Call her again. 
 
 Crier. Catharine Queen of England, come into the court. 
 
 Grif. Madam, you are call'd back. 
 
 Cath. What need you note it? pray you, keep your way : 
 When you are call'd, return. — Now, the Lord help me ; 
 They vex me past my patience ! — Pray you, pass on : 
 I will not tarry ; no, nor ever more 
 Upon this business my appearance make 
 In any of their courts. 
 
 \_Exemit Queen, Griffith, a7id her other Attendants. 
 
 King. Go thy ways, Kate : 
 
 That man i' the world who shall report he has 
 A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 
 
 9 This passage has exercised the commentators a good deal, and is in- 
 deed rather obscure ; though I suspect the obscurity is owing mainly to the 
 great compression of language. I take the meaning to be something thus : 
 Now you have full power to work your will, and therefore use words as 
 men use domestics, merely as they will serve your ends, without any regard 
 to truth. Powers, plural, for the power of doing various things, whatever 
 he may wish. Are your retainers seems equivalent to are entirely at your 
 will and pleasure. 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1/7 
 
 For speaking false in that : thou art, alone — 
 If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 
 Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, 
 Obeying in commanding, and thy parts 
 Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out — 
 The queen of earthly queens. — She's noble born; 
 And, like her true nobility, she has 
 Carried herself towards me. 
 
 PF(^/. Most gracious sir, 
 
 In humblest manner I require ^^ your Highness, 
 That it shall please you to declare, in hearing 
 Of all these ears, — for where I'm robb'd and bound, 
 There must I be unloosed ; although not there 
 At once and fully satisfied, — whether ever I 
 Did broach this business to your Highness ; or 
 Laid any scruple in your way, which might 
 Induce you to the question on't ? or ever 
 Have to you — but with thanks to God for such 
 A royal lady — -spake one the least word that might 
 Be to the prejudice of her present state. 
 Or touch of her good person ? 
 
 JCing. My Lord Cardinal, 
 
 I do excuse you ; yea, upon mine honour, 
 I free you from't. You are not to be taught 
 That you have many enemies, that know not 
 Why they are so, but, like to village-curs, 
 Bark when their fellows do : by some of these 
 The Queen is put in anger. You're excused : 
 
 1" Require, in old language, is often the same as request. Shakespeare 
 has it so repeatedly. Thus in Macbeth, iii. 4: "In best time we will require 
 her welcome." And in Coriolanus, ii. 3 : " Once, if he do require our 
 voices." 
 
178 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT II. 
 
 But will you be more justified? you ever 
 
 Have wish'd the sleeping of this business ; never 
 
 Desired it to be stirr'd ; but oft have hinder'd, oft, 
 
 The passages made toward it : — on my honour, 
 
 I speak my good Lord Cardinal to this point, 11 
 
 And thus far clear him. Now, what moved me to't, 
 
 I will be bold with time and your attention : 
 
 Then mark th' inducement. Thus it came ; give heed to't , 
 
 My conscience first received a tenderness. 
 
 Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter'd 
 
 By th' Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador ; 
 
 Who had been hither sent on the debating 
 
 A marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and 
 
 Our daughter Mary : i' the progress of this business, 
 
 Ere a determinate resolution, he — 
 
 I mean the bishop — did require a respite ; 
 
 Wherein he might the King his lord advertise 
 
 Whether our daughter were legitimate, 
 
 Respecting ^^ this our marriage with the dowager. 
 
 Sometimes ^"^ our brother's wife. This respite shook 
 
 The bottom of my conscience, enter'd me. 
 
 Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble 
 
 The region of my breast ; which forced such way, 
 
 That many mazed considerings did throng. 
 
 And press'd in with this caution. First, methought 
 
 This was a judgment on me, that my kingdom. 
 
 Well worthy the best heir o' the world, should not 
 
 11 The King, having first addressed Wolsey, breaks off; and declares 
 upon his honour to the whole court, that he speaks the Cardinal's mind 
 upon the point in question. 
 
 12 Respecting, here, is considering. So the usual meaning of the substan- 
 tive respect was consideration. See King John, page 12S, note 5. 
 
 13 Both sometimes and sotnetime often had the sense oifortnerly. 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1/9 
 
 Be gladded in't by me : then follows, that 
 I weigh'd the danger which my realms stood in 
 By this my issue's fail; and that gave to me 
 Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in 
 The wild sea ^^ of my conscience, I did steer 
 Toward this remedy, whereupon we are 
 Now present here together ; that's to say, 
 I meant to rectify my conscience — which 
 I then did feel full sick, and yet not well — 
 By all the reverend fathers of the land 
 And doctors learn'd. — First I began in private 
 With you, my Lord of Lincoln : you remember 
 How under my oppression I did reek, 
 When I first moved you. 
 
 Lin. Very well, my liege. 
 
 Ji/ng. I have spoke long : be pleased yourself to say 
 How far you satisfied me. 
 
 Lin. So please your Highness, 
 
 The question did at first so stagger me, — 
 Bearing a state of mighty moment in't. 
 And consequence of dread, — that I committed 
 The daring'st counsel which I had to doubt ; 
 And did entreat your Highness to this course 
 Which you are running here. 
 
 A'i??g. I then moved you, 
 
 My Lord of Canterbury ; and got your leave 
 To make this present summons : — • unsolicited 
 I left no reverend person in this court ; 
 
 i'* The phrase belongs to navigation. A ship is said to AuU when she is 
 dismasted, and only her Au/i or Au/k is left to be driven to and fro by the 
 waves. So in the Alarm for London, 1602: " And they lye hulling up and 
 down the stream." 
 
l80 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT il. 
 
 But by particular consent proceeded 
 
 Under your hands and seals : therefore go on : 
 
 For no dislike i' the world against the person 
 
 Of the good Queen, but the sharp thorny points 
 
 Of my alleged reasons, drive this forward. 
 
 Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life 
 
 And kingly dignity, we are contented 
 
 To wear our mortal state to come with her, 
 
 Catharine our Queen, before the primest creature 
 
 That's paragon'd ^^ o' the world. 
 
 Cam. So please your Highness, 
 
 The Queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness 
 That we adjourn this court till further day : 
 Meanwhile must be an earnest motion 
 Made to the Queen, to call back her appeal 
 She intends unto his Holiness. \_They rise to depart. 
 
 King. \_Aside.^ I may perceive 
 
 These Cardinals trifle with me : I abhor 
 This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. 
 My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer, 
 Pr'ythee, return : '^ with thy approach, I know, 
 My comfort comes along. — Break up the court : 
 I say, set on. \_Exeunt in manner as they entered. 
 
 15 To be paragoned is to be compared, or to admit of rivalry or compar-^ 
 ison. Shakespeare has the word several times as a verb. So in Othello, ii. 
 2 : "A maid that paragons description and wild fame." Here the word evi- 
 dently means rivals or exceeds. So, again, in Antony and Cleopatra, \. 5 : 
 " I will give thee bloody teeth, if thou with Caesar paragon again my man 
 of men." 
 
 16 The King, be it observed, is here merely thinking aloud. Cranmer 
 was at that time absent on a foreign embassy. 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. l8l 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — London. Palace at Bridewell : a Room in the 
 Queen's Apartment. 
 
 The Queen and some of her Women at 7vork. 
 
 Cath. Take thy lute, wench : ^ my soul grows sad with 
 troubles ; 
 Sing, and disperse 'em, if thou canst : leave working. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Orpheus with his lute made trees, 
 Afid the 7nountain-tops that freeze. 
 
 Bow themselves, when he did sing: 
 To his music plants and flowers 
 Ever sprung; as^ Sun and showers 
 
 There had fnade a lasting Spring. 
 
 Every thing that heard him play, 
 Even the billows of the sea, 
 
 Hung their heads, ajtd then lay by!^ 
 In sweet music is such art. 
 Killing'^ care and grief of heart 
 
 Fall asleep, or, hearing, die. 
 
 1 Wenck, generally implying some disparagement, is here used as a 
 familiar term of kindness or endearment. Wretck, a still stronger word, is 
 repeatedly used by the Poet in a similar way. 
 
 2 As for as if; a very frequent usage with the old poets. 
 
 3 To lay by is a nautical term for to slacken sail, and so means to become 
 quiet or composed. 
 
 * Killing is here used as an adjective, not as a participle. 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 Enter a Gentleman. 
 
 Cath. How now ! 
 
 Gent. An't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals 
 Wait in the presence.^ 
 
 Cath. Would they speak with me ? 
 
 Ge7it. They will'd me say so, madam. 
 
 Cath. Pray their Graces 
 
 To come near. \_Exit Gent.] — What can be their business 
 With me, a poor weak woman, fall'n from favour? 
 I do not like their coming, now I think on't. 
 They should be good men ; their affairs are righteous : 
 But all hoods make not monks.^ 
 
 E7iter WoLSEY and Campeius. 
 
 Wol. Peace to your Highness ! 
 
 Cath. Your Graces find me here part of a housewife : 
 I would be all, against the worst may happen. 
 What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords ? 
 
 Wol. May't please you, noble madam, to withdraw 
 Into your private chamber, we shall give you 
 The full cause of our coming. 
 
 Cath. Speak it here ; 
 
 There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience, 
 Deserves a corner: would all other women 
 
 5 Presence for presence-chamber , the room where Majesty received 
 company. 
 
 6 Being churchmen, they should be virtuous, and every business they 
 undertake as righteous as their sacred otifice : but all hoods make not monks. 
 In allusion to the Latin proverb, Cuciillus non facit tnonachum, to which 
 Chaucer also alludes : 
 
 Hahite tie tnaketh monkc kc frere ; 
 But a clene life and (ievotion, 
 Maketh gode men of religion. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 83 
 
 Could speak this with as free a soul as I do ! 
 My lords, I care not — so much I am happy 
 Above a number — if my actions 
 Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw 'em, 
 Envy and base opinion set against 'em, 
 I know my life so even. If your business 
 Do seek me out, and that way I am wife in,''' 
 Out with it boldly : truth loves open dealing. 
 
 VVol. Tatita est erga te mejids integritas, regina serenis- 
 sima, — 
 
 Cath. O, good my lord, no Latin ; 
 I am not such a truant since my coming. 
 As not to know the language I have lived in : 
 A strange tongue makes my cause more strange-suspicious. 
 Pray, speak in English : here are some will thank you, 
 If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake ; 
 Believe me, she has had much wrong : Lord Cardinal, 
 The willing'st sin I ever yet committed 
 May be absolved in English. 
 
 WoL Noble lady, 
 
 I'm sorry my integrity should breed 
 So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant, 
 And service to his Majesty and you. 
 We come not by the way of accusation. 
 To taint that honour every good tongue blesses. 
 Nor to betray you any way to sorrow ; 
 You have too much, good lady : but to know 
 How you stand minded in the weighty difference 
 Between the King and you ; and to deliver, 
 
 " The expression is certainly very odd ; but the meaning probably is, 
 "and with reference to that question or matter which concerns me as a 
 wife." 
 
184 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT III. 
 
 Like free and honest men, our just opinions, 
 And comforts to your cause. 
 
 Cam. Most honour'd madam, 
 
 My Lord of York, — out of his noble nature. 
 Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace, — 
 (Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure 
 Both of his truth and him, which was too far,) — 
 Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace. 
 His service and his counsel. 
 
 Cath. \_Asider\ To betray me. — 
 
 My lords, I thank you both for your good wills : 
 Ye speak like honest men ; pray God, ye prove so ! 
 But how to make ye suddenly an answer. 
 In such a point of weight, so near mine honour, — 
 More near my life, I fear, — with my weak wit, 
 And to such men of gravity and learning, 
 In truth, I know not. I was set at work 
 Among my maids ; full little, God knows, looking 
 Either for such men or such business. 
 For her sake that I have been, — for I feel 
 The last fit of my greatness, — good your Graces, 
 Let me have time and counsel for my cause : 
 Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless ! 
 
 Wol. Madam, you wrong the King's love with these 
 fears : 
 Your hopes and friends are infinite. 
 
 Cath. In England 
 
 But little for my profit : can you think, lords. 
 That any Englishman dare give me counsel? 
 Or be a known friend, 'gainst his Highness' pleasure, — 
 Though he be grown so desperate to be honest, — 
 And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends, 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 85 
 
 They that must weigh out^ my afflictions, 
 They that my trust must grow to, live not here : 
 They are, as all my other comforts, far hence. 
 In mine own country, lords. 
 
 Cam. I would your Grace 
 
 Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel. 
 
 Cath. How, sir? 
 
 Cam. Put your main cause into the King's protection \ 
 He's loving and most gracious : 'twill be much 
 Both for your honour better and your cause ; 
 For, if the trial of the law o'ertake ye, 
 You'll part away disgraced. 
 
 Wol. He tells you rightly. 
 
 Cath. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruin : 
 Is this your Christian counsel ? out upon ye ! 
 Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a Judge 
 That no king can corrupt. 
 
 Cam. Your rage mistakes us. 
 
 Cath. The more shame for ye -.^ holy men I thought ye, 
 Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; 
 But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye : 
 Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort? 
 The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady, 
 A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd? 
 I will not wish ye half my miseries ; 
 I have more charity : but say, I warn'd ye ; 
 Take heed, for Heaven's sake, take heed, lest at once 
 The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. 
 
 Wol. Madam, this is a mere distraction ; 
 
 ^ Weigh out ior weigh; that is, consider them, do justice to them. 
 
 9 If I mistake you, it is by your fault, not mine ; for I thought you good. 
 
1 86 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT II 
 
 You turn the good we offer into envy.^'' 
 
 CatJi. Ye turn me into nothing : woe upon ye, 
 And all such false professors ! Would you have me — 
 If you have any justice, any pity, 
 If ye be any thing but churchmen's habits — 
 Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me ? 
 Alas, 'has banish'd me his bed already, 
 His love, too long ago ! I'm old, my lords, 
 And all the fellowship I hold now with him 
 Is only my obedience. What can happen 
 To me above this wretchedness? all your studies 
 Make me a curse Uke this. 
 
 Cam. Your fears are worse. 
 
 Cath. Have I lived thus long (let me speak myself. 
 Since virtue finds no friends) a wife, a true one ? 
 A woman — I dare say, without vain-glory — 
 Never yet branded with suspicion ? 
 Have I with all my full affections 
 
 Still met the King? loved him next Heaven? obey'd him? 
 Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him ? 
 Almost forgot my prayers to content him ? 
 And am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, lords. 
 Bring me a constant woman to her husband, ^^ 
 One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure ; 
 And to that woman, when she has done most, 
 Yet will I add an honour, — a great patience. 
 
 Wol. Madam, you wander from the good we ahii at. 
 
 Cath. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, 
 To give up willingly that noble title 
 
 1" Envy, again, for malice. See page 78, note 4. 
 
 11 A woman constant to her husband. Constant in the sense oS. faithful. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 8/ 
 
 Your master wed me to : nothing but death 
 Shall e'er divorce my dignities. 
 
 JFo/. Pray, hear me. 
 
 Ca^/i. Would I had never trod this English earth, 
 Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! 
 Ye've angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts. 
 What will become of me now, wretched lady ! 
 I am the most unhappy woman living. — 
 \^To her Women.] Alas, poor wenches, where are now your 
 
 fortunes ! 
 Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
 No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me ; 
 Almost no grave allow'd me : like the lily, 
 That once was mistress of the field and flourish'd, 
 I'll hang my head and perish. 
 
 Wol. If your Grace 
 
 Could but be brought to know our ends are honest. 
 You'd feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady, 
 Upon what cause, wrong you ? alas, our places. 
 The way of our profession is against it : 
 We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em. 
 For goodness' sake, consider what you do ; 
 How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly 
 Grow from the King's acquaintance, by this carriage. 
 The hearts of princes kiss obedience. 
 So much they love it ; but to stubborn spirits 
 They swell, and grow as terrible as storms. 
 I know you have a gentle-noble temper, 
 A soul as even as a calm : pray, think us 
 Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants. 
 
 Cam. Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your virtues 
 With these weak women's fears : a noble spirit, 
 
1 88 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT HI. 
 
 As yours was put into you, ever casts 
 
 Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The King loves you ; 
 
 Beware you lose it not : for us, if please you 
 
 To trust us in your business, we are ready 
 
 To use our utmost studies in your service. 
 
 Cath. Do what ye will, my lords : and, pray, forgive me. 
 If I have used myself unmannerly ; 
 You know I am a woman, lacking wit 
 To make a seemly answer to such persons. 
 Pray, do my service to his Majesty : 
 He has my heart yet ; and shall have my prayers 
 While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, 
 Bestow your counsels on me : she now begs. 
 That little thought, when she set footing here, 
 She should have bought her dignities so dear. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Same. Ante-chamber to the King's Apart- 
 metit in the Palace. 
 
 Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl 
 <?/ Surrey, ami the Z«7/7/ Chaml)erlain. 
 
 Nor. If yon will now unite in your complaints, 
 And force ^ them with a constancy, the Cardinal 
 Cannot stand under them : if you omit 
 The offer of this time, I cannot promise 
 But that you shall sustain more new disgraces, 
 With these you bear already. 
 
 Sur. I am joyful 
 
 To meet the least occasion that may give me 
 
 1 Force for enforce, press, or urge. So in Measure for Measure, iii. I : 
 " That thus can make him bite the law by th' nose when he would forct it." 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 89 
 
 Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke, 
 To be revenged on him. 
 
 Siif. Which of the peers 
 
 Have uncontemn'd gone by him, or at least 
 Strangely neglected?- when did he regard 
 The stamp of nobleness in any person 
 Out of himself? 
 
 Cham. My lords, you speak your pleasures : 
 
 VVhat he deserves of you and me I know ; 
 What we can do to him, — though now the time 
 Gives way"' to us, — I much fear. If you cannot 
 Bar his access to th' King, never attempt 
 Any thing on him ; for he hath a witchcraft 
 Over the King in's tongue. 
 
 Nor. O, fear him not ; 
 
 His spell in that is out : the King hath found 
 Matter against him that for ever mars 
 The honey of his language. No, he's settled, 
 Not to come off, in his displeasure. 
 
 Sur. Sir, 
 
 I should be glad to hear such news as this 
 Once every hour. 
 
 Nor. Believe it, this is true : 
 
 In the divorce his contrary proceedings 
 Are all unfolded ; wherein he appears 
 As I would wish mine enemy. 
 
 Sjir. How came 
 
 His practices to light ? 
 
 2 The force of not in uncontemn'd extends over strangely neglected. The 
 Poet has many instances of similar construction. 
 
 3 That is, opens a way, gives us an opportunity. So in Julius CcEsar, ii. 
 3: " Security ^^iv^ way to conspiracy." 
 
190 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT lit 
 
 Suf. Most strangely. 
 
 Sur. O, how, how? 
 
 Suf. The Cardinal's letter to the Pope miscarried, 
 And came to th' eye o' the King : wherein was read, 
 How that the Cardinal did entreat his Holiness 
 To stay the judgment o' the divorce ; for, if 
 It did take place, / do, quoth he, perceive 
 My King is taiigled in affection to 
 A creature of the Queen's, Lady Anne Boleyn. 
 
 Sur. Has the King this ? 
 
 Suf. Believe it. 
 
 Sur. Will this work? 
 
 Cham. The King in this perceives him, how he coasts 
 And hedges his own way.'* But in this point 
 All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic 
 After his patient's death : the King already 
 Hath married the fair lady.^ 
 
 Sur. Would he had ! 
 
 Suf. May you be happy in your wish, my lord ! 
 For, I profess, you have it. 
 
 Sur. Now, all joy 
 
 Trace 6 the conjunction ! 
 
 Suf. My amen to't ! 
 
 Nor. All men's ! 
 
 * To coast is to hover about, to pursue a sidelong course about a thing. 
 To hedge is to creep along by the liedge, not to talce the direct anu open 
 path, but to steal covertly through circumvolutions. 
 
 ^ The date commonly assigned for the marriage of Henry and Anne is 
 November 14, 1532 ; at which time they set sail together from Calais, the 
 King having been on a visit to his royal brother of France. Lingard, follow- 
 ing Godwin, Stowe, and Cranmer, says they were privately married the 25th 
 of January, 1533. 
 
 8 To trace is \q follow or attend. 
 
SCENE 11. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH, I9I 
 
 Suf. There's order given for her coronation : 
 Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left 
 To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, 
 She is a gallant creature, and complete 
 In mind and feature : I persuade me, from her 
 Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall 
 In it be memorized." 
 
 Siir, But will the King 
 
 Digest this letter of the Cardinal's ? 
 The Lord forbid ' 
 
 Nor. Marry, amen ! 
 
 Suf. No, no ; 
 
 There be more wasps that buzz about his nose 
 Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius 
 Is stol'n away to Rome ; hath ta'en no leave ; 
 Has left the cause o' the King unhandled ; and 
 Is posted, as the agent of our Cardinal, 
 To second all his plot. I do assure you 
 The King cried Ha ! at this. 
 
 Chai7i. Now, God incense him, 
 
 And let him cry Ha ! louder ! 
 
 Nor. But, my lord, 
 
 When returns Cranmer? 
 
 Suf. He is return'd in his opinions ;^ which 
 
 T To memorize is to m.ake memorable. So in Macbeth, i. 2 : " Except they 
 meant to bathe in reeking wounds, or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot 
 tell." 
 
 8 Cranmer, then one of the King's chaplains, had been on a special mis- 
 sion to advocate the divorce at Rome, and to collect the opinions of learned 
 canonists and divines in Italy and elsewhere. Doubtless these are the opirt- 
 ions meant in the text. The using of in with the force of as to, or in respect 
 of, has occasioned some doubt as to what is meant by opinions. Cranmer 
 has returned in effect, by sending on the opinions. 
 
192 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT III. 
 
 Have satisfied the King for his divorce, 
 Together with all famous colleges 
 Almost in Christendom : shortly, I believe, 
 His second marriage shall be publish'd, and 
 Her coronation. Catharine no more 
 Shall be call'd queen, but princess dowager 
 And widow to Prince Arthur. 
 
 Nor. This same Cranmer's 
 
 A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain 
 In the King's business. 
 
 Suf. He has ; and we shall see him 
 
 For it an archbishop. 
 
 Nor. So I hear. 
 
 Suf. 'Tis so. 
 
 The Cardinal ! 
 
 Enter Wolsey afid Cromwell. 
 
 Nor. Observe, observe, he's moody. 
 
 Wol. The packet, Cromwell, gave't you the King? 
 
 Cram. To his own hand, in's bedchamber. 
 
 Wol. Look'd he o' the inside of the papers ? 
 
 Crom. Presently 
 
 He did unseal them : and the first he view'd, 
 He did it with a serious mind ; a heed 
 Was in his countenance. And you he bade 
 Attend him here this morning. 
 
 Wol. Is he ready 
 
 To come abroad? 
 
 Crovi. I think, by this he is. 
 
 WoL Leave me awhile. — \^Exit Cromwell. 
 
 It shall be to the Duchess of Alengon 
 The French King's sister : he shall marry her. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 193 
 
 Anne Boleyn ! No ; I'll no Anne Boleyns for him : 
 
 There is more in it than fair visage. Boleyn ! 
 
 No, we'll no Boleyns. Speedily I wish 
 
 To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke ! 
 
 Nor. He's discontented. 
 
 Suf. May be, he hears the King 
 
 Does whet his anger to him. 
 
 Sur. Sharp enough, 
 
 Lord, for Thy justice ! 
 
 Wol. The late Queen's gentlewoman, a knight's daughter, 
 To be her mistress' mistress ! the Queen's queen ! 
 This candle burns not clear : 'tis I must snuff it ; 
 Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous 
 And well-deserving? yet I know her for 
 A spleeny Lutheran ; and not wholesome to 
 Our cause, that she should lie i' the bosom of 
 Our hard-ruled King. Again, there is sprung up 
 An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer ; one 
 Hath crawl'd into the favour of the King, 
 And is his oracle. 
 
 Nor. He's vex'd at something. 
 
 Sur. I would 'twere something that would fret the string, 
 The master-cord on's heart ! 
 
 Suf. The King, the King ! 
 
 Enter the King, reading a schedule, and Lovell. 
 
 King. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated 
 To his own portion ! and what expense by th' hour 
 Seems to flow from him ; How, i' the name of thrift, 
 Does he rake this together ? — Now, my lords. 
 Saw you the Cardinal ? 
 
 Nor. My lord, we have 
 
194 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 Stood here observing him : some strange commotion 
 Is in his brain : he bites his hp, and starts ; 
 Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, 
 Then lays his finger on his temple ; straight 
 Springs out into fast gait ; then stops again, 
 Strikes his breast hard ; and then anon he casts 
 His eye against the Moon : in most strange postures 
 We've seen him set himself. 
 
 King. It may well be 
 
 There is a mutiny in's mind. This morning 
 Papers, of State he sent me to peruse, 
 As I required : and wot you what I found, 
 There, on my conscience, put unwittingly? 
 Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing : 
 The several parcels of his plate, his treasure, 
 Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household ; which 
 I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks 
 Possession of a subject.^ 
 
 Nor. It's Heaven's will : 
 
 Some spirit put this paper in the packet, 
 
 ^ This incident, in its application to Wolsey, is a fiction : he made no 
 such mistake ; but, another person having once done so, he took occasion 
 thereby to ruin him. The story is told by Holinshed of Thomas Ruthall, 
 Bishop of Durham ; who was accounted the richest subject in the realm ; and 
 who, having by the King's order written a book setting forth the whole estate 
 of the kingdom, had it bound up in the same style as one before written, set- 
 ting forth his own private affairs. At the proper time the King sent Wolsey 
 to get the book, and the Bishop gave him the wrong one. " The cardinal!, 
 having the booke, went foorthwith to the king, delivered it into his hands, and 
 breefelie informed him of the contents thereof; putting further into his head, 
 that if at anie time he were destitute of a masse of nionie, he should not 
 need to seeke further than to the cofcrs of the bishop. Of all which when 
 the bishop had intelligence, he was stricken with such greefe, that he shortlie 
 ended his life in the yeare 1523." 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 95 
 
 To bless your eye withal. 
 
 King. If we did think 
 
 His contemplation were above the Earth, 
 And fix'd on spiritual objects, he should still 
 Dwell in his musings : but I am afraid 
 His thinkings are below the Moon, not worth 
 His serious considering. \Takes his seat, and whispers Lov- 
 
 ELL, who goes to WOLSEY. 
 
 Wol. Heaven forgive me ! — 
 
 Ever God bless your Highness ! 
 
 King. Good my lord. 
 
 You're full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory 
 Of your best graces in your mind ; the which 
 You were now running o'er : you have scarce time 
 To steal from spiritual leisure ^^ a brief span 
 To keep your earthly audit : sure, in that 
 I deem you an ill husband,'' and am glad 
 To have you therein my companion. 
 
 Wol. Sir, 
 
 For holy offices I have a time ; a time 
 To think upon the part of business which 
 I bear i' the State ; and Nature does require 
 Her times of preservation, which perforce 
 I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, 
 
 1" That is, leisure for spiritual exercises. The Xing Seems biting him with 
 irony ; as if his leisure were so filled up with spiritual Concerns, that he could 
 not spare any of it for worldly affairs. " Keep your earthly audit " means, 
 apparently, look after your temporal interests, or audit, that is, verify, your 
 secular accounts. 
 
 11 Husband, as here used, is manager. So we have husbandry for 7nan- 
 agement. These senses come naturally from the primitive sense o{ husband, 
 which is house band: that which keeps the house in order, and so makes it 
 9khoint. 
 
196 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IIL 
 
 Must give my tendance to. 
 
 King. You have said well. 
 
 Wol. And ever may your Highness yoke together, 
 As I will lend you cause, my doing well 
 With my well saying ! 
 
 King. 'Tis well said again ; 
 
 And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well : 
 And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you : 
 He said he did ; and with his deed did crown 
 His word upon you. Since I had my office, 
 I've kept you next my heart ; have not alone 
 Employ'd you where high profits might come home, 
 But pared my present havings, ^^ to bestow 
 My bounties upon you. 
 
 Wol. \^Aside7\ What should this mean? 
 
 Sur. [Asit/e to the Others.'] The Lord increase this busi- 
 ness ! 
 
 King. Have I not made you 
 
 The prime man of the State? I pray you, tell me. 
 If what I now pronounce you have found true ; 
 And, if you may confess it, say withal, 
 If you are bound to us or no. What say you? 
 
 Wol. My sovereign, I confess your royal graces, 
 Shower'd on me daily, have been more than could 
 My studied purposes requite ; which '"^ went 
 Beyond all man's endeavours. My endeavours 
 Have ever come too short of my desires, 
 
 12 Having, as often, iov possession, or what one has. Pared, of course, is 
 lessened, reduced, or impaired. 
 
 13 Which refers, no doubt, to royal graces, not to purposes. He means 
 that the King's favours to him were greater than any man could possibly 
 merit. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1 9/ 
 
 Yet filed with my abilities : ^^ mine own ends 
 Have been mine so, that evermore they pointed 
 To th' good of your most sacred person and 
 The profit of the State. For your great graces 
 Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I 
 Can nothing render but allegiant thanks ; 
 My prayers to Heaven for you ; my loyalty, 
 Which ever has and ever shall be growing, 
 Till death, that Winter, kill it. 
 
 King. Fairly answer'd j 
 
 A loyal and obedient subject is 
 Therein illustrated : the honour of it 
 Does pay the act of it ; as, i' the contrary, 
 The foulness is the punishment. I presume 
 That, as my hand has open'd bounty to you, 
 My heart dropp'd love, my power rain'd honour, more 
 On you than any ; so your hand and heart, 
 Your brain, and every function of your power, 
 Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty, 
 As 'twere in love's particular, be more 
 To me, your friend, than any.i^ 
 
 Wol. I do profess 
 
 That for your Highness' good I ever labour 'd 
 More than mine own ; that I am true, and will be, 
 Though all the world should crack their duty to you, 
 And throw it from their soul : though perils did 
 Abound as thick as thought could make 'em, and 
 Appear in forms more horrid, yet my duty — 
 As doth a rock against the chiding flood — 
 
 1* That is, kept pace, walked in the sameyf/^, with my abilities. 
 15 " Besides your bond of duty as a loyal and obedient servant, you owe 
 a particular devotion to me as your special benefactor." 
 
198 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT rii. 
 
 Should the approach of this wild river break, 
 And stand unshaken yours. 
 
 King. 'Tis nobly spoken. — 
 
 Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast, 
 For you have seen him open't. — Read o'er this ; 
 And, after, this : [ Giving him papers. 
 
 and then to breakfast with 
 What appetite you have. \_Exit, frowning upon Wolsey : the 
 Nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering. 
 
 Wo/. What should this mean ? 
 
 What sudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it? 
 He parted frowning from me, as if ruin 
 Leap'd from his eyes : so looks the chafed lion 
 Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him ; 
 Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper ; 
 I fear, the story of his anger. • — ■ 'Tis so ; 
 This paper has undone me : 'tis th' account 
 Of all that world of wealth I've drawn together 
 For mine own ends ; indeed, to gain the Popedom, 
 And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence, 
 Fit for a fool to fall by ! what cross devil 
 Made me put this main secret in the packet 
 I sent the King? Is there no way to cure this? 
 No new device to beat this from his brains? 
 I know 'twill stir him strongly ; yet I know 
 A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune, 
 Will bring me off again. — What's this? To th^ Pope.' 
 The letter, as I live, with all the business 
 I writ to's Holiness. Nay, then farewell ! 
 I've touch'd the highest point of all my greatness ; 
 And, from that full meridian of my glory, 
 I haste now to my setting : I shall fall 
 
SCENE H. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. IQQ 
 
 Like a bright exhalation ^^ in the evening, 
 And no man see me more. 
 
 Re-enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of 
 Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 Nor. Hear the King's pleasure, Cardinal ; who commands 
 you 
 To render up the Great Seal presently 
 Into our hands ; and to confine yourself 
 To Asher-house,^^ my Lord of Winchester's, 
 Till you hear further from his Highness. 
 
 WoL Stay ; 
 
 Where's your commission, lords ? words cannot carry 
 Authority so weighty. 
 
 Siif. Who dare cross 'em. 
 
 Bearing the King's will from his mouth expressly? 
 
 WoL Till I find more than will or words to do it, — 
 I mean your malice, — know, officious lords, 
 I dare and must deny it. Now I feel 
 Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy : 
 How eagerly ye follow my disgrace, 
 As if it fed ye ! and how sleek and wanton 
 Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin ! 
 Follow your envious courses, men of malice ; ^^ 
 You've Christian warrant for 'em, and, no doubt, 
 
 16 Exhalation was often used in a way now quite out of date. Here it 
 probably means what we call a meteor. See King John, page g8, notes i6 
 and 19; also, / Henry IV., page 54, note 3. 
 
 1^ Asher was the ancient name of Esher, in Surrey. The author forgot 
 that Wolsey was himself Bishop of Winchester, having succeeded Bishop 
 Fox in 1528, holding the see in commendam. Esher was one of the episco- 
 pal palaces belonging to that see. 
 
 ^8 An apt instance of envy for malice ; also, of envious for malicious. 
 
200 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT III. 
 
 In time will find their fit rewards. That seal, 
 You ask with such a violence, the King — 
 Mine and your master — with his own hand gave me; 
 Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, 
 During my life ; and, to confirm his goodness, 
 Tied it by letters-patents : '^ now, who'll take it? 
 
 Sur. The King, that gave it. 
 
 Wol. It must be himself, then. 
 
 Sur. Thou'rt a proud traitor, priest. 
 
 Wol. Proud lord, thou liest : 
 
 Within these forty hours Surrey durst better 
 Have burnt that tongue than said so. 
 
 Sur. Thy ambition. 
 
 Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land 
 Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law i^*^ 
 The heads of all thy brother cardinals — 
 With thee and all thy best parts bound together — 
 Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your poHcy ! 
 You sent me deputy for Ireland ; ■ 
 Far from his succour, from the King, from all 
 That might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him : 
 Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, 
 
 19 Such is the old form of writing what we call letters-patent ; which are 
 public official documents granting or securing certain rights to the persons 
 named therein ; like a certificate of copyright. 
 
 2* I have already noted that the Poet continues the same persons Duke 
 of Norfolk and Earl of Surrey through the play. Here the Earl is the same 
 who had married Buckingham's daughter, and had been shifted off out of 
 the way, when that great nobleman was to be struck at. In fact, however, 
 he who, at the beginning of the play, 1520, was Earl, became Duke in 1525. 
 At the time of this scene the Earl of Surrey was the much-accomplished 
 Henry Howard, son of the former; a man of fine genius and heroic spirit, 
 afterwards distinguished alike in poetry and in arms, and who, on the mere 
 Strength of royal suspicion, was sent to the block in 1547. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 20I 
 
 Absolved him with an axe. 
 
 JVo/. This, and all else 
 
 This talking lord can lay upon my credit, 
 I answer is most false. The duke by law 
 Found his deserts : how innocent I was 
 From any private malice in his end. 
 His noble jury and foul cause can witness. 
 If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you 
 You have as little honesty as honour ; 
 That in the way of loyalty and truth 
 Toward the King, my ever royal master, I 
 Dare mate-i a sounder man than Surrey can be, 
 And all that love his follies. 
 
 Si/r. By my soul, 
 
 Your long coat, priest, protects you ; thou shouldst feel 
 My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. — My lords. 
 Can ye endure to hear this arrogance ? 
 And from this fellow ? If we live thus tamely, 
 To be thus jaded 22 by a piece of scarlet, 
 Farewell nobility ; let his Grace go forward. 
 And dare us with his cap like larks.-'' 
 
 JVo/. All goodness 
 
 Is poison to thy stomach. 
 
 Sur. Yes, that goodness 
 
 Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one, 
 
 21 To mate, here, is to inatch, to compete with, to challenge. 
 
 22 yaded is overcrowed, overmastered. The force of this term may be 
 best understood from a proverb given by Cotgrave, in v. Rosse, 3. Jade. " II 
 n'est si bon cheval qui n'en deviendroit rosse : It would anger a saint, or 
 crest/all the best man living to be so used." 
 
 23 A cardinal's hat is scarlet, and the method of daring larks is by small 
 mirrors on scarlet cloth, which engages the attention of the birds while the 
 fowler draws his nets over them. 
 
202 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT lit 
 
 Into your own hands, Cardinal, by extortion ; 
 
 The goodness of your intercepted packets 
 
 You writ to th' Pope against the King : your goodness, 
 
 Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. — 
 
 My Lord of Norfolk, — as you're truly noble, 
 
 As you respect the common good, the state 
 
 Of our despised nobility, our issues, 
 
 Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen, — 
 
 Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles 
 
 Collected from his life. — Til startle you. 
 
 Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, 
 But that Pm bound in charity against it ! 
 
 Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the King's hand : 
 But, thus much, they are foul ones. 
 
 Wol. So much fairer 
 
 And spotless -'' shall mine innocence arise, 
 When the King knows my truth. 
 
 Sur. This cannot save you : 
 
 I thank my memory, I yet remember 
 Some of these articles ; and out they shall. 
 Now, if you can blush, and cry guilty. Cardinal, 
 You'll show a little honesty. 
 
 Woi. Speak on, sir ; 
 
 I dare your worst objections : if I blush. 
 It is to see a nobleman want manners. 
 
 Sur. I had rather want those than my head. Have at 
 you ! 
 First, that, without the King's assent or knowledge. 
 You wrought to be a Legate ; by which power 
 
 2* The more, virtually implied in fairer, extends its force over spotless; 
 " so much more fair and spotless." See 2 Henry IV., page 156, note 2, 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 203 
 
 You maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops.^^ 
 
 Nor. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else 
 To foreign princes, Ego et Rex mens 
 Was still inscribed ; in which you brought the King 
 To be your servant. ^^ 
 
 Suf. Then, that, without the knowledge 
 
 Either of King or Council, when you went 
 Ambassador to th' Emperor, you made bold 
 To carry into Flanders the Great Seal. 
 
 Sur. Item, you sent a large commission 
 To Gregory de Cassalis, to conclude. 
 Without the King's will or the State's allowance,'2'^ 
 A league between his Highness and Ferrara. 
 
 Suf. That, out of mere ambition, you have caused 
 
 25 A Legate, as the term is here used, was a special representative of the 
 Pope. If admitted or resident in a country, he could, by virtue of his lega- 
 tine commission, overrule or supersede, for the time being, the local author- 
 ity of the Bishops. For this cause, all exercise of such powers had been 
 prohibited in England by special statute. Nevertheless Wolsey had in fact 
 got himself made Legate, and this with the full approval of the King, though 
 both of them knew the thing to be unlawful. But the King's approval did 
 not justify the minister. 
 
 26 These several charges are taken almost literally from Holinshed, where 
 the second item reads thus : " In all writings which he wrote to Rome, or 
 anie other forren prince, he wrote Ego et rex mens, I and my King ; as who 
 would sale that the king were his servant." In fhe Latin idiom, however, 
 such was the order prescribed by modesty itself. And, in fact, the charge 
 against Wolsey, as given from the records of Lord Herbert, was not that he 
 set himself above or before the King, but that he spoke of himself along 
 with him : " Also, the said lord cardinal, in divers and many of his letters 
 and instructions sent out of this realm, had joined himself with your grace, 
 as in saying and writing, — The king and I ivould ye sho7ild do thus ; — The 
 king and I give you our hearty thanks : whereby it is apparent that he used 
 himself more like a fellow to your highness than like a subject." 
 
 2" Allowance in its old sense of approval, or sanctiott, probably. The 
 Poet has both the noun and the verb repeatedly in that sense, 
 
204 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT 
 
 Your holy hat be stamp'd on the King's coin.^^ 
 
 Sur. Then, that you've sent innumerable substance — 
 By what means got, I leave to your own conscience — 
 To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways 
 You have for dignities ; to th' mere^^ undoing 
 Of all the kingdom. Many more there are ; 
 Which, since they are of you, and odious, 
 I will not taint my mouth with. 
 
 Chain. O my lord, 
 
 Press not a falling man too far ! 'tis virtue : 
 His faults lie open to the laws ; let them, 
 Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him 
 So little of his great self. 
 
 Sur. I forgive him. 
 
 Suf. Lord Cardinal, the King's further pleasure is, — 
 Because all those things you have done of late. 
 By your power legatine, within this kingdom, 
 Fall into th' compass oi 3. prccmunire,^^ — • 
 That therefore such a writ be sued against you ; 
 To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements, 
 Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be 
 Out of the King's protection : this is my charge. 
 
 Nor. And so we'll leave you to your meditations 
 How to live better. For your stubborn answer 
 
 28 This was one of the articles exhibited against Wolsey, but rather with 
 a view to swell the catalogue than from any serious cause of accusation ; in- 
 asmuch as the Archbishops Cranmer, Bainbridge, and Warham were 
 indulged with the same privilege. 
 
 29 Mere in the sense of utter or absolute ; a frequent usage. 
 
 3" The judgment in a writ oi frcemunire (a barbarous word used instead 
 olprcBtnonere) is, that the defendant shall be out of the King' s protection ; 
 and his lands and tenements, goods and chattels forfeited to the King ; and 
 that his body shall remain in prison at the King's pleasure. 
 
SCENE II. KING HEKKTf THE EIGHTH. 205 
 
 About the giving back the Great Seal to us, 
 
 The King shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you. 
 
 So fare you well, my little -good Lord Cardinal. 
 
 \_Exeunt all but Wolsey. 
 Wol. So farewell to the little good you bear me. 
 Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
 This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms. 
 And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost. 
 And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
 His greatness is a-ripening — nips his root. 
 And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
 Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders. 
 This many Summers in a sea of glory ; 
 But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
 At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
 Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : 
 I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched 
 Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! 
 There is, betwixt that smiie we would aspire to. 
 That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,^^ 
 More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 
 And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 Never to hope again. — 
 
 31 " Their ruin " is the ruin which they inflict ; their referring to princes : 
 what is technically called the subjective genitive. So in ii. 3, of this play : 
 " And free us from his slavery " ; that is, the slavery imposed by him. See, 
 also. The Tempest, page 138, note 23. 
 
206 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT III. 
 
 Enter Cromwell, amazedly. 
 
 Why, how now, Cromwell ! 
 
 Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 
 
 Wol. What, amazed 
 
 At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder 
 A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep, 
 I'm fall'n indeed. 
 
 Crom. How does your Grace ? 
 
 Wol. Why, well ; 
 
 Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
 I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
 A peace above all earthly dignities, 
 A still and quiet conscience. The King has cured me, 
 I humbly thank his Grace ; and from these shoulders. 
 These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken 
 A load would sink a navy, too much honour. 
 O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden 
 Too heavy for a man that hopes for Heaven 1 
 
 Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it. 
 
 Wol. I hope I have : I'm able now, methinks — 
 Out of a fortitude of soul I feel — 
 T' endure more miseries and greater far 
 Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 
 What news abroad ? 
 
 Crom. The heaviest and the worst 
 
 Is your displeasure ^- with the King. 
 
 Wol. God bless him ! 
 
 Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
 Lord Chancellor in your place. 
 
 32 Here "your displeasure " is the displeasure which you have incurred, 
 or of which you are the object ; hence called the objective genitive. 
 
SCENE It, KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 20/ 
 
 IVo/. That's somewhat sudden : 
 
 But he's a learned man. May he contmue 
 Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice 
 For truth's sake and his conscience ; that his bones, 
 When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings, 
 May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em ! ^^ 
 What more ? 
 
 Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, 
 
 Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 
 Wol. That's news indeed. 
 
 Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne, 
 
 Whom the King hath in secrecy long married. 
 This day was view'd in open ^'^ as his Queen, 
 Going to chapel ; and the voice is now 
 Only about her coronation. 
 
 Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O 
 Cromwell, 
 The King has gone beyond me : all my glories 
 In that one woman I have lost for ever : 
 No Sun shall ever usher forth mine honours. 
 Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
 Upon my smiles.^^ Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ; 
 
 83 The Lord Chancellor is the general guardian of orphans. "A tomb of 
 tears" says Johnson, " is very harsh." Steevens has adduced an Epigram 
 of Martial, in which the Heliades are said to " weep a tomb of tears " over a 
 viper. Drummond, in his Teares for the Death of Afceliades, has the same 
 conceit ; 
 
 The Muses, Phoebus, Love, have raised of their teares 
 A crystal tomb to him, through which his worth appears. 
 
 ^■i In open is a Latinism. " Et castris in aperto positis," Liv. i. 33 ; that 
 \\ in a place exposed on all sides to view. 
 
 35 The number of persons who composed Cardinal Wolsey's household, 
 according to the authentic copy of Cavendish, was Jive hundred. Caven- 
 dish's work, though written soon after the death of Wolsey, was not printed 
 
208 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IIL 
 
 I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now 
 
 To be thy lord and master : seek the King ; 
 
 That sun, I pray, may never set ! I've told him 
 
 What and how true thou art : he will advance thee ; 
 
 Some little memory of me will stir him — 
 
 I know his noble nature — not to let 
 
 Thy hopeful service perish too : good Cromwell, 
 
 Neglect him not ; make use -^^ now, and provide 
 
 For thine own future safety. 
 
 Crom. O my lord, 
 
 Must I, then, leave you? must I needs forgo 
 So good, so noble, and so true a master? 
 Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
 With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. 
 The King shall have my service ; but my prayers 
 For ever and for ever shall be yours. 
 
 Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
 In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me. 
 Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
 Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
 And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be. 
 And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
 Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee, 
 Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of glory, 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour — 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
 
 till 1641, and then in a most garbled manner, the object of the publication 
 having been to render Laud odious, by showing how far Church power had 
 been extended by Wolsey, and how dangerous that prelate was, who, in the 
 opinion of many, followed his example. In that copy we read that the num- 
 ber of his liousehold was eight hundred persons. In other Mss. and in Dr. 
 Wordsworth's edition, it is stated at oyie hundred and eighty persons. 
 86 Use and usance were common ternjs for interest ox profit. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 209 
 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. 
 
 Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. 
 
 Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 
 
 By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 
 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win by't? 
 
 Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee : 
 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
 
 Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 
 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
 
 Thy God's, and truth's : then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 
 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the King ; 
 
 And, — pr'ythee, lead me in : 
 
 There take an inventory of all I have. 
 
 To the last penny ; 'tis the King's : my robe, 
 
 And my integrity to Heaven, is all 
 
 I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell ! 
 
 Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
 
 I served my King, He would not in mine age 
 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies. 
 
 Croni. Good sir, have patience. 
 
 Wol. So I have. Farewell 
 
 The hopes of Court ! my hopes in Heaven do dwell. 
 
 \_Exeiint 
 
2IO KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IV, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A Street in Westminster. 
 Enter tiuo Gentlemen, meeting. 
 
 1 Gent. You're well met once again. 
 
 2 Gent. So are you. 
 
 1 Gent. You come to take your stand here, and behold 
 The Lady Anne pass from her coronation? 
 
 2 Gent. 'Tis all my business. At our last encounter 
 The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial. 
 
 1 Ge?tt. 'Tis very true : but that time offer'd sorrow ; 
 This, general joy. 
 
 2 Gent. 'Tis well : the citizens, 
 
 I'm sure, have shown at full their loyal minds — 
 As, let 'em have their rights, they're ever forward — 
 In celebration of this day with shows, 
 Pageants, and sights of honour. 
 
 / Gent. Never greater, 
 
 Nor, I'll assure you, better taken, sir. 
 
 2 Gent. May I be bold to ask what that contains, 
 That paper in your hand ? 
 
 1 Gent. Yes ; 'tis the list 
 Of those that claim their offices this day 
 
 By custom of the coronation. 
 
 The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims 
 
 To be High- Steward ; next, the Duke of Norfolk, 
 
 He to be Earl Marshal : you may read the rest. 
 
 2 Gent. I thank you, sir : had I not known those cus- 
 
 toms, 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 211 
 
 I should have been beholding to your paper. 
 But, I beseech you, what's become of Catharine, 
 The princess dowager ? how goes her business ? 
 
 1 Gent. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop 
 Of Canterbury, accompanied with other 
 
 Learned and reverend fathers of his order. 
 Held a late court ^ at Dunstable, six miles off 
 From Ampthill, where the princess lay ; to which 
 She was oft cited by them, but appear'd not : 
 And, to be short, for not-appearance and 
 The King's late scruple, by the main - assent 
 Of all these learned men she was divorced, 
 And the late marriage "^ made of none effect : 
 Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, 
 Where she remains now sick. 
 
 2 Gent. Alas, good lady ! {Trumpets. 
 The trumpets sound : stand close, the Queen is coming. 
 
 The Order of the Procession. 
 A lively flourish of trumpets. Theti enter, 
 
 1. Two Judges. 
 
 2. Lord Chancellor, with the purse and 7tiace before him. 
 
 3. Choristers, singing. {Music. 
 
 4. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Garter, in 
 
 his coat-of-ar?ns,^ and on his head a gilt copper crown. 
 
 5 . Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold, 07i his head 
 
 1 " Lately held a court " is the meaning, of course. 
 
 - Great, strong, mighty, are among the old senses of main. So in Hantr 
 let, i. 3 : " No further than the 7nai>i voice of Denmark goes withal." 
 
 3 That is, the marriage lately considered valid. 
 
 * His coat of office, emblazoned with the royal arms. 
 
212 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IV. 
 
 a denii-coronal of gold. With him, the Earl of 
 Surrey, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, 
 crozvned with an earPs coronet. Collars of esses? 
 
 6. Duke of Suffolk, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his 
 
 head, bearing a long white wand, as high-steward. 
 With him, the Duke of Norfolk, with the rod of 
 marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of esses. 
 
 7. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports ; ^ under it, 
 
 the Queen in her robe; her hair richly adorned with 
 pearl, crowned. On each side of her, the Bishops of 
 London and Winchester. 
 
 8. The old Duchess of Norfolk, /« a coronal of gold, 
 
 wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen's train. 
 
 9. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold 
 
 without flowers. 
 
 A royal train, believe me. These I know : 
 Who's that that bears the sceptre ? 
 
 J Gent. Marquess Dorset ; 
 
 And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod. 
 
 2 Gent. A bold brave gentleman. That lord should be 
 The Duke of Suffolk? 
 
 1 Gent. 'Tis the same ; High-Steward. 
 
 2 Gent. And that my Lord of Norfolk ? 
 
 5 In the account of the coronation, the author follows Hall, who says that 
 " such as were knights had collars of esses." A collar of esses was probably 
 so called from the ^'-shaped links of the chain-work. Sometimes there were 
 ornaments between the esses. It was a badge of equestrian nobility. Its 
 origin is unknown. 
 
 8 The five ports were Dover, Hastings, Hythe, Romney, and Sandwich ; 
 to which Rye and Winchelsea were afterwards added. The jurisdiction of 
 them was vested in barons for the better protection of the English coast. 
 Hall says that " the Cinque-ports claimed to bear the canopy over the 
 queen's head, the day of the coronation." 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 213 
 
 / Gent. Yes. 
 
 2 Gent. \_Looking oti the Queen.] Heaven bless thee ! 
 Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on. — 
 Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel ; 
 Our King has all the Indies in his arms. 
 And more and richer, when he clasps that lady : 
 I cannot blame his conscience. 
 
 1 Gent. They that bare 
 The cloth of honour o'er her are four barons 
 Of the Cinque-ports. 
 
 2 Gent. Those men are happy ; and so are all are near 
 
 her. 
 I take it, she that carries up the train 
 Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk. 
 
 / Gent. It is ; and all the rest are countesses. 
 
 2 Gent. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed. 
 
 1 Gent. And sometimes falling ones. 
 
 2 Gent. No more of that. 
 
 [Exit procession, with a great flourish of trumpets. 
 
 Enter a third Gentleman. 
 
 1 Gent. God save you, sir ! where have you been broiling? 
 
 3 Gent. Among the crowd i' th' abbey ; where a finger 
 Could not be wedged in more : I am stifled 
 
 With the mere rankness of their joy. 
 
 2 Gent. You saw the ceremony? 
 
 3 Gent. That I did. 
 / Gent. How was it? 
 
 3 Gent. Well worth the seeing. 
 
 2 Gent. Good sir, speak it to us. 
 
 3 Gent. As well as I am able. The rich stream 
 Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen 
 
214 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IV. 
 
 To a prepared place in the choir, fell off 
 
 A distance from her ; while her Grace sat down 
 
 To rest awhile, some half an hour or so, 
 
 In a rich chair of state, opposing freely 
 
 The beauty of her person to the people. 
 
 Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman 
 
 That ever lay by man : which when the people 
 
 Had the full view of, such a noise arose 
 
 As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, 
 
 As loud, and to as many tunes : hats, cloaks, — 
 
 Doublets, I think, — flew up ; and had their faces 
 
 Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy 
 
 I never saw before. No man living 
 
 Could say, This is my wife, there ; all were woven 
 
 So strangely in one piece. 
 
 2 Gent. But what foUow'd? 
 
 J Gent. At length her Grace rose, and with modest 
 paces 
 Came to the alter ; where she kneel'd, and, saint-like, 
 Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and pray'd devoutly ; 
 Then rose again, and bow'd her to the people : 
 When by the Archbishop of Canterbury 
 She had all the royal makings of a queen ; 
 As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown. 
 The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems 
 Laid nobly on her : which perform'd, the choir, 
 With all the choicest music " of the kingdom. 
 Together sung Te Demn. So she parted,^ 
 And with the same full state paced back again 
 
 '' Music for musicians, or tnusical instruments ; a common figure. 
 8 The Poet often uses /(jr/ for depart. So in iii. 2: " We partedhoy/mng 
 from me." See, also, The Winter's Tale, page 40, note 2. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH, 215 
 
 To York-place, where the feast is held.^ 
 
 1 Getit. Sif, you 
 Must no more call it York-place, that is past ; 
 For, since the Cardinal fell, that title's lost : 
 'Tis now the King's, and call'd Whitehall. 
 
 J Gent. I know it ; 
 
 But 'tis so lately alter'd, that th' old name 
 Is fresh about me. 
 
 2 Gent. What two reverend bishops 
 Were those that went on each side of the Queen ? 
 
 J Gent. Stokesly and Gardmer ; the one of Winchester, 
 Newly preferr'd from the King's secretary ; '^^ 
 The other, London. 
 
 2 Gent. He of Winchester 
 
 Is held no great good lover of th' Archbishop's, 
 The virtuous Cranmer. 
 
 3 Gent. All the land knows that : 
 However, yet there is no great breach \ when it comes, 
 Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him. 
 
 2 Gent. Who may that be, I pray you? 
 
 J Gent. Thomas Cromwell ; 
 
 A man in much esteem wi' th' King,!' ^^d truly 
 A worthy friend. The King 
 Has made him master o' the jewel-house, 
 And one, already, of the Privy- Council. 
 
 5 The coronation of Anne took place June i, 1533 ; the divorcement of 
 Catharine having been formally pronounced the 17th of May. 
 
 !•* That is, lately promoted from being the King's secretary, or from the 
 office of secretary. This use of to prefer was common. 
 
 11 This play has many instances of the elided, so as to coalesce with a 
 preceding word ; as by th\ for th' , to th' , &c. Here we have a double elision 
 of with and the, so as to make one syllable of them. The Poet often has it 
 so. See The Tempest, page 47, note 16. 
 
2l6 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH, ACT IV 
 
 2 Gent. He will deserve more. 
 
 J Gent. Yes, without all doubt. 
 
 Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which 
 Is to the Court, and there shall be my guests : 
 Something I can command. As I walk thither, 
 I'll tell ye more. 
 
 Both. You may command us, sir. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Kimbolton. 
 Enter Catharine, sick ; led betiveen Griffith and Patience. 
 
 Grif. How does your Grace ? 
 
 Cath. O Griffith, sick to death ! 
 
 My legs, like loaden branches, bow to th' earth, 
 Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair : — 
 So ; now, methinks, I feel a little ease. 
 Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me, 
 That the great child of honour. Cardinal VVolsey, 
 Was deadPi 
 
 Grif. Yes, madam ; but I thought your Grace, 
 
 Out of the pain you suffer'd, gave no ear to't. 
 
 Cath. Pr'ythee, good Griffith, tell me how he died ; 
 If well, he stepp'd before me, happily,^ 
 For my example. 
 
 Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam : 
 
 For, after the stout Earl Northumberland 
 Arrested him at York, and brought him forward — 
 
 1 Wolsey died Nov. 29, 1530; and the events of this scene did not occur 
 till January, 1536, which was more than two years after the event that closes 
 the play. 
 
 2 Happily is sometimes used by Shakespeare for haply, per adv entur e : but 
 it here more probably means opportunely. 
 
SCENE IL KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 21/ 
 
 As a man sorely tainted ^ — to his answer, 
 He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill 
 He could not sit his mule.^ 
 
 Cath. Alas, poor man ! 
 
 Grif. At last, with easy roads,^ he came to Leicester, 
 Lodged in the abbey ; where the reverend Abbot, 
 With all his convent, honourably received him ; 
 To whom he gave these words, O father Abbot, 
 An old man, broken with the storms of State y 
 Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; 
 Give him a little earth for charity ! 
 So went to bed ; where eagerly his sickness 
 Pursued him still : and, three nights after this, 
 About the hour of eight, — which he himself 
 Foretold should be his last, — full of repentance, 
 Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows. 
 He gave his honours to the world again, 
 His blessed part to Heaven, and slept in peace. 
 
 Cath. So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him ! 
 Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, 
 And yet with charity. He was a man 
 Of an unbounded stomach,^ ever ranking 
 
 3 I am not quite clear in what sense tainted is used here. Sometimes the 
 word means touched ; as in j Henry VI., iii. I : "And Nero will be tainted 
 with remorse " ; that is, touched with compassion. Sometimes it means 
 attainted or under an attainder ; that is, an impeachment. 
 
 •* Cardinals generally rode on mules, as a mark perhaps of humility. 
 Cavendish says that Wolsey " rode like a cardinal sumptuously upon his 
 mule, trapped altogether in crimson velvet and gilt stirrups." 
 
 5 Roads, or rodes, here, is the same as courses, stages, or journeys. 
 
 6 Stomach was often used for pride or haughtiness. The Chronicles 
 abound in passages showing up this trait in Wolsey 's character. Thus : 
 " It fortuned that the archbishop of Canterbury wrote to the cardinall anon 
 after that he had received his power legantine, the which letter after his old 
 
2l8 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IV. 
 
 Himself with princes ; one that by suggestion 
 Tithed all the kingdom : simony was fair-play ; 
 His own opinion was his law : i' the presence 
 He would say untruths ; and be ever double 
 Both in his words and meaning : he was never. 
 But where he meant to ruin, pitiful : 
 His promises were, as he then was, mighty ; 
 But his performance, as he now is, nothing : 
 Of his own body he was ill, and gave 
 The clergy ill example^ 
 
 Grif. Noble madam, 
 
 Men's evil manners live in brass ; their virtues 
 We write in water. May it please your Highness 
 To hear me speak his good now ? 
 
 Cath. Yes, good Griffith ; 
 
 I were malicious else. 
 
 Grif. This Cardinal, 
 
 Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly 
 Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle. 
 He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ; 
 
 familiar maner he subscribed, Your brother WilHam of Canterburie. With 
 which subscription he was so much offended, that he could not temper his 
 mood, but in high displeasure said that he would so worke within a while, 
 that he should well understand how he was his superiour, and not his 
 brother." — "Tithed all the kingdom " means took a tenth part, or, as we 
 should say, ten per cent., of all the income of the nation. Hall relates that 
 he once claimed from the citizens of London a tithe of their substance. 
 
 ' This speech was evidently founded upon the following, copied by Hol- 
 inshed from Hall : " This cardinall was of a great stomach, for he compted 
 himselfe equall with princes, and by craftie suggestion got into his hands 
 innumerable treasure : he forced little on simonie, and was not pittifull, and 
 stood affectionate in his own opinion : in open presence he would lie and 
 seie untruth, and was double both in speech and meaning: he would prom- 
 ise much and perform little : he was vicious of his bodie, and gave the clergie 
 evill example." 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 2I9 
 
 Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading : 
 Lofty and sour to them that loved him not ; 
 But to those men that sought him sweet as Summer, 
 And though he were unsatisfied in getting, — 
 Which was a sin, — yet in bestowing, madam, 
 He was most princely : ever witness for him 
 Those twins of learning that he raised in you, 
 Ipswich and Oxford ! one of which fell with him, 
 Unwilling to outlive the good that did it ; *^ 
 The other, though unfinish'd, yet so femous, 
 So excellent in art, and still so rising, 
 That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. 
 His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; 
 For then, and not till then, he felt himself. 
 And found the blessedness of being little : 
 And, to add greater honours to his age 
 Than man could give him, he died fearing God.^ 
 Cath. After my death I wish no other herald. 
 No other speaker of my living actions. 
 To keep mine honour from corruption, 
 
 8 This is commonly, perhaps rightly, explained to mean " the goodness 
 that founded it." See Critical Notes. 
 
 '^ This speech is formed on the following passage in Holinshed : "This 
 cardinall was a man undoubtedly born to honour ; exceeding wise, faire- 
 spoken, liigh-minded, full of revenge, vitious of his bodie ; loftie to his 
 enemies, were they never so big, to those that accepted and sought his 
 friendship wonderful courteous ; a ripe schooleman ; thrall to affections, 
 brought a-bed with flatterie ; insatiable to get, and more princelie in bestow- 
 ing; as appeareth by his two colleges at Ipswich and Oxenford, the one 
 overthrown with his fall, the other unfinished, and yet, as it lyeth, for an 
 house of studentes incomparable throughout Christendome. A great pre- 
 ferrer of his servants, an advauncer of learning, stoute in every quarrel, 
 never happy till this his overthrow ; wherein he shewed such moderation, 
 and ended so perfectlie, that the houre of his death did him more honour 
 than all the pomp of his life passed." 
 
220 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT iv. 
 
 But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. 
 
 Wliom I most hated living, thou hast made me, 
 
 With thy religious truth and modesty, 
 
 Now in his ashes honour : peace be with him ! — 
 
 Patience, be near me still ; and set me lower : 
 
 I have not long to trouble thee. — Good Griffith, 
 
 Cause the musicians play me that sad note 
 
 I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating 
 
 On that celestial harmony I go to. \_Sad and solemn music. 
 
 Grif. She is asleep : good wench, let's sit down quiet, 
 For fear we wake her : softly, gentle Patience. 
 
 The Vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six 
 Personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads gar- 
 lands of bays, and golden visards on their faces ; branches 
 of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto 
 her, then dance ; and, at certain changes, the first two hold 
 a spare garland over her head ; at which the other four 
 make reverent curtsies ; then the two that held the garland 
 deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same 
 order in their changes, and holding the garland over her 
 head : ivhich done, they deliver the sattie garland to the 
 last tivo, who liketvise observe the same order ; at which 
 {as it were by i?ispiration) she makes in her sleep signs of 
 rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven : and so in 
 their dancing they vanish, carrying the garland with them. 
 The fnusic cofitinues. 
 
 Cath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all gone. 
 And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye ? 
 
 Grif. Madam, we're here. 
 
 Cath. It is not you I call for : 
 
 Saw ye none enter since I slept ? 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 221 
 
 Grif. None, madam. 
 
 Cath. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop 
 Invite me to a banquet ; whose bright faces 
 Cast thousand beams upon me, Hke the Sun? 
 They promised me eternal happiness ; 
 And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel 
 I am not worthy yet to wear : I shall. 
 Assuredly. 
 
 Grif. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams 
 Possess your fancy. 
 
 Cath. Bid the music leave ; 
 
 They're harsh and heavy to me. \_Music ceases. 
 
 Pat. \_Aside to Grif.] Do you note 
 
 How much her Grace is alter'd on the sudden ? 
 How long her face is drawn ? how pale she looks. 
 And of an earthy colour ? Mark her eyes ! 
 
 Grif. \_Aside to Pat.] She's going, wench : pray, pray. 
 
 Pat. \Aside to Grif.] Heaven comfort her ! 
 
 E7iter a Messenger. 
 
 Mess. An't hke your Grace, — 
 
 Cath. You are a saucy fellow : 
 
 Deserve we no more reverence? 
 
 Grif. You're to blame. 
 
 Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness. 
 To use so rude behaviour : ^^ go to, kneel. 
 
 Mess. I humbly do entreat your Highness' pardon ; 
 
 1" Queen Catharine's servants, after the divorce at Dunstable, were di- 
 rected to be sworn to serve her not as queen but ■xs, princess dowager. Some 
 refused to take the oath, and so were forced to leave her service ; and as for 
 those who took it and stayed, she would not be served by them, by which 
 means she was almost destitute of attendants. 
 
222 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. act IV. 
 
 My haste made me unmannerly. There's staying 
 A gentleman, sent from the King, to see you. 
 
 Cath. Admit him entrance, Griffith : but this fellow- 
 Let me ne'er see again. — [^ar//;// Griffith and Messenger. 
 
 Re-e7iter Griffith, with Capucius. 
 
 If my sight fail not. 
 You should be lord ambassador from th' Emperor, 
 My royal nephew, and your name Capucius. 
 
 Cap. Madam, the same ; your servant. 
 
 Cath. O my lord, 
 
 The times and titles now are alter'd strangely 
 With me since first )ou knew me. But, I pray you. 
 What is your pleasure with me ? 
 
 Cap. Noble lady, 
 
 First, mine own service to your Grace ; the next, 
 The King's request that I would visit you ; 
 Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me 
 Sends you his princely commendations. 
 And heartily entreats you take good comfort. 
 
 Cath. O my good lord, that comfort comes too late ; 
 'Tis like a pardon after execution : 
 That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me ; 
 But now I'm past all comforts here, but prayers. 
 How does his Highness ? 
 
 Cap. Madam, in good health. 
 
 Cath. So may he ever do ! and ever flourish. 
 When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name 
 Banish'd the kingdom ! — Patience, is that letter, 
 I caused you write, yet sent away ? 
 
 Pat. No, madam. 
 
 \Giiving it to Catharine. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 223 
 
 Cath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver 
 This to my lord the King ; — 
 
 Cap. Most willing, madam. 
 
 Cath. — In which I have commended to his goodness 
 The model i' of our chaste loves, his young daughter, — 
 The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her ! — 
 Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding ; — 
 She's young, and of a noble modest nature ; 
 I hope she will deserve well ; • — • and a little 
 To love her for her mother's sake, that loved him. 
 Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition 
 Is, that his noble Grace would have some pity 
 Upon my wretched women, that so long 
 Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully : 
 Of which there is not one, I dare avow, — 
 And now I should not lie, — but will deserve, 
 For virtue and true beauty of the soul, 
 For honesty and decent carriage, 
 A right good husband, let him be a noble ; i^ 
 And, sure, those men are happy that shall have 'em. 
 The last is, for my men ; — they are o' the poorest, 
 But poverty could never draw 'em from me ; — 
 That they may have their wages duly paid 'em, 
 And something over to remember me by : 
 If Heaven had pleased t' have given me longer life 
 And abler means, we had not parted thus. 
 These are the whole contents. ^^ And, good my lord, 
 
 11 Model here means linage or representation. An old usage. 
 
 12 Even though he be a nobleman. 
 
 li* Here is the letter, as given by Lord Herbert : " My most dear lord, 
 king, and husband : The hour of my death now approaching, I cannot 
 choose but, out of the love I bear you, advise you of your soul's health, 
 
2 24 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT IV. 
 
 By that you love the dearest in this world, 
 As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, 
 Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the King 
 To do me this last right. 
 
 Cap. By Heaven, I will. 
 
 Or let me lose the fashion of a man ! 
 
 Cath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me 
 In all humility unto his Highness : 
 Say to him his long trouble now is passing 
 Out of this world ; tell him, in death I bless'd him, 
 For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, 
 My lord. — Griffith, farewell. — Nay, Patience, 
 You must not leave me yet : I must to bed ; 
 Call in more women. When Fm dead, good wench, 
 Let me be used with honour : strew me over 
 With maiden flowers,^'* tliat all the world may know 
 I was a chaste wife to my grave : embalm me. 
 Then lay me forth ; although unqueen'd, yet like 
 A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. 
 I can no more. \_Exeunt, leading Catharine. 
 
 which you ought to prefer before all considerations of the world or flesh 
 whatsoever, for which yet you have cast me into many calamities, and your- 
 self into many troubles. But I forgive you all, and pray God to do so like- 
 wise. For the rest, I commend unto you Mary, our daughter, beseeching 
 you to be a good father to her, as I have hitherto desired. I must entreat 
 you also to respect my maids, and give tliem in marriage (which is not much, 
 they being but three), and to my other servants a year's pay besides their 
 due, lest otherwise they should be unprovided for. Lastly, I make this vow, 
 that mine eyes desire you above all things. Farewell." 
 
 i< At the burial of maidens, it was the custom to scatter flowers in the 
 grave. So at the burial of Ophelia, in Hamlet, v. i : " She is allow'd her 
 virgin crants, her maiden strewments" ; and the Queen strews flowers, with 
 the words, " I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, and not 
 have strew'd thy grave." 
 
KING HENRV THE EIGHTH. 
 
 225 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — London. A Gallery in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Gardiner, Bishop ^t/" Winchester, a Page with a torch 
 before him. 
 
 Gard. It's one o'clock, boy, is't not? 
 
 Boy. It hath struck. 
 
 Gard. These should be hours for necessities, 
 Not for delights ; ' times to repair our nature 
 With comforting repose, and not for us 
 To waste these times. — 
 
 E^iier Sir Thomas Lovell. 
 
 Good hour of night. Sir Thomas ! 
 Whither so late ? 
 
 Lov. Came you from the King, my lord ? 
 
 Gard. I did. Sir Thomas ; and left him at primero^ 
 With the Duke of Suffolk. 
 
 Lov. I must to him too. 
 
 Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave. 
 
 Gard. Not yet. Sir Thomas Lovell. What's the matter ' 
 It seems you are in haste : an if there be 
 No great offence belongs to't, give your friend 
 
 1 Gardiner himself is not much delighted. The delights at which he hints 
 seem to be the King's diversions, which keep him in attendance. 
 
 2 Primero, or prime, supposed to be the most ancient game of cards In 
 England, was very fashionable in Shakespeare's time. 
 
226 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT v. 
 
 Some touch of your late business : ^ affairs that walk — 
 As they say spirits do — at midnight have 
 In them a wilder nature than the business 
 That seeks dispatch by day. 
 
 Lov. My lord, I love you ; 
 
 And durst commend a secret to your ear 
 Much weightier than this work. The Queen's in labour, 
 They say, in great extremity ; and fear'd 
 She'll with the labour end. 
 
 Gard. The fruit she goes with 
 
 I pray for heartily, that it may find 
 Good time, and live \ but, for the stock, Sir Thomas, 
 I wish it grubb'd up now. 
 
 Lov. Methinks I could 
 
 Cry the amen ; and yet my conscience says 
 She's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does 
 Deserve our better wishes. 
 
 Gard. But, sir, sir, — 
 
 Hear me. Sir Thomas : you're a gentleman 
 Of mine own way ;'' I know you wise, religious ; 
 And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well, — 
 'Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take't of me, — 
 Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she. 
 Sleep in their graves. 
 
 Lov. Now, sir, you speak of two 
 
 The most remark'd i' the kingdom. As for Cromwell, 
 Besides that of the jewel-house, he's made Master 
 O' the Rolls,^ and the King's secretary ; further, sir, 
 
 8 "Some touch of your late business" is explained by Johnson, "Some 
 hint of the business that keeps you awake so late." 
 ■* My own way of thinking in religion. 
 6 The Master of the Rolls is the officer who has charge of the patents and 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 227 
 
 Stands in the gap and trade ^ of more preferments, 
 With which the time will load him. Th' Archbishop 
 Is the King's hand and tongue ; and who dare speak 
 One syllable against him? 
 
 Gard. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, 
 
 There are that dare ; and I myself have ventured 
 To speak my mind of him : and, indeed, this day — 
 Sir, I may tell it you, I think — I have 
 Incensed ^ the lords o' the Council that he is — 
 For so I know he is, they know he is — 
 A most arch heretic, a pestilence 
 That does infect the land : with which they moved 
 Have broken with the King ; ^ who hath so far 
 Given ear to our complaint, — of his great grace 
 And princely care, foreseeing those fell mischiefs 
 Our reasons laid before him, — 'hath commanded 
 To-morrow morning to the Council-board 
 He be convented.^ He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas, 
 
 other instruments that have passed the great seal, and of the records of the 
 chancery; while, again, the chancery is the court of the Lord Chancellor, to 
 decide cases of equity, the highest court of judicature in England next to 
 Parliament. — "Besides that of the jewel-house" is besides the mastership 
 of the jewels and other ornaments belonging to the crown. 
 
 6 Trade is, in general, a road or way ; that which is trodden. So in 
 Udal's Apothegms : "Although it repent them of the trade or way that they 
 have chosen." So that the gap and trade means simply the open road, or 
 free course. 
 
 T Incensed or insensed in this instance, and in some others, only means 
 instructed, informed: still used in Staffordshire. It properly signifies to 
 infuse into the mind, to prompt or instigate. " Invidise stimulo mentes Patrum 
 fodit Saturnia : Juno incenseth the senators' minds with secret envy against." 
 — Cooper. 
 
 8 Have broken or opened the subject to him. Often so. 
 
 9 Convented is summoned or cited to meet his accusers. The word was 
 much used in reference to trials under charges of heresy. 
 
228 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V. 
 
 And we must root him out. From your affairs 
 I hinder you too long : good night, Sir Thomas. 
 
 Lov. Many good nights, my lord : I rest your servant. 
 
 \_Exetmt Gardiner and Page. 
 
 As LovELL is going out, enter the King and the Duke of 
 Suffolk. 
 
 King. Charles, I will play no more to-night ; 
 My mind's not on't ; you are too hard for me. 
 
 Suf. Sir, I did never win of you before. 
 
 King. But little, Charles ; 
 Nor shall not, when my fancy's on my play. — • 
 Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news? 
 
 Lov. I could not personally deliver to her 
 What you commanded me, but by her woman 
 I sent your message ; who return'd her thanks 
 In the great'st humbleness, and desired your Highness 
 Most heartily to pray for her. 
 
 King. What say'st thou, ha? 
 
 To pray for her ? what, is she crying out ? 
 
 Lov. So said her woman ; and that her sufferance made 
 Almost each pang a death. 
 
 King. Alas, good lady ! 
 
 Suf. God safely quit i" her of her burden, and 
 With gentle travail, to the gladding of 
 Your Highness with an heir ! 
 
 King. 'Tis midnight, Charles ; 
 
 Pr'ythee, to bed ; and in thy prayers remember 
 Th' estate of my poor Queen. Leave me alone ; 
 
 1* A rather peculiar use of quit, but meaning release or set free ; grant 
 her ease, rest, or quiet ; like the Latin quietus. 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 229 
 
 For I must think of that which company 
 Would not be friendly to. 
 
 Suf. I wish your Highness 
 
 A quiet night ; and my good mistress will 
 Remember in my prayers. 
 
 Ki7ig. Charles, good night. — 
 
 \_Exit Suffolk. 
 
 Enter Sir Anthony Denny. 
 
 Well, sir, what follows ? 
 
 Den. Sir, I have brought my lord the Archbishop, 
 As you commanded me. 
 
 King. Ha ! Canterbury ? 
 
 Den. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 King. 'Tis true : where is he, Denny? 
 
 Den. He attends your Highness' pleasure. 
 
 King. Bring him to us. 
 
 \_Exit Denny. 
 
 Lov. \_Aside.'\ This is about that which the bishop spake : 
 I'm happily 11 come hither. 
 
 Re-enter Denny, with Cranmer. 
 
 King. Avoid the gallery. [Lovell seems to stay^ Ha ! I 
 have said. Be gone. 
 What ! \_Exeunt Lovell and Denny. 
 
 Cran. \_Aside7\ I am fearful : wherefore frowns he 
 thus? 
 'Tis his aspect of terror. All's not well. 
 
 King. How now, my lord ! you do desire to know 
 Wherefore I sent for you. 
 
 11 Happily here means luckily, or opportunely ; as in page 140, note 2. 
 
230 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V. 
 
 Cran. \_Kneeling.'\ It is my duty 
 
 T' attend your Highness' pleasure. 
 
 Kifig. Pray you, arise, 
 
 My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. \He rises. 
 
 Come, you and I must walk a turn together ; 
 I've news to tell you : come, come, give me your hand. 
 Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, 
 And am right sorry to repeat what follows. 
 I have, and most unwillingly, of late 
 Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord. 
 Grievous complaints of you ; which, being consider'd, 
 Have moved us and our Council, that you shall 
 This morning come before us ; where, I know. 
 You cannot with such freedom purge yourself. 
 But that, till further trial in those charges 
 Which will require your answer, you must take 
 Your patience to you, and be well contented 
 To make your house our Tower : you a brother of us/^ 
 It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness 
 Would come against you. 
 
 Crafi. \_K7ieeli7ig.'\ I humbly thank your Highness ; 
 
 And am right glad to catch this good occasion 
 Most throughly to be winnow'd,i^ where my chaff 
 And corn shall fly asunder : for, I know. 
 There's none stands under more calumnious tongues 
 
 12 "You being one of the Council, it is necessary to imprison you, that 
 the witnesses against you may not be deterred." 
 
 13 Throughly and thoroughly, as also through and thorough, are used in- 
 terchangeably by our old writers : in fact, the two are but different forms of 
 the same word; as to be thorough in a thing is to go through it.- — Cran- 
 mer has in mind St. Matthew, iii. 12: "Whose fan is in his hand, and he 
 will throughly purge his floor, and gather his wheat into the garner ; but he 
 will burn up the chaff." 
 
SCENE I. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 23 1 
 
 Than I myself, poor man. 
 
 King. Stand up, good Canterbury : 
 
 Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted 
 In us, thy friend : give me thy hand, stand up : 
 Pr'ythee, let's walk. \_He rises^ Now, by my halidom,^"* 
 What manner of man are you ! My lord, I look'd 
 You would have given me your petition, that 
 I should have ta'en some pains to bring together 
 Yourself and your accusers ; and t' have heard you. 
 Without indurance,!^ further. 
 
 Cran. Most dread liege. 
 
 The good I stand on is my truth and honesty : 
 If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies, 
 Will triumph o'er my person ; which I weigh not, 
 Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing 
 What can be said against me. 
 
 King. Know you not 
 
 How your state stands i' the world, with the whole world? 
 Your enemies are many, and not small ; their practices 
 Must bear the same proportion ; and not ever ^^ 
 The justice and the truth o' the question carries 
 The due o' the verdict with it : at what ease 
 Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt 
 
 1* Halidom, says Minsheu, 1617, is " an old word used by old country- 
 women, by manner of swearing." According to Nares, it is composed of 
 holy and dom, like kingdom. So that the oath is much the same as "by my 
 faith." 
 
 15 Indurance is here used for imprisonment, or being put or held in durance. 
 The word is often used thus in the book whence the materials of this scene 
 are drawn. So, likewise, in Montagu's Appeal to Ccesar : " If they are not 
 beneficed, their indurance is the longer ; the punishment allotted is one whole 
 yeares imprisonment." 
 
 16 Not ever is uncommon, and means not always. See Aluch Ado, page 
 53, note 31. 
 
232 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT v. 
 
 To swear against you ! such things have been done. 
 You're potently opposed ; and with a maHce 
 Of as great size. Ween you of better kick, 
 I mean, in perjured witness', than your Master, 
 Whose minister you are, whiles here He lived 
 Upon this naughty Earth ? Go to, go to ; 
 You take a precipice for no leap of danger, 
 And woo your own destruction. 
 
 Cran. God and your Majesty 
 
 Protect mine innocence, or I fall into 
 The trap is laid for me ! 
 
 King. Be of good cheer ; 
 
 They shall no more prevail than we give way to. 
 Keep comfort to you ; and this morning see 
 You do appear before them. If they shall chance, 
 In charging you with matters, to commit you. 
 The best persuasions to the contrary 
 Fail not to use, and with what vehemency 
 Th' occasion shall instruct you : if entreaties 
 Will render you no remedy, this ring [ Giving ring. 
 
 Deliver them, and your appeal to us 
 There make before them. — Look, the good man weeps ! 
 He's honest, on mine honour. God's bless'd Mother ! 
 I swear he is true-hearted ; and a soul 
 None better in my kingdom. — Get you gone. 
 And do as I have bid you. \_Exit Cran.] — He has strangled 
 His language in his tears. 
 
 Enter old Lady 
 
 Ge7it. \_Within7\ Come back : what mean you? 
 Old L. I'll not come back ; the tidings that I bring 
 Will make my boldness manners. — Now, good angels 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRV THE EIGHTH. 233 
 
 Fly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person 
 Under their blessed wings ! 
 
 King. Now, by thy looks 
 
 I guess thy message. Is the Queen deliver'd? 
 Say ay ; and of a boy. 
 
 Old L. Ay, ay, my liege ; 
 
 And of a lovely boy : the God of Heaven 
 Both now and ever bless her ! — 'tis a girl, 
 Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your Queen 
 Desires your visitation, and to be 
 Acquainted with this stranger : 'tis as like you 
 As cherry is to cherry. 
 
 King. Lovell ! 
 
 Re-enter Lovell. 
 
 Lov. Sir ? 
 
 King. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the Queen. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Old L. An hundred marks ! By this light, I'll ha' more. 
 An ordinary groom is for such payment. 
 I will have more, or scold it out of him. 
 Said I for this, the girl was like to him ? 
 I will have more, or else unsay't ; and now. 
 While it is hot, I'll put it to the issue. [Exeunt 
 
 Scene II. — Lobby before the Council- Chamber. 
 
 Enter Cranmer ; Servants, Door-keeper, &•€., attending. 
 
 Cran. I hope I'm not too late ; and yet the gentleman. 
 That was sent to me from the Council, pray'd me 
 To make great haste. — All fast ? what means this ? — Ho ! 
 
2 34 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V 
 
 Who waits there ? — Sure, you know me ? 
 
 D. Keep. Yes, my lord ; 
 
 But yet I cannot help you. 
 
 Cran. Why? 
 
 D. Keep. Your Grace must wait till you be call'd for. 
 
 Enter Doctor Butts. 
 Cran. So 
 
 Biitts. [AstWe.^ This is a piece of malice. I am glad 
 
 I came this way so happily : the King 
 
 Shall understand it presently. 
 
 Cran. \_Aside.'\ 'Tis Butts, 
 
 The King's physician : as he pass'd along, 
 
 How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me ! 
 
 Pray Heaven, he sound ^ not my disgrace ! For certain, 
 
 This is of purpose laid by some that hate me — 
 
 God turn their hearts ! I never sought their malice — 
 
 To quench mine honour : they would shame to make me 
 
 Wait else at door, a fellow-counsellor, 
 
 Among boys, grooms, and lacqueys. But their pleasures 
 
 Must be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience. 
 
 The King afid Butts appear at a window above? 
 Butts. I'll show your Grace the strangest sight, — 
 
 1 To sound, as the word is here used, is to report, or noise abroad. 
 
 2 The suspicious vigilance of our ancestors contrived windows which 
 overlooked the insides of chapels, halls, kitchens, passages, &c. Some of 
 these convenient peepholes may still be seen in colleges, and such ancient 
 houses as have not suffered from the reformations of modern architecture. In 
 a letter from Matthew Parker, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1573, printed in 
 Seward's Anecdotes : " And if it please her majestie, she may come in through 
 my gallerie, and see the disposition of the hall in dynner time, a/ a window 
 opening thereintoy 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 235 
 
 King. What's that, Butts ? 
 
 Butts. — I think, your Highness saw this many a day. 
 
 King. Body o' me, where is it? 
 
 Butts. There, my lord : 
 
 The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury ; 
 Who holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants, 
 Pages, and footboys. 
 
 King. Ha ! 'tis he, indeed : 
 
 Is this the honour they do one another ? 
 'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought 
 They had parted"' so much honesty among 'em — 
 At least, good manners — as not thus to suffer 
 A man of his place, and so near our favour, 
 To dance attendance on their lordships' pleasures, 
 And at the door too, like a post with packets. 
 By holy Mary, Butts, there's knavery : 
 Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close ; ■* 
 We shall hear more anon. [^Curtain drawn. 
 
 The Council-Chamber.^ 
 
 Enter the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Suffolk, the Duke 
 ^Norfolk, EariofSiUKKEN, Z^r^ Chamberlain, Gardiner, 
 and Cromwell. The Chancellor places himself at the 
 upper end of the table on the left hand ; a seat being left 
 void above him, as for the Archbishop ^Canterbury. Tlie 
 
 * Parted, here, is shared. 
 
 ■* The curtain of the balcony or upper stage, where the King now is. 
 
 * Here the audience had to suppose or imagine a change of scene, namely, 
 from the Lobby before the Council-chamber to the interior of the same. In 
 the Poet's time, people were contented to be told that the same spot, with, 
 perhaps, some slight changes of furniture, or the drawing of a curtain, was 
 at once the outside and the inside of the Council-chamber. 
 
236 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V. 
 
 rest seat themselves in order on each side. Cromwell at 
 the lower end, as Secretary. 
 
 Chan. Speak to the business, master secretary : 
 Why are we met in Council? 
 
 Crom. Please your honours, 
 
 The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury. 
 
 Gard. Has he had knowledge of it ? 
 
 Crom. Yes. 
 
 Nor. Who waits there ? 
 
 D. Keep. Without, my noble lords ? 
 
 Gard. Yes. 
 
 D. Keep. My lord Archbishop ; 
 
 And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. 
 
 Chan. Let him come in. 
 
 D. Keep. Your Grace may enter now. 
 
 [Cranmer approaches the Council-table. 
 
 Chan. My good lord Archbishop, I'm very sorry 
 To sit here at this present, and beliold 
 That chair stand empty : but we all are men. 
 In our own natures frail, and capable 
 Of our flesh ; ^ few are angels : out of which frailty 
 And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us. 
 Have misdemean'd yourself, and not a little. 
 Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling 
 
 8 A very troublesome passage. Steevens explains it, " While they are 
 capable of being invested with flesh " ; Staunton, "Susceptible of fleshly 
 temptations " ; Singer, " Susceptible of the failings inherent in humanity." In 
 Hamlet, iv. 4, Ophelia is said to be " as one incapable of her own distress." 
 Here incapable plainly means unconscious. See, also, Richard III., p. 95, n. 
 3. So, in the text, I suspect capable has the sense of conscious. So that the 
 meaning would seem to be, " In our own natures frail, and conscious of our 
 frailty" or of our carnal will and tendency. Cranmer is charged with 
 heresy, and heresy was regarded as a work of the flesh. See Critical Notes. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 23/ 
 
 The whole reahii, by your teaching and your chaplains, — 
 For so we are inform'd, — with new opinions, 
 Divers and dangerous ; which are heresies. 
 And, not reform'd, may prove pernicious. 
 
 Gard. Which reformation must be sudden too, 
 My noble lords ; for those that tame wild horses 
 Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle, 
 But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur 'em. 
 Till they obey the manage. If we suffer — 
 Out of our easiness, and childish pity 
 To one man's honour — this contagious sickness. 
 Farewell all physic : and what follows then ? 
 Commotions, uproars, with a general taint 
 Of the whole State ; as, of late days, our neighbours, 
 The upper Germany,'^ can dearly witness. 
 Yet freshly pitied in our memories. 
 
 Cran. My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress 
 Both of my life and office, I have labour'd. 
 And with no little study, that my teaching 
 And the strong course of my authority 
 Might go one way, and safely ; and the end 
 Was ever, to do well : nor is there living -^. 
 I speak it with a single heart, my lords — 
 A man that more detests, more stirs against, 
 Both in his private conscience and his place, 
 
 ■^ Alluding to the monstrous fanaticisms that ran wild in Thuringia, under 
 the leading of Thomas Muncer, in 1521. Hooker, in his Preface, says of 
 them, "When they and their Bibles were alone together, what strange fan- 
 tastical opinion soever at any time entered into their heads, their use was to 
 think the Spirit taught it them." At length they got so bewitched or be- 
 devilled with special licentious revelations, that the Elector of Saxony had 
 to take them in hand with a military force. 
 
238 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V 
 
 Defacers of the public peace, than I do. 
 
 Pray Heaven, the King may never find a heart 
 
 With less allegiance in it ! Men that make 
 
 Envy and crooked malice nourishment 
 
 Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships 
 
 That, in this case of justice, my accusers, 
 
 Be what they will, may stand forth face to face, 
 
 And freely urge against me. 
 
 Si^f. Nay, my lord, 
 
 That cannot be : you are a counsellor, 
 And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you. 
 
 Gard. My lord, because we've business of more moment, 
 We will be short with you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure, 
 And our consent, for better trial of you. 
 From hence you be committed to the Tower ; 
 Where, being but a private man again, 
 You shall know many dare accuse you boldly. 
 More than, I fear, you are provided for. 
 
 Crafi. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you ; 
 You're always my good friend : if your will pass, 
 I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, 
 You are so merciful. I see your end ; 
 'Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord, 
 Become a churchman better than ambition : 
 Win straying souls with modesty^ again ; 
 Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, 
 Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, 
 I make as little doubt, as you do conscience 
 In doing daily wrongs. I could say more. 
 But reverence to your calling makes me modest. 
 
 8 Modesty in its old sense of moderation ; that is, mildness or gentleness. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 239 
 
 Gard. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary. 
 That's the plain truth : your painted gloss discovers. 
 To men that understand you, words and weakness.^ 
 
 Crom. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little. 
 By your good favour, too sharp ; men so noble. 
 However faulty, yet should find respect 
 For what they have been : 'tis a cruelty 
 To load a falling man. 
 
 Gard. Good master secretary, 
 
 I cry your Honour mercy ; you may, worst 
 Of all this table, say so. 
 
 Cro7?i. Why, my lord? 
 
 Gard. Do not I know you for a favourer 
 Of this new sect? ye are not sound. 
 
 Crom. Not sound? 
 
 Gard. Not sound, I say. 
 
 CrofH. Would you were half so honest ! 
 
 Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears. 
 
 Gard. I shall remember this bold language. 
 
 Crom. Do. 
 
 Remember your bold life too. 
 
 Chan. This is too much : 
 
 Forbear, for shame, my lords. 
 
 Gard. I've done. 
 
 Crom. And I. 
 
 Chan. Then thus for you, my lord : It stands agreed, 
 I take it, by all voices, that forthwith 
 You be convey'd to th' Tower a prisoner ; 
 
 8 "Those that understand you discover, beneath \!m!, painted gloss ox fair 
 outside, nothing but empty talk and false reasoning." To gloss or to gloze 
 was often used in the sense of to explain away, or to dress up in plausibili- 
 ties. See King Henry the Fifth, page 46, note 7. 
 
240 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V 
 
 There to remain till the King's further pleasure 
 Be known unto us : — are you all agreed, lords ? 
 
 All. We are. 
 
 Crafi. Is there no other way of mercy, 
 
 But I must needs to th' Tower, my lords ? 
 
 Gard. What other 
 
 Would you expect? you're strangely troublesome. — 
 Let some o' the guard be ready there ! 
 Enter Guard. 
 
 Cra7i. For me ? 
 
 Must I go like a traitor thither? 
 
 Gard. Receive him, 
 
 And see him sa.'e i' the Tower. 
 
 Cran. Stay, good my lords, 
 
 I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords : 
 By virtue of that ring I take my cause \_Showing ring. 
 
 Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it 
 To a most noble judge, the King my master. 
 
 Chan. This is the King's ring.^^ 
 
 Sitr. 'Tis no counterfeit. 
 
 Siif. 'Tis the right ring, by Heaven ! I told ye all. 
 When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling, 
 'Twould fall upon ourselves. 
 
 Nor. Do you think, my lords, 
 
 1" It seems to have been a custom, begun probably before the regal 
 power came under legal limitations, for every monarch to have a ring, the 
 temporary possession of which invested the holder with the same authority 
 as the owner himself could exercise. The production of it was sufficient to 
 suspend the execution of the law; it procured indemnity for offences com- 
 mitted, and imposed acquiescence and submission to whatever was done 
 under its authority. The traditional story of the Earl of Essex, Queen Eliz- 
 abeth, and the Countess of Nottingham, long considered as an incident of a 
 romance J is generally known, and now as generally credited. 
 
SCENE II. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 24I 
 
 The King will suffer but the little finger 
 Of this man to be vex'd ? 
 
 Chan. 'Tis now too certain : 
 
 How much more is his life in value with him ! 
 Would I were fairly out on't ! 
 
 Crom. My mind gave me, 
 
 In seeking tales and informations 
 Against this man, — whose honesty the Devil 
 And his disciples only envy at, — 
 Ye blew the fire that burns ye : now have at ye ! 
 
 Enter the 'Kmg, frowning on them ; he takes his seat. 
 
 Gard. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to 
 
 Heaven 
 In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince ! 
 Not only good and wise, but most religious ; 
 One that, in all obedience, makes the Church 
 The chief aim of his honour ; and, to strengthen 
 That holy duty, out of dear respect, 
 His royal self in judgment comes to hear 
 The cause betwixt her and this great offender. 
 
 King. You were ever good at sudden commendations, 
 Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not 
 To hear such flatteries now ; and in my presence 
 They are too thin and bare to hide offences. 
 To me, you cannot reach, you play the spaniel,^^ 
 And think with wagging of your tongue to win me ; 
 But, whatsoe'er thou takest me for, I'm sure 
 Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. — 
 \_To Cramner.] Good man, sit down. Now let me see the 
 
 proudest, 
 
 11 " To me, whom you cannot reach, you play the spaniel." 
 
242 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V. 
 
 He that dares most, but wag his finger at thee : 
 
 By all that's holy, he had better starve 
 
 Than but once think tliis place becomes thee not. 
 
 Si/r. May't please your Grace, — 
 
 King. No, sir, it does not please me. 
 
 I had thought I had men of some understanding 
 And wisdom of my Council ; but I find none. 
 Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, 
 This good man, — few of you deserve that title, 
 This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy 
 At chamber-door? and one as great as you are? 
 Why, what a shame was this ! Did my commission 
 Bid ye so far forget yourselves ? I gave ye 
 Power as he was a counsellor to try him, 
 Not as a groom : there's some of ye, I see, 
 More out of malice than integrity. 
 Would try him to the utmost, had ye means ; 
 Which ye shall ne'er have while I live. 
 
 Chan. Thus far. 
 
 My most dread sovereign, may it like your Grace 
 To let my tongue excuse all : What was purposed 
 Concerning his imprisonment, was rather — 
 If there be faith in men — meant for his trial. 
 And fair purgation to the world, than malice ; 
 I'm sure, in me. 
 
 King. Well, well, my lords, respect him ; 
 
 Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it. 
 I will say thus much for him : If a prince 
 May be beholding to a subject, I 
 Am, for his love and service, so to him. 
 Make me no more ado, but all embrace him : 
 Be friends, for shame, my lords ! — My Lord of Canterbury, 
 
KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 243 
 
 I have a suit which you must not deny me : 
 There is a fair young maid that yet wants baptism ; 
 You must be godfather, and answer for her. 
 
 Cran. The greatest monarch now ahve may glory 
 In such an honour : how may I deserve it, 
 That am a poor and humble subject to you ? 
 
 King. Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your spoons : ^^ 
 you shall have two noble partners with you ; the old Duchess 
 of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dorset : will these please 
 you? — 
 
 Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, 
 Embrace and love this man. 
 
 Gard. With a true heart 
 
 And brother-love I do it. 
 
 Cran. And let Heaven 
 
 Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation. 
 
 King. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart : 
 The common voice, I see, is verified 
 Of thee, which says thus, Do my Lord of Canterbury 
 A shrewd furn}^ and he is your friend for ever. — 
 Come, lords, we trifle time away ; I long 
 
 12 It was an ancient custom for the sponsors at christenings to offer silver 
 or silver-gilt spoons as a present to the child. The ancient offerings upon 
 such occasions were called Apostle-spoons, because the extremity of the han- 
 dle was formed into the figure of one or other of the Apostles. Such as 
 were opulent and generous gave the whole hvelve ; those who were more 
 moderately rich or liberal, escaped at the expense of the four Evangelists; 
 or even sometimes contented themselves with presenting one spoon only, 
 which exhibited the figure of any saint in honour of whom tha child re- 
 ceived its name. 
 
 13 " A shrewd turn " is an unkind turn, or a sharp one ; such being the 
 proper sense oi shrewd. The King has in mind the injunction, "love your 
 enemies," and means a delicate compliment to Cranmer as acting in accord- 
 ance with that divine precept. 
 
244 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V. 
 
 To have this young one made a Christian. 
 
 As I have made ye one, lords, one remain ; 
 
 So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. \Exeuni. 
 
 Scene III. — The Palace- Yard. 
 Noise and tumult 7vithm. Enter a Porter afid his Man. 
 
 Fort. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals : do you 
 take the Court for Paris-garden ? ^ ye rude slaves, leave your 
 gaping.2 
 
 [ Within.'] Good master porter, I belong to the larder. 
 
 Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hang'd, ye rogue ! is 
 this a place to roar in? — Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, 
 and strong ones : these are but switches to 'em. — I'll scratch 
 your heads : you must be seeing christenings ! do you look 
 for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals ? 
 
 Man. Pray, sir, be patient : 'tis as much impossible — 
 Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons — 
 To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep 
 On May-day morning ; "^ which will never be : 
 We may as well push against Paul's as stir 'em. 
 
 Port. How got they in, and be hang'd ? 
 
 Man. Alas, I know not ; how gets the tide in ? 
 
 1 This celebrated bear-garden, on the Bankside, was so called from Robert 
 de Paris, who had a house and garden there in the time of King Richard II. 
 In Shakespeare's time it was noted for tumult and disorder, and was often 
 alluded to by the writers of that day, as a place where bears, bulls, and 
 horses were baited. 
 
 2 That is, shouting or roaring ; a sense the word has now lost. Littleton, 
 in his Dictionary, has " To gape or bawl : vociferor." 
 
 3 Anciently the first of May was observed by all classes of Englishmen as 
 a holiday. See A Midsummer, page 30, note 22. 
 
SCENE III. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 245 
 
 As much as one sound cudgel of four foot — 
 You see the poor remainder — could distribute, 
 I made no spare, sir. 
 
 Port. You did nothing, sir. 
 
 Man. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,^ 
 To mow 'em down before me : but if I spared any 
 That had a head to hit, either young or old, 
 Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again ; 
 And that I would not for my cow, God save her ! ^ 
 
 \_Wiihin^^ Do you hear, master porter? 
 
 Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. 
 — Keep the door close, sirrah. 
 
 Man. What would you have me do? 
 
 Port. What should you do, but knock 'em down by the 
 dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in?** or have we some 
 strange Indian come to Court, the women so besiege us? 
 Bless me, what a fry is at door ! 
 
 Man. There is a fellow somewhat near the door ; he should 
 
 •* Sir Guy of Warwick and Colbrand the Danish giant were famous char- 
 acters in some of the old romances. The story was that Sir Guy subdued 
 the giant at Winchester. 
 
 5 That is, " I would not miss seeing a chine again." A chine of beef \% the 
 article meant, whicli seems to have been held in special honour among the 
 riches of an English table. So in Peele's play. The Old Wives' Tale : " A 
 chine of English Beef, meal for a king." Staunton observes that " the ex- 
 pression, ' my cow, God save her!" or ' my mare, God save her!' or 'my 
 sow, God bless her ! ' seems to have been proverbial ; thus, in Greene and 
 Lodge's Looking -Glass for Lo?tdon, 1598 : ' My blind mare, God bless her ! ' " 
 He also shows that the expression " God save her I " applied to any beast, 
 was regarded as a charm against witchcraft. So in Scot's Discovery of 
 Witchcraft : " You shall hear a butcher or horse-courser cheapen a bullock 
 or a jade, but, if he buy him not, he saith God save him ; if he do forget it, 
 and the horse or bullock chance to die, the fault is imputed to the chap- 
 man." — See Critical Notes. 
 
 « The trained bands of the city were exercised in Moorfields. 
 
246 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT V. 
 
 be a brazier^ by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the 
 dog-days now reign in's nose : all that stand about him are un- 
 der the line ; ® they need no other penance. That fire-drake ^ 
 did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose 
 discharged against me : he stands there, Hke a mortar-piece, 
 to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit 
 near him, that rail'd upon me till her pink'd porringer 1° fell 
 off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the State. I 
 miss'd the meteoric once, and hit that woman, who cried 
 out Clubs ! •^ when I might see from far some forty trun- 
 cheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o' the 
 Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on ; I made 
 good my place : at length they came to the broomstaff with 
 me : I defied 'em still ; when suddenly a file of boys behind 
 'em, loose shot,!^ deliver'd such a shower of pebbles, that I 
 
 ■^ A brazier signifies a man that manufactures brass, and also a reservoir 
 for charcoal occasionally heated to convey warmth. Both these senses are 
 understood. 
 
 8 Under the equator, where the heat is somewhat. 
 
 ^ " Fire-drake ; a. fire sometimes seen flying in the night Y\\i& ■& dragon. 
 Common people think it a spirit that keepeth some treasure hid ; but philos- 
 ophers affirme it to be a great unequal exhalation inflamed betweene two 
 clouds, the one hot the other cold, which is the reason that it also smoketh ; 
 the middle part whereof, according to the proportion of the hot cloud, being 
 greater than the rest, maketh it seeme like a bellie, and both ends like unto 
 a head and taile." — Bullokar'S Expositor, 1616. t^ fire-drake appears to 
 have been also an ?Li\\^Q\diX firework. 
 
 1" Her pink'd cap, which looked as if it had been moulded on a porringer. 
 So in the The Taming of the Shrew, iv. 4 : 
 
 Hab. Here is the cap your Worship did bespeak. 
 Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer. 
 
 11 The meteor is the brazier aforesaid. 
 
 12 Among the London apprentices, " clubs ! clubs ! " was a common cry 
 to the rescue. See As You Like It, page 126, note 4. 
 
 1* That is, loose or random shooters. 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 247 
 
 was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the work : ^'^ 
 the Devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely. 
 
 Por/. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, 
 and fight for bitten apples ; that no audience, but the Tribu- 
 lation of Tower-hill, or the Limbs of Limehouse, their dear 
 brothers, are able to endure.'^ I have some of 'em in Limbo 
 Patrum}^ and there they are like to dance these three days ; 
 besides the running banquet '^'' of two beadles that is to come. 
 
 Enter the Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 Cham. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here ! 
 They grow still too : from all parts they are coming, 
 As if we kept a fair here ! Where are these porters, 
 These lazy knaves? — Ye've made a fine hand, fellows; 
 There's a trim rabble let in : are all these 
 Your faithful friends o' the suburbs ? We shall have 
 Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, 
 When they pass back from the christening. 
 
 1* The work is the /or/ress, the place they are besieging or assaulting. 
 
 16 The object-matter of these allusions has been variously disputed, and 
 much learned rubbish has been gathered about them. The best explanation, 
 it seems to me, is that of Dyce, who regards it as a " fling at the affected 
 meekness of the Puritans." He adds, " ' The Tribulation of Tower-hill ' 
 evidently means some particular set or meeting of Puritans, and the ' Limbs 
 of Limehouse, their dear brothers,' another set." Limbs of course means 
 members. In Ben Jonson's Alchemist, one of the characters is " Tribulation 
 Wholesome, a Pastor of Amsterdam." It is well known how cordially the 
 Puritans hated plays and theatres. Knight asks, " Is it not that the Puri- 
 tans, hating playhouses, approved of the uproar of those who ' fight for 
 bitten apples,' because it disturbed those that came to hear ? " 
 
 16 That is, in confinement. In limbo continues to be a cant phrase in the 
 same sense to this day. The Limbus Patrum is, properly, the place where 
 the old fathers and patriarchs are supposed to be waiting for the resurrec- 
 tion. 
 
 1'' A public whipping. A banquet here is used for a dessert. To the con- 
 finement of these rioters a whipping was to be the dessert. 
 
248 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT v. 
 
 Port. An't please your Honour, 
 
 We are but men ; and what so many may do, 
 Not being torn a-pieces, we have done : 
 An army cannot rule 'em. 
 
 Cham. As I live, 
 
 If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all 
 By th' heels,^^ and suddenly ; and on your heads 
 Clap round fines for neglect : ye're lazy knaves ; 
 And here ye lie baiting of bombards,!^ when 
 Ye should do service. Hark ! the trumpets sound ; 
 They're come already from the christening. 
 Go, break among the press, and find a way out 
 To let the troop pass fairly ; or I'll find 
 A Marshalsea ^*' shall hold ye play these two months. 
 
 Port. Make way there for the Princess ! 
 
 Mati. You great fellow, stand close up, or I'll make your 
 head ache ! 
 
 Port. You i' the camlet, get up off the rail ; I'll pick^i you 
 o'er the pales else 1 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene lY. — The Palace. 
 
 Enter trumpets, sounding ; then tivo Aldermen, Lord Mayor, 
 Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk 7vith his Marshal's 
 staff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great 
 
 18 Lord Campbell tells us that "to lay by the heels was the technical ex- 
 pression for committing to prison." See 2 Henry IV., page 70, note 18. 
 
 19 A bombard or biimbard was a large leathern jack for holding liquor. 
 2" Marshahea was the name of one of the prisons in London. 
 
 21 Pick and Peck appear to have been both of them old forms of pitch. 
 ThusBaret: "To picke or cast." And Stubhes in his Anatomy 0/ Abuses : 
 " To catch him on the hip, and picke him on his necke." 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 249 
 
 standing-bowls "^ for the christening-gifts ; then four Noble- 
 men beari7ig a canopy, under which the Duchess of Nor- 
 folk, godmother, bearing the Child richly habited in a 
 mantle, ^'c, train borne by a Lady ; then follows the 
 Marchiojiess of Dorset, the other Godtiiother, and Ladies. 
 The troop pass once about the stage, afid Garter speaks. 
 
 Gart. Heaven, from Thy endless goodness, send prosper- 
 ous life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess 
 of England, Elizabeth ! 
 
 Flourish. Enter the King and Train. 
 
 Cran. \_Kneelifig.'] And for your royal Grace and the 
 good Queen, 
 My noble partners and myself thus pray : 
 All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady, 
 Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy. 
 May hourly fall upon ye ! 
 
 King. Thank you, good Lord Archbishop : 
 
 What is her name ? 
 
 Cran. Elizabeth. 
 
 King. Stand up, lord. — 
 
 [Cranmer rises. — The King kisses the Child. 
 With this kiss take my blessing : God protect thee ! 
 Into whose hand I give thy life. 
 
 Cran. Amen. 
 
 King. My noble gossips, ^ ye have been too prodigal ; 
 I thank ye heartily ; so shall this lady. 
 When she has so much English. 
 
 1 standing-bowls were bowls elevated on feet or pedestals. 
 
 2 Gossip is an old term for sponsor or god-parent. See The Winter's 
 Tale, page 76, note 5. 
 
250 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. ACT v 
 
 Cran. Let me speak, sir, 
 
 For Heaven now bids me ; and the words I utter 
 Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth. 
 This royal infant — Heaven still move about her ! — 
 Though in her cradle, yet now promises 
 Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, 
 Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be — 
 But few now living can behold that goodness — 
 A pattern to all princes living with her, 
 And all that shall succeed : Saba ^ was never 
 More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue 
 Than this pure soul shall be : all princely graces, 
 That mould up such a mighty piece as this is. 
 With all the virtues that attend the good. 
 Shall still be doubled on her : truth shall nurse her, 
 Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her : 
 She shall be loved and fear'd : her own shall bless her ; 
 Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, 
 And hang their heads with sorrow : good grows with her. 
 In her days every man shall eat in safety. 
 Under his own vine, what he plants ; and sing 
 The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours : 
 God shall be truly known ; and those about her 
 From her shall read the perfect ways of honour. 
 And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. 
 Nor shall this peace sleep with her : but, as when 
 The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, 
 Her ashes new create another heir, 
 As great in admiration as herself; 
 
 3 So the name of Solomon's queen-pupil is spelt both in the Septuagint 
 and the vuIgate ; such too is the old English form of it ; though some have 
 changed it here to Sheba, as it is in our authorized version. 
 
SCENE IV. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. 25I 
 
 So shall she leave her blessedness to one, 
 
 When Heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness, 
 
 Who from the sacred ashes of her honour 
 
 Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, 
 
 And so stand fix'd : peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, 
 
 That were the servants to this chosen infant. 
 
 Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him : 
 
 Wherever the bright Sun of heaven shall shine, 
 
 His honour and the greatness of his name 
 
 Shall be, and make new nations : ^ he shall flourish, 
 
 And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches 
 
 To all the plains about him.^ Our children's children 
 
 Shall see this, and bless Heaven. 
 
 King. Thou speakest wonders. 
 
 Cran. She shall be, to the happiness of England, 
 An aged princess ; many days shall see her, 
 And yet no day without a deed to crown it. 
 Would I had known no more ! but she must die ; 
 She must, the saints must have her : yet a virgin, 
 A most unspotted lily, shall she pass 
 To th' ground, and all the world shall mourn her. 
 
 Kbig. O Lord Archbishop, 
 Thou hast made me now a man ! never before 
 This happy child did I get any thing. 
 
 * On a picture of King James, which formerly belonged to Bacon, and is 
 now in the possession of Lord Grimston, he is styled Imperii Atlantici Con- 
 ditor. In 1612 there was a lottery for the plantation of Virginia. The lines 
 probably allude to the settlement of that colony. 
 
 5 Alluding, most likely, to the marriage of the King's daughter Elizabeth 
 with the Elector Palatine, which took place in February, 1613. The mar- 
 riage was a theme of intense joy and high anticipations to the English people, 
 as it seemed to knit them up with the Protestant interest of Germany. The 
 present royal family of England comes from that marriage. 
 
252 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH, EPILOGUE. 
 
 This oracle of comfort has so pleased me, 
 
 That when I am in Heaven I shall desire 
 
 To see what this child does, and praise my Maker. — 
 
 I thank ye all. — To you, my good Lord Mayor, 
 
 And your good brethren, I am much beholding : 
 
 I have received much honour by your presence. 
 
 And ye shall find me thankful. — Lead the way, lords : 
 
 Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank ye ; 
 
 She will be sick else. This day no man think 
 
 'Has business at his house ; for all shall stay : 
 
 This little one shall make it holiday. {^Exeunt. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 'Tis ten to one this play can never please 
 All that are here. Some come to take their ease. 
 And sleep an Act or two ; but those, we fear, 
 We've frighted with our trumpets ; so, 'tis clear, 
 They'll say 'tis naught : others, to hear the city 
 Abused extremely, and to cry, Thafs witty ! 
 Which we have not done neither : that, I fear, 
 All the expected good we're like to hear 
 For this play at this time, is only in 
 The merciful construction of good women ; 
 For such a one we show'd 'em. If they smile. 
 And say 'twill do, I know, within a while 
 All the best men are ours ; for 'tis ill hap, 
 If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap. 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Suggestions for the Study of " The Tempest." 
 
 Life, with its many-sidedness, with its struggles, is at 
 all times revealing various phases of the conflict between 
 good and evil. Whether we consider the life of the indi- 
 vidual or of nations, there comes a time in which all the 
 accumulated unrest bursts forth and a tempest threatens 
 to overwhelm. This poem, " The Tempest," is the prod- 
 uct of the poet's latest period. He had had a varied 
 experience ; he had sounded the depths of life ; his great 
 soul had been tempest-tossed. Is it not likely that he 
 had came to see the spiritual significance of life and its 
 forces ? 
 
 The opening scene of " The Tempest " is a wonderful 
 description of the management of the vessel in a storm. 
 The first glimpse we get of Miranda is when she appeals 
 to her father to allay the waters. She has seen the 
 wrecked vessel, and her heart goes out in sympathy for 
 the human suffering which has resulted. " O, I have 
 suffer'd with those that I saw suffer ! " she says, " O, the 
 cry did knock against my very heart ! " 
 
 Then Prosper© explains why he has caused the storm, 
 and so recites to her the story of their former life. Here 
 the poet introduces in narrative their twelve years' resi- 
 dence upon the island and the causes leading to their 
 
256 THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 
 
 coming. Through this dialogue Miranda is by every 
 word shown to be a genuine, kindly being, well worthy of 
 our admiration. It is not resentment that stirs her na- 
 ture as she hears that they have been deprived of their 
 rights, but the first thought that finds utterance is — 
 
 O, the Heavens ! 
 What foul play had we, that we came from thence ? 
 Or blessed was 't we did ? 
 
 in which she recognizes the possibility of good having 
 come out of the injustice. 
 
 Her next thought comes as the expression of her sym- 
 pathetic appreciation of what her father had done for her 
 in her years of helplessness : — 
 
 O, my heart bleeds 
 To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to, 
 Which is from my remembrance ! 
 
 Prospero seems fully conscious that he has deprived 
 his daughter of her rights by his own neglect of the prac- 
 tical duties of his position : — 
 
 I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated 
 To closeness, and the bettering of my mind 
 With that which, but by being so retired, 
 O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother 
 Awaked an evil nature. 
 
 Me, poor man, my library 
 Was dukedom large enough. 
 
 As Prospero recounts the good offices of Gonzalo, how 
 he had provided them with food, fresh water, rich gar- 
 ments, linens, stuffs, books " from mine own library," he 
 awakens in the heart of Miranda a desire to see their 
 
THE STUDY OF THE TEMPEST. 257 
 
 good friend. He had secured to them physical necessi- 
 ties, and to Prospero the books which had contributed to 
 his happiness. 
 
 Then under the magical influence of her father, 
 Miranda sleeps. 
 
 The realm of magic is now entered. Prospero is the 
 directing force and the dainty Ariel his chosen minister. 
 Ariel recounts his work, and as the airy sprite says. 
 
 Sometime I 'd divide 
 And burn in many places ; 
 
 All but mariners 
 Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel, 
 Then all a-fire with me, 
 
 we see that this servant of Prospero is the embodiment 
 of air and fire. Prospero anxiously inquires as to whether 
 all are safe. He has not intended his magic to bring 
 destruction. Ariel has well performed his mission, "' Not 
 a hair perish'd." His task accomplished, Ariel now 
 pleads for liberty. Prospero is aroused to anger by the 
 demand of Ariel and reminds him from what he had been 
 set free, recounts the thraldom under which he had been 
 held by Sycorax and from which the art of Prospero 
 releases him. Ariel is again submissive and is promised 
 freedom after ten days more of service. 
 
 A visit to Caliban reveals the man of earth, for by his 
 curses he at once shows himself to be in antagonism to 
 all that is of the upper world. He keenly feels that he 
 has been wronged. Prospero had in the beginning well 
 treated him : — 
 
 Thou strokedst me and madest much of me ; wouldst give me 
 Water with berries in it ; and teach me how 
 To name the bigger light and how the less, 
 
258 THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 
 
 That burn by day and night : and then I loved thee, 
 
 And showed tliee all the qualities o' the isle, 
 
 The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile. 
 
 He rebels against being subject where he was king 
 before. Prospero through his experience with this per- 
 sonification of evil has concluded that stripes, not kind- 
 ness, are needed to protect from such as he. Caliban 
 had been taught a language. " I endowed thy purposes 
 with words that made them known," says Prospero. 
 Caliban replies, — 
 
 You taught me language ; and my profit on't 
 Is, I know how to curse, 
 
 thus revealing the dangerous power of knowledge when 
 lodged with such a being. 
 
 The invisible Ariel sings his song and Ferdinand is 
 soothed by its magic, and Miranda beholds him as a 
 "spirit that carries a brave form." 
 
 I might call him 
 A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
 I ever saw so noble. 
 
 At once Ferdinand is touched by the same power of 
 love, and so both are by it held captive. Prospero sees 
 himself successful in his plan. " At the first sight they 
 have changed eyes." Prospero must check this swift 
 business — 
 
 Lest too light winning 
 Make the prize light. 
 
 Ferdinand, under the spell of Prospero, is powerless to 
 defend himself, submits to his great griefs and declares 
 them all to be light. " Might he not through his prison 
 once a day behold this maid ! " 
 
THE STUDY OF THE TEMPEST. 259 
 
 In the second act the three good characters Gonzalo, 
 Adrian, and Francisco stand opposed to the three bad 
 characters Antonio, Alonzo, and Sebastian. Gonzalo is 
 the special object of the ridicule of Sebastian and Antonio. 
 Alonzo has been touched by the supposed loss of his son, 
 Ferdinand, and begins to feel repentant. He is crushed 
 by his grief and repeatedly pleads for peace. The man 
 whom he had helped to usurp the dukedom of Milan now 
 plots his death, but his life is saved through the inter- 
 ference of Ariel. 
 
 In the fair island to which they have come by the 
 power of fate, Gonzalo sees a fit place for his ideal state. 
 The poet gives a glimpse of " Utopia " in Gonzalo's 
 commonwealth : — 
 
 I' the commonwealth I would by contraries 
 
 Execute all things ; for no kind of traffic 
 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
 
 Letters should not be known ; riches and poverty, 
 
 And use of service, none ; contract, succession, 
 
 Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none ; 
 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil ; 
 
 No occupation ; all men idle, all 
 
 And women too, but innocent and pure ; 
 
 No sovereignty : — 
 
 All things in common Nature should produce 
 Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony. 
 Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 
 Would I not have ; but Nature should bring forth. 
 Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance. 
 To feed my innocent people. 
 
 The dark conspiracy plotted by Antonio and Sebastian 
 against the lives of the good Gonzalo and Alonzo is 
 thwarted by the faithful Ariel. 
 
26o THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 
 
 Caliban fears to meet those whom he believes to be 
 Prospero's spirit lest he chide him " for bringing wood in 
 slowly." Trinculo and Stephano are true representatives 
 of the physical world. They have been separated from 
 the ship's company and have fallen in with Caliban. In 
 this plain, hard prose these two express their sensual 
 natures. Caliban is wild with delight over the contents 
 of the wine bottle. Caliban, the rude child of nature, is 
 brought under the influence of the depraved children of 
 civilization. Caliban kneels to Stephano. His nature 
 reveres the being who has given him the heavenly liquor. 
 His whole nature goes out in these words : — 
 
 I'll show thee every fertile inch o' the island ; 
 And I will kiss thy foot ; I pr'y thee, be my God. 
 
 He is willing to perform all sorts of service for this 
 new master ; he will be his willing subject, he will show 
 him the best springs, he '11 pluck the best berries, he '11 
 fish for him, he '11 get the wood. He finds his new service 
 to be delightful to him because his new master ministers 
 to his sensual nature. Rejoicing, in his drunken frenzy, 
 Caliban fancies that he has attained freedom. License 
 to gratify his appetites has placed him in a condition in 
 which he feels that complete freedom has come to his 
 possession. 
 
 The inimitable love-making between Ferdinand and 
 Miranda in the first scene of the third act is not paralleled 
 in literature. To depict this scene, to present the uncon- 
 ventional child of the island whose home has been her 
 father's cell " weather-fended " by a line-groove, to 
 present this girl speaking the love of her whole nature to 
 
THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 26 1 
 
 the heart of her new-found lover, and yet to do it in such 
 a way as not to offend the most fastidious ear — all this 
 is the height of art. No wonder that Ferdinand could say, 
 
 But you, O you, 
 So perfect and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best. 
 
 Miranda utters most characteristic words when she has 
 bee4i assured of Ferdinand's love for her. Choking back 
 the tears of joy her soul speaks. 
 
 Hence, bashful cunning ! 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me. 
 
 Then Caliban plots with Stephano and Trinculo to kill 
 Prospero. The sensual world is arrayed against Prospero. 
 
 Alonzo, Sebastian, and Antonio feel the power of guilt 
 as Ariel, like a harpy, causes the banquet to vanish and 
 then addresses them : — 
 
 You are three men of sin whom Destiny — 
 That hath to instrument this lower world 
 And what is in 't — the never-surfeited sea 
 Hath caused to belch up ; yea, and on this island 
 Where man doth not inhabit ; you 'mongst men 
 Being most unfit to live. 
 
 Ariel points out the only way by which sin can be 
 expiated when he says to Alonzo : — 
 
 Thee of thy son, Alonzo, 
 
 They have bereft ; and do pronounce, by me 
 
 Lingering perdition — worse than any death 
 
 Can be at once — shall step by step attend 
 
 You and your ways ; whose wraths to guard you from, — 
 
 Which here in the most desolate isle, else falls 
 
 Upon your heads, — is nothing, but heart-sorrow 
 
 And a clear life ensuing. 
 
262 THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 
 
 This is Christian repentance, " heart sorrow " and some- 
 thing beside, " a clear hfe ensuing." Alonzo hears in 
 the billows, in the winds, in the thunder, the name of 
 Prospero. It is written deeply on his heart and he at 
 once sees retribution in the loss of his son. 
 
 Their great guilt, 
 Like poison given to work a long time after, 
 Now 'gins to bite the spirits. 
 
 The fourth act brings reward to Ferdinand, for Pros- 
 pero is satisfied with the service he has wrought and 
 bestows upon him the dearest of gifts, Miranda. 
 
 The marriage festival is celebrated by the coming of 
 the " many colour'd " Iris and most bounteous Ceres, 
 and Juno with a marriage blessing. " Come temperate 
 nymphs, and celebrate a contract of true love." 
 
 Prospero bethinks him of Caliban's foul plot against 
 his life, and as the minute has almost arrived, the 
 spirits 
 
 Are melted into air, into thin air: 
 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 
 Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 
 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 
 Is rounded with a sleep. < 
 
 When Prospero has realized the near approach of the 
 threatening evil he is vexed, his old brain is troubled, and 
 then, after a turn or two, to still his beating mind he sum- 
 mons Ariel. " Spirit, we must prepare to meet with 
 Caliban." After Prospero has ordered Ariel to bring 
 
THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 263 
 
 forth the costly trumpery, with which Gonzalo had pro- 
 vided him and his young daughter as they had been sent 
 out in their unseaworthy vessel, and place it for a stale 
 to catch these thieves, he reflects upon the nature of 
 Caliban. 
 
 A devil, a born devil, on whose nature 
 Nurture can never stick ; on whom my pains 
 Humanely taken, all are lost, quite lost ; 
 And as with age his body uglier grows, 
 So his mind cankers. 
 
 When the guilty three approach the cell of Prospero, 
 Caliban has a fruitless struggle with the other two to in- 
 duce them to heed what is to him the chief end of their 
 design, the destruction of Prospero. They are fascinated 
 by the glittering apparel and " dote on such luggage." 
 Caliban would have the murder first. But Prospero calls 
 to his aid divers spirits, and these hound goblins perform 
 his work. 
 
 Ariel recounts the sad condition of " the King, his 
 brother, and all three distracted." Good Gonzalo — 
 
 His tears run down his beard, like winter-drops 
 From eaves of reeds. 
 
 The heart of Prospero is touched. He finds himself 
 moved by the afflictions of those who have wronged him. 
 
 Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th' quick, 
 
 Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury 
 
 Do I take part : the rarer action is 
 
 In virtue than in vengeance ; they being penitent, 
 
 The sole drift of ray purpose doth extend 
 
 Not a frown further. 
 
264 THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 
 
 He abjures his rough magic, — 
 
 And, when I have required 
 Some heavenly music, — which even now I do, — 
 To work mine end upon their senses that 
 This airy charm is for, 1 '11 break my staff. 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 
 And deeper than did ever plummet sound 
 I'll drown my book. 
 
 Alonzo, not knowing whether it be Pro'spero who ap- 
 pears before him, still feels that true repentance which 
 prompts him to relinquish the dukedom and to entreat 
 the pardon of his wrongs. Prospero tells no tales of the 
 machinations of Sebastian and Antonio against Alonzo, 
 and even forgives the rankest fault of him he cannot call 
 brother. When the stricken Alonzo asks concerning 
 Ferdinand, Prospero leads him on to his loss of Miranda, 
 and then presents what seems a vision of the island to the 
 eyes of the King-father. 
 
 Is she the goddess that liath severed us 
 And brought us thus together ? 
 Ferdinand. Sir, she 's mortal; 
 
 But by immortal Providence she 's mine. 
 
 Good Gonzalo sums up the good that has come out of 
 evil : — 
 
 Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue 
 Should become king of Naples! O rejoice 
 Beyond a common joy ! and set it down 
 With gold on lasting pillars! In our voyage 
 Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis ; 
 And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife 
 Where he himself was lost ; Prospero, his dukedom, 
 In a poor isle ; and all of us, ourselves 
 When no man was his own. 
 
THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST," 265 
 
 All are restored — even the impenitent Antonio and 
 Sebastian, the debauched Stephano and Trinculo. Alonzo 
 receives again his kingdom ; Ariel gains his liberty; even 
 Caliban comes to himself and says : — 
 
 And I '11 be wise hereafter, 
 And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass 
 Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, 
 And worship thjs dull fool ! 
 
 Prospero himself has abjured his magic, has laid aside 
 his power. 
 
 And thence retire me to my Milan, where 
 Every third thought shall be my grave. 
 
 And SO " The Tempest " passes to leave behind its 
 lesson of life. In other dramas, Shakespeare has wrought 
 out the terrific conflicts of passion as men have made and 
 unmade nations. Here is shown how the individual soul 
 can solve its own problem of life. 
 
 No other play of Shakespeare's, except possibly Hamlet, 
 has had bestowed upon it so much skill in the effort to 
 discover its significance. Few students have doubted 
 that the poet meant to symbolize some truth. If it be 
 only a fairy story, a tale of enchantment, it has carried us 
 into a country where good fairies triumph over evil. The 
 songs of Ariel, with their gentle witchery, accomplish the 
 behests of his master. " Merrily, merrily shall he live 
 now." If we do not find it profitable to follow the inter- 
 preters of this drama through all their minute details, even 
 if we care not to enter at all into an elaborately thought- 
 out commentary, it cannot fail to be of interest to have 
 suggested to our minds the interpretations offered by 
 
266 THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 
 
 some of the greatest students of Shakespeare. Dr. Hud- 
 son, as an addition to his own characterization, has quoted 
 Prof. Dowden's comments. Hudson looks upon Prospero 
 as a kind of subordinate Providence, reconciUng the 
 diverse elements to himself and in himself to one another. 
 
 Dowden sees running through the whole play appear- 
 ing here and there, like a colored thread in some web, the 
 thought that true freedom of man consists in service. 
 
 Gervinus thinks ^ " it not impossible that Shakespeare 
 in this play, and especially in regard to this Caliban 
 (whose name is a mere anagram of Cannibal), meant to 
 answer the great question of the day concerning the justi- 
 fiableness of European usurpation over the wild aborigi- 
 nes of the new world ; he felt a warm interest in English 
 colonization, in the creation of new nations, that marked 
 the reign of James ; Southampton was a prominent char- 
 acter in the Virginia Company, and shared with Sandys 
 and Wyatt the merit of first founding the political freedom 
 of the colonists. If it were indeed the poet's intention to 
 give this historical background to the story of Antonio's 
 usurpation, it is further evidence of his wide views of 
 history and of his unbiased mind, entirely free as it is 
 from all false sentimentality. He shows the scrupulous 
 philosophers, who doubted the lawfulness of colonization, 
 the evils of policy and morality at home, where deeds 
 quite as unnatural are practiced as could have been ac- 
 complished there. He perceived that what happened in 
 the new world at that time was necessary, that with the 
 extension of mankind superiority of spiritual and moral 
 power would ever inundate the realms of rudeness and 
 
 ' " Shakespeare's Commentaries," p. 799. 
 
THE STUDY OF '' THE TEMPEST." 26/ 
 
 barbarism, streaming, as it were, into an empty space." 
 Gervinus also suggests the soundness of Shakespeare's 
 political wisdom in his treatment of Gonzalo's scheme of 
 government. 
 
 Lowell says : ^ '" Shakespeare is wont to take some 
 familiar story, to lay his scene in some place the name 
 of which, at least, is familiar, — well knowing the reserve 
 of power there is in the familiar as a background, when 
 things are set in front of it under a new and unexpected 
 light. But in ' The Tempest ' the scene is laid nowhere, or 
 certainly in no country laid down on any map. Nowhere, 
 then? At once no where and any where, — for it is the 
 soul of man, that still vexed island hung between the 
 upper and the nether world, and liable to incursions from 
 both. There is scarce a play of Shakespeare's in which 
 there is such rarity of character, none in which character 
 has so little to do in the carrying on and development of 
 the story. But consider for a moment if ever the imagi- 
 nation has been so embodied as in Prospero, the Fancy 
 as in Ariel, the brute Understanding as in Caliban, who, 
 the moment his poor wits are warmed with the glorious 
 liquor of Stephano, plots rebellion against his natural 
 lord, the higher Reason. Miranda is mere abstract 
 womanhood, as truly so before she sees Ferdinand as 
 Eve before she was wakened to consciousness by the 
 echo of her own nature coming back to her, the same, 
 and yet not the same, from that of Adam. Ferdinand is 
 nothing more than Youth, compelled to drudge at some- 
 thing he despises, till the sacrifice of will and abnegation 
 of self win him his ideal in Miranda." 
 
 1 Among viy Books (Shakespeare once more), p. 199. 
 
268 THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 
 
 Snider conceives ^ Prospero to be a portraiture of 
 universal or rational life. He is thus victorious in the 
 final collision ; all his enemies are now in his power ; he 
 has mastered the conflicts of his individual existence. 
 Nay, further, he has not merely punished, but even 
 reconciled, all his enemies. Caliban himself submits, 
 manifests hearty repentance, and is cured of his delusive 
 worship. Sense thus yields to Reason. Such is the 
 truly positive function of Spirit to bring all into harmony 
 with itself, to make all retiect its own image. It may 
 crush out Avith its power ; but that is a negative result, . 
 and really no solution of a conflict. The highest attain- 
 ment of intelligence may be expressed by just this word 
 — reconciliation. The colliding individuals of the story 
 are now united in spirit, and the harmony is perfect. 
 They all have come to see the nature of their deeds. 
 This is their common insight, and, therefore, their common 
 concord ; furthermore, they hasten to make their wicked 
 deeds undone. Hence, when the criminals arrive at this 
 island, their destiny is to rise above their hitherto selfish, 
 individual existence, and become reconciled with the 
 Rational — the Universal. 
 
 Ulrici says : ^ " What I have called the ideal point of 
 unity, the fundamental motive, the leading thought of the 
 piece, is expressed by old Gonzalo — not indeed in the 
 form of reflecting thought, but still as a simple statement 
 when at the close he says : — 
 
 " Set it down 
 With gold on lasting pillars ; in one voyage 
 Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis : 
 
 1 Shakespeare's Dramas ("Tempest"), p. 158. 
 
 2 Shakespeare's Dramatic Art, vol. II., " The Tempest," p. 268. 
 
THE STUDY OF " THE TEMPEST." 269 
 
 And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife 
 Where he himself was lost ; Prospero, his dukedom 
 In a poor isle ; and all of us ourselves, 
 When no man was his own. 
 
 " Indeed, the very fact of all the characters losing and 
 recovering not only their outward fortune but their (nvn 
 selves^ forms the actual substance of the drama. This 
 utterance is the strongest proof of the effect which a 
 general state of excitement and stormy commotion in life 
 must exercise upon individuals. But in reality, our life 
 is perpetually threatened by this influence ; the storms, 
 at times, place it in a violent state of agitation perceptible 
 to every one ; they do not rise from without but from 
 within, from internal discord, from the perennial struggle 
 between good and evil. And life itself is, in fact, but like 
 a passing wave in the surging ocean of time, set in motion 
 by some higher mysterious power. This thought, which 
 must arise in the mind of every thoughtful reader when 
 viewing the course of the action, is emphatically expressed 
 by Prospero when, in the celebrated lines that adorn 
 Shakespeare's monument in Westminister Abbey, he 
 says : — 
 
 Like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded. 
 Leave not a rack behind ; we are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 Moulton : ^ " In ' The Tempest ' we shall find a pecu- 
 liarity that separates this from all other plays of Shake- 
 
 1 Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, p. 268. 
 
270 THE STUDY OF THE TEMPEST." 
 
 speare. The course of human events leaves upon thinkers 
 two impressions, different but not inconsistent. All 
 spectators behold the chaos of chance giving place to 
 order, and see the emergence of moral laws. But some 
 thinkers go further, and trace in what happens the guid- 
 ance of a Personal Providence, never losing touch of the 
 issues of life, though hiding himself till he appears in 
 striking displays of his will. So Shakespeare's dramas 
 as a whole make up a world in which moral law is forever 
 being displayed. But in this one play of ' The Tempest ' 
 something more has been done. The whole course of 
 circumstances is controlled by Prospero, who is for the 
 purpose endowed with the power of enchantment. Now 
 enchantment is, within its sphere, omnipotence ; thus 
 within the field of the play Prospero has been made the 
 Providence which irresistibly controls the issues of events. 
 Of course the mere sense of an overruling Providence, 
 such as Gonzalo expresses, may be paralleled from many 
 other plays as simply the opinion of an individual person- 
 age. But in ' The Tempest ' it is the dramatic machinery 
 itself that unveils to us the governing power of its universe 
 in the magically-endowed Prospero. If then, we review 
 the successive incidents of this play as they unfold them- 
 selves, we shall be seeing, under Shakespeare's guidance, 
 the different aspects of Personal Providence." 
 
 After all, the real good that each learner, for himself, 
 can get from the study of " The Tempest " is his measure 
 of its value for hnn. If one can live in the atmosphere 
 of Prospero's island, in his ideal world, and be led by its 
 lessons to idealize the real every-day facts of life in such 
 a way as to make them contribute to soul growth, then 
 
THE STUDY OF THE TEMPEST. 2/1 
 
 has " The Tempest " served its purpose for that person. 
 If CaHban, in the gratification of his sensual nature, has 
 revealed the absolute slavery of appetite, then, indeed, has 
 dawned upon the soul the omnipotent truth that freedom 
 means the mastery of self. If in the unaffected, simple 
 heart of Miranda one finds the true love which has the 
 power to transform all that is base into the noble, the 
 God-like, then has she given of her own sweet self a 
 renewed faith in the genuineness of that holy, divine 
 passion. If in Prospero one sees only the kindly father, 
 ever watchful for the good of his child, and trying to right 
 the wrong he has done in neglecting the practical affairs 
 of life ; if he, from out his treasure-house of knowledge, 
 teach the higher truths of the overcoming of evil, and the 
 bringing of harmony where discord dwelt, then Prospero 
 too is an inspiration. 
 
 Whatever else these creations of the poet may mean, if 
 they contribute something to a higher conception of duty 
 and to the doing of a righteous deed, they have served 
 a lofty purpose — the true aim of all art. 
 
INTRODUCTION.! 
 
 state of the Text. 
 
 THE TEMPEST is one of the plays that were never 
 printed till in the folio of 1623 ; where, for reasons 
 unknown to us, it stands the first in the division of Comedies, 
 and the first in the volume, though it was undoubtedly among 
 the latest of the Poet's works. 
 
 The play is badly printed, considerably worse than most 
 of the plays first printed in that volume ; though not so badly 
 as Ail's Well thai Ends Well, Timon of Aihens, and Corio- 
 lanus. Besides many slighter errors, not very difficult of 
 correction, it has a number of passages that are troublesome 
 in the highest degree, and some that have hitherto baffled 
 the most persevering and painstaking efforts to bring them 
 into a satisfactory state ; insomuch that they should, per- 
 haps, be left untouched, as hopelessly incurable. Still I 
 suppose it would hardly do to give up the cause on the plea 
 that the resources of corrective art have here been exhausted : 
 so I have, though without any great confidence of success, 
 ventured to try my hand on several of them, and, after many 
 years of careful study, have done the best I could with them. 
 The details of the matter are, I believe, fully presented in the 
 Critical Notes, and therefore need not be further enlarged 
 upon here. It will be seen that I have adopted several new 
 
 1 From Hudson's School Shakespeare. 
 
2/4 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 readings recently proposed by eminent contemporary Shake- 
 spearians ; and in these, as I can hardly have any self-par- 
 tiality to warp my judgment, so I feel more confident as to 
 the result. 
 
 Date of the Writing. 
 
 It has been ascertained beyond question that The Tempest 
 was written at some time between the years 1603 and 16 13. 
 On the one hand, the leading features of Gonzalo's Common- 
 wealth, as described in Act ii.. Scene i, were evidently taken 
 from John Florio's translation of Montaigne, which was pub- 
 lished in 1603. As the passage is curious in itself, and as it 
 aptly illustrates the Poet's method of appropriating from 
 others, I subjoin it together with the original : — 
 
 Had I plantation of this isle, my lord, 
 
 And were the King on't, what would I do ? 
 
 r the commonwealth I would by contraries 
 
 Execute all things : for no kind of traffic 
 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
 
 Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, 
 
 And use of service, none ; contract, succession, 
 
 Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none ; 
 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil ; 
 
 No occupation ; all men idle, all. 
 
 And women too, but innocent and pure ; 
 
 No sovereignty : 
 
 All things in common Nature should produce 
 
 Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony, 
 
 Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 
 
 Would I not have ; but Nature should bring forth, - 
 
 Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, 
 
 To feed my innocent people. 
 
 I would with such perfection govern, sir, 
 
 T' excel the golden age. 
 
 In Montaigne's essay Of the Cannibals, as translated by 
 Florio, we have the following : " Meseemeth that what in 
 
INTRODUCTION. 2/5 
 
 those nations we see by experience doth not only exceed all 
 the pictures wherewith licentious Poesy hath proudly embel- 
 lished the golden age, and all her quaint inventions to feign 
 a happy condition of man, but also the conception and de- 
 sire of Philosophy. It is a nation, would I answer Plato, that 
 hath no kind of traffic, no knowledge of letters, no intelli- 
 gence of numbers, no name of magistrate, nor of politic 
 superiority ; no use of service, of riches, or of poverty ; no 
 contracts, no successions, no dividences ; no occupation, but 
 idle ; no respect of kindred, but common ; no apparel but 
 natural ; no manuring of lands ; no use of wine, corn, or 
 metal : the very words that import lying, falsehood, treason, 
 dissimulation, covetousness, envy, detraction, and pardon, 
 were never heard amongst them." 
 
 Here the borrowing is too plain to be questioned ; and 
 this fixes the writing of The Tempest after 1603. On the 
 other hand, Malone ascertained from some old records that 
 the play was acted by the King's players " before Prince 
 Charles, the Princess Elizabeth, and the Prince Palatine, in 
 the beginning of 16 13." 
 
 But the time of writing is to be gathered more nearly from 
 another source. The play has several points clearly connect- 
 ing with some of the then recent marvels of Transatlantic 
 discovery : in fact, I suspect America may justly claim to 
 have borne a considerable part in suggesting and shaping 
 this delectable workmanship. In May, 1609, Sir George 
 Somers, with a fleet of nine ships, headed by the Sea- 
 Venture, which was called the Admiral's Ship, sailed for 
 Virginia. In mid-ocean they were struck by a terrible tem- 
 pest, which scattered the whole fleet ; seven of the ships, 
 however, reached Virginia ; but the Sea- Venture was parted 
 from the rest, driven out of her course, and finally wrecked 
 
2/6 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 on one of the Bermudas. These islands were then thought 
 to be " a most prodigious and enchanted place, affording 
 nothing but gusts, storms, and foul weather " ; on which 
 account they had acquired a bad name, as " an enchanted 
 pile of rocks, and a desert inhabitation of devils." 
 
 In 1610 appeared a pamphlet entitled A Discovery of the 
 Bermudas, otherwise called the Isle of Devils, giving an ac- 
 count of the storm and shipwreck. The sailors had worked 
 themselves into complete exhaustion, had given over in de- 
 spair, and taken leave of each other, when the ship was 
 found to be jammed in between two rocks, so that all came 
 safe to land. They found the island uninhabited, the air 
 mild and wholesome, the land exceedingly fruitful; " all the 
 fairies of the rocks were but flocks of birds, and all the devils 
 that haunted the woods were but herds of swine." Staying 
 there some nine months, they had a very delightful time of it, 
 refitted their ship, and then put to sea again, with an ample 
 supply of provisions, and their minds richly freighted with 
 the beauties and wonders of the place. 
 
 There can be no rational doubt that from this narrative 
 Shakespeare took various hints for the matter of his drama. 
 Thus much is plainly indicated by his mention of " the still- 
 vex'd Bermoothes," as the Bermudas were then called, and 
 also by the qualities of air and soil ascribed to his happy 
 island. So that 16 10 is as early a date as can well be as- 
 signed for the composition. The supernatural in the play 
 was no doubt the Poet's own creation ; but it would have 
 been in accordance with his usual method to avail himself 
 of whatever interest might spring from the popular notions 
 touching the Bermudas. In his marvellous creations the 
 people would see nothing but the distant marvels with which 
 their fancies were prepossessed. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 2/7 
 
 Concurrent with all this is the internal evidence of the 
 play itself. The style, language, and general cast of thought, 
 the union of richness and severity, the grave, austere beauty 
 of character which pervades it, and the organic compactness 
 of the whole structure, all go to mark it as an issue of the 
 Poet's ripest years. Coleridge regarded it as " certainly one 
 of Shakespeare's latest works, judging from the language 
 only." Campbell the poet considers it his very latest. "■The 
 Tempest,'' says he, " has a sort of sacredness as the last work 
 of a mighty workman. Shakespeare, as if conscious that it 
 would be his last, and as if inspired to typify himself, has 
 made his hero a natural, a dignified, and benevolent magi- 
 cian, who could conjure up ' spirits from the vasty deep,' 
 and command supernatural agency by the most seemingly- 
 natural and simple means. Shakespeare himself is Prospero, 
 or rather the superior genius who commands both Prospero 
 and Ariel. But the time was approaching when the potent 
 sorcerer was to break his staff, and bury it fathoms in the 
 ocean ' deeper than did ever plummet sound.' That staff 
 has never been and will never be recovered." 
 
 But I suspect there is more of poetry than of truth in this ; 
 at least I can find no warrant for it : on the contrary, we 
 have fair ground for believing that at least Coriolanus, King 
 Henry the Eighth, and perhaps The Winter's Tale were writ- 
 ten after The Tempest. Verplanck, rather than give up the 
 notion so well put by Campbell, suggests that the Poet may 
 have revised The Tempest after all his other plays were writ- 
 ten, and inserted the passage where Prospero abjures his 
 " rough magic," and buries his staff, and drowns his book. 
 But I can hardly think that Shakespeare had any reference 
 to himself in that passage : for, besides that he did not use 
 to put his own feelings and purposes into the mouth of his 
 
278 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 characters, the doing so in this case would infer such a 
 degree of self-exultation as, it seems to me, his native and 
 habitual modesty would scarce permit. 
 
 Source of the Plot. 
 
 Shakespeare was so unconscious of his great inventive 
 faculty, so unambitious of originality in his plots and mate- 
 rials, and so apt to found his plays upon some popular chron- 
 icle or tale or romance, that he is generally, perhaps justly, 
 presumed to have done so m this instance. Yet no play or 
 novel has been identified as having furnished, in any sort, 
 the basis of The Tempest, or any materials towards the com- 
 position. Commentators have been very diligent and in- 
 quisitive in the search ; still, for aught appears thus far, the 
 probability is, that, in this case, the plot had its origin in the 
 Poet's mind. Collins the poet, indeed, told Thomas War- 
 ton that he had met with a novel called Aurelio and Isabella, 
 dated 1588, and printed in Italian, Spanish, French, and 
 English, upon which he thought The Tempest to have been 
 founded : but poor Collins was at the time suffering under 
 his mental disorder ; and, as regards the particular novel he 
 mentioned, his memory must have been at fault ; for the 
 story of AureHo and Isabella has nothing in common with 
 the play. 
 
 In the year 1841, however, Mr. Thorns called attention, in 
 The New Monthly Magazine, to some remarkable coincidences 
 between The Tempest and a German dramatic piece entitled 
 The Beautiful Sidea, composed by Jacob Ayrer, who was a 
 notary of Nuremberg, and contemporary with Shakespeare. 
 In this piece. Prince Ludolph and Prince Leudegast answer 
 to Prospero and Alonso. Ludolph is a magician, has an only 
 daughter, Sidea, and an attendant spirit, Runcifal, who has 
 
INTRODUCTION. 2/9 
 
 some points of resemblance to Ariel. Soon after the opening 
 of the piece, Ludolph, having been vanquished by his rival, 
 and with his daughter driven into a forest, rebukes her for 
 complaining of their change of fortune ; and then summons 
 his spirit Runcifal, in order to learn from him their future 
 destiny, and their prospects of revenge. Runcifal, who, like 
 Ariel, is somewhat " moody," announces to Ludolph that the 
 son of his enemy will shortly become his prisoner. After a 
 comic episode, Prince Leudegast, with his son Engelbrecht 
 and the counsellors, is seen hunting in the same forest, when 
 Engelbrecht and his companion Famulus, having separated 
 from their associates, are suddenly encountered by Ludolph 
 and his daughter. He commands them to yield themselves 
 prisoners ; they refuse, and attempt to draw their swords, 
 when he renders them powerless by a touch of his magical 
 wand, and gives Engelbrecht over to Sidea, to carry logs of 
 wood for her, and to obey her in all things. Later in the 
 piece, Sidea, moved with pity for the prince's labour in car- 
 rying logs, declares that she would " feel great joy, if he 
 would prove faithful to me, and take me in wedlock " ; an 
 event which is at last happily brought to pass, and leads to a 
 reconciliation of their parents. 
 
 Here the resemblances are evidently much too close to 
 have been accidental : either the German must have bor- 
 rowed from Shakespeare, or Shakespeare from the German, 
 or both of them from some common source. Tieck gave it 
 as his opinion that the German was derived from an English 
 original now lost, to which Shakespeare was also indebted 
 for the incidents of The Tempest. There the matter has to 
 rest for the present. — There is, besides, an old ballad called 
 The Inchanted Island, which was once thought to have con- 
 tributed something towards the play : but it is now generally 
 
280 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 held to be more modern than the play, and probably founded 
 upon it ; the names and some of the incidents being varied, 
 as if on purpose to disguise its connection with a work that 
 was popular on the stage. 
 
 Locality of the Scene. 
 
 There has been considerable discussion as to the scene of 
 The Tempest. A wide range of critics from Mr Chalmers to 
 Mrs. Jameson have taken for granted that the Poet fixed 
 his scene in the Bermudas. For this they have alleged no 
 authority but his mention of " the still-vex'd Bermoothes." 
 Ariel's trip from " the deep nook to fetch dew from the still- 
 vex'd Bermoothes " does indeed show that the Bermudas 
 were in the Poet's mind ; but then it also shows that his 
 scene was not there ; for it had been no feat at all worth 
 mentioning for Ariel to fetch dew from one part of the Ber- 
 mudas to another. An aerial voyage of some two or three 
 thousand miles was the least that so nimble a messenger 
 could be expected to make any account of. Besides, in less 
 than an hour after the wrecking of the King's ship, the rest 
 of the fleet are said to be upon the Mediterranean, "bound 
 sadly home for Naples." On the other hand, the Rev. Mr. 
 Hunter is very positive that, if we read the i)lay with a map 
 before us, we shall bring up at the island of Lampedusa, 
 which " lies midway between Malta and the African coast." 
 He makes out a pretty fair case, nevertheless I must be ex- 
 cused ; not so much that I positively reject his theory as 
 that I simply do not care whether it be true or not. But, if 
 we must have any supposal about it, the most reasonable as 
 well as the most poetical one seems to be, that the Poet, 
 writing without a map, placed his scene upon an island of 
 the mind ; and that it suited his purpose to transfer to his 
 
INTRODUCTION. 28 1 
 
 ideal whereabout some of the wonders of Transatlantic dis' 
 covery. I should almost as soon think of going to history 
 for the characters of Ariel and CaHban, as to geography for 
 the size, locality, or whatsoever else, of their dwelling-place. 
 And it is to be noted that the old ballad just referred to 
 seems to take for granted that the island was but an island 
 of the mind ; representing it to have disappeared upon Pros- 
 pero's leaving it ; — 
 
 From that day forth the isle has been 
 By wandering sailors never seen : 
 
 Some say 'tis buried deep 
 Beneath the sea, which breaks and roars 
 Above its savage rocky shores, 
 
 Nor e'er is known to sleep. 
 
 General Characteristics. 
 
 The Tempest is on all hands regarded as one of Shake- 
 peare's perfectest works. Some of his plays, I should say, 
 have beams in their eyes ; but this has hardly so much as a 
 mote ; or, if it have any motes, my own eyes are not clear 
 enough to discern them. I dare not pronounce the work 
 faultless, for this is too much to affirm of any human work- 
 manship ; but I venture to think that wliatever faults it may 
 have are such as criticism is hardly competent to specify. 
 In the characters of Ariel, Miranda, and Caliban, we have 
 three of the most unique and original conceptions that ever 
 sprang from the wit of man. We can scarce imagine how 
 the Ideal could be pushed further beyond Nature ; yet we 
 here find it clothed with all the truth and life of Nature. 
 And the whole texture of incident and circumstance is framed 
 in keeping with that Ideal ; so that all the parts and particu- 
 lars cohere together, mutually supporting and supported. 
 
282 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 The leading sentiment naturally inspired by the scenes of 
 this drama is, I believe, that of delighted wonder. And such, 
 as appears from the heroine's name, Miranda, who is the 
 potency of the drama, is probably the sentiment which the 
 play was meant to inspire. But the grace and efficacy in 
 which the workmanship is steeped are so etherial and so fine, 
 that they can hardly be discoursed in any but the poetic 
 form : it may well be doubted whether Criticism has any 
 fingers delicate enough to grasp them. So much is tliis tlie 
 case, that it seemed to me quite doubtful whether I should 
 do well to undertake the theme at all. For Criticism is 
 necessarily obliged to substitute, more or less, the forms of 
 logic for those of art ; and art, it scarce need be said, can 
 do many things that are altogether beyond the reach of logic. 
 On the other hand, the charm and verdure of these scenes 
 are so unwithering and inexhaustible, that I could not quite 
 make up my mind to leave the subject untried. Nor do I 
 know how I can better serve my countrymen than by en- 
 gaging and helping them in the study of this great inherit- 
 ance of natural wisdom and unreproved delight. For, as- 
 suredly, if they early learn to be at home and to take pleasure 
 in Shakespeare's workmanship, their whole after-hfe will be 
 the better and the happier for it. 
 
 Coleridge says "77/^ Tempest is a specimen of the purely 
 romantic drama." The term romantic is here used in a 
 technical sense ; that is, to distinguish the Shakespearian 
 from the Classic Drama. In this sense, I cannot quite 
 agree with the great critic that the drama is purely roman- 
 tic. Highly romantic it certainly is, in its wide, free, bold 
 variety of character and incident, and in all the qualities that 
 enter into the picturesque ; yet not romantic in such sort, I 
 think, but that it is at the same time equally classic ; classic, 
 
INTRODUCTION, 283 
 
 not only in that the unities of time and place are strictly ob- 
 served, but as having the other qualities which naturally go 
 with those laws of the classic form ; in its severe beauty and 
 majestic simplicity, its interfusion of the lyrical and ethical, 
 and in the mellow atmosphere of serenity and composure 
 which envelopes it : as if on purpose to show the Poet's 
 mastery not only of both the Classic and Romantic Drama, 
 but of the common Nature out of which both of them grew. 
 This union of both kinds in one without hindrance to the 
 distinctive qualities of either, — this it is, I think, that chiefly 
 distinguishes T/ie Tempest from the Poet's other dramas. 
 Some have thought that in this play Shakespeare specially 
 undertook to silence the pedantic cavillers of his time by 
 showing that he could keep to the rules of the Greek stage, 
 if he chose to do so, without being any the less himself. 
 But it seems more likely that he was here drawn into such 
 a course by the leading of his own wise spirit than by the 
 cavils of contemporary critics ; the form appearing too cog- 
 nate with the matter to have been dictated by any thing 
 external to the work itself. 
 
 There are some points that naturally suggest a comparison 
 between The Tempest and A Midsuniffter-Night' s Dream. 
 In both the Poet has with equal or nearly equal success car- 
 ried Nature, as it were, beyond herself, and peopled a purely 
 ideal region with the attributes of life and reality ; so that 
 the characters touch us like substantive, personal beings, as 
 if he had but described, not created them. But, beyond 
 this, the resemblance ceases : indeed no two of his plays 
 differ more widely in all other respects. 
 
 The Tempest presents a combination of elements appar- 
 ently so incongruous that we cannot but marvel how they 
 were brought together ; yet they blend so sweetly, and c6- 
 
284 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 operate so smoothly, that we at once feel at home with them, 
 and see nothing to hinder their union in the world of which 
 we are a part. For in the mingling of the natural and the 
 supernatural we here find no gap, no break ; nothing dis- 
 jointed or abrupt ; the two being drawn into each other 
 so harmoniously, and so knit together by mutual participa- 
 tions, that they seem strictly continuous, with no distinguish- 
 able line to mark where they meet and join. It is as if the 
 gulf which apparently separates the two worlds had been 
 abolished, leaving nothing to prevent a free circulation and 
 intercourse between them. 
 
 The Hero. 
 
 Prospero, standing in the centre of the whole, acts as a 
 kind of subordinate Providence, reconciling the diverse ele- 
 ments to himself and in himself to one another. Though 
 armed with supernatural might, so that the winds and waves 
 obey him, his magical and mysterious powers are tied to 
 truth and right : his " high charms work " to none but just 
 and beneficent ends ; and whatever might be repulsive in 
 the magician is softened and made attractive by the virtues 
 of the man and the feelings of the father : Ariel links him 
 with the world above us, Caliban with the world beneath us, 
 and Miranda — "thee, my dear one, thee my daughter" — 
 with the world around and within us. And the mind acqui- 
 esces freely in the miracles ascribed to him ; his thoughts 
 and aims being so at one with Nature's inward harmonies, 
 that we cannot tell whether he shapes her movements or 
 merely falls in with them ; that is, whether his art stands in 
 submission or command. His sorcery indeed is the sorcery 
 of knowledge, his magic the magic of virtue. For what so 
 marvellous as the inward, vital necromancy of good which 
 
INTRODUCTION. 285 
 
 transmutes the wrongs that are done Iiim into motives of 
 beneficence, and is so far from being hurt by the powers of 
 Evil, that it turns their assaults into new sources of strength 
 against them ? And with what a smooth tranquillity of spirit 
 he everywhere speaks and acts ! as if the discipline of adver- 
 sity had but served 
 
 to elevate the will, 
 And lead him on to that transcendent rest 
 Where every passion doth the sway attest 
 Of Reason seated on her sovereign hill. 
 
 Shakespeare and Bacon, the Prince of poets and the Prince 
 of philosophers, wrought out their mighty works side by side, 
 and nearly at the same time, though without any express 
 recognition of each other. And why may we not regard 
 Prospero as prognosticating in a poetical form those vast 
 triumphs of man's rational spirit which the philosopher fore- 
 saw and prepared ? For it is observable that, before Pros- 
 pero's coming to the island, the powers which cleave to his 
 thoughts and obey his " so potent art " were at perpetual 
 war, the better being in subjection to the worse, and all being 
 turned from their rightful ends into a mad, brawling disso- 
 nance : but he teaches them to know their places ; and, 
 "weak masters though they be," without such guidance, yet 
 under his ordering they become powerful, and work together 
 as if endowed with a rational soul and a social purpose ; their 
 insane gabble turning to speech, their savage howling to 
 music ; so that 
 
 the isle is full of noises, 
 Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. 
 
 Wherein is boldly figured the educating of Nature up, so to 
 speak, into intelligent ministries, she lending man hands be- 
 cause he lends her eyes, and weaving her forces into vital 
 union with him. 
 
286 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 You by whose aid — 
 Weak masters though ye be — I have bedimni'd 
 The noontide Sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, 
 And 'twixt the green sea and the azure vault 
 Set roaring war : to the dread-rattling thunder 
 Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 
 With his own bolt : the strong-based promontory 
 Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck'd up 
 The pine and cedar. 
 
 In this bold imagery we seem to have a kind of prophecy 
 of what human science and skill have since achieved in tam- 
 ing the great forces of Nature to man's hand, and harnessing 
 them into his service. Is not all this as if the infernal powers 
 should be appeased and soothed by the melody and sweet- 
 ness of the Orphean harp and voice ? And do we not see 
 how the very elements themselves grow happy and merry in 
 serving man, when he by his wisdom and eloquence has 
 once charmed tliem into order and concert ? Man has but 
 to learn Nature's language and obey her voice, and she 
 clothes him with plenipotence. The mad warring of her 
 forces turns to rational speech and music when he holds the 
 torcli of reason before them and makes it shine full in their 
 faces. Let him but set himself steadfastly to understand and 
 observe her laws, and her mighty energies hasten to wait 
 upon him, as docile to his hand as the lion to the eye and 
 voice of Lady Una. So that we may not unfairly apply to 
 Prospero what Bacon so finely interprets of Orpheus, as " a 
 wonderful and divine person skilled in all kinds of harmony, 
 subduing and drawing all things after him by sweet and gen- 
 tle methods and modulations." 
 
 All this, to be sure, is making the work rather an allegory 
 than a drama, and therein of course misrepresents its quality. 
 For the connecting links in this strange intercourse of man 
 
INTRODUCTION. 287 
 
 and Nature are " beings individually determined," and affect 
 us as persons, not as propositions. 
 
 Prospero's Prime Minister. 
 
 Ariel and Caliban are equally preternatural, though in op- 
 posite directions. Ariel's very being is spun out of melody 
 and fragrance ; at least, if a feeling soul and an intelligent 
 will are the warp, these are the woof of his exquisite texture. 
 He has just enough of human-heartedness to know how he 
 would feel were he human, and a proportionable sense of 
 gratitude, which has been aptly called " the memory of the 
 heart " : hence he needs to be often reminded of his obliga- 
 tions, but is religiously true to them so long as he remembers 
 them. His dehcacy of nature is nowhere more apparent 
 than in his sympathy with right and good : the instant he 
 comes within their touch he follows them without reserve ; 
 and he will suffer any torments rather than " act the earthy 
 and abhorr'd commands " that go against his moral grain. 
 And what a merry little personage he is withal ! as if his 
 being were cast together in an impulse of play, and he would 
 spend his whole life in one perpetual frolic. 
 
 But the main ingredients of Ariel's zephyr-like constitution 
 are shown in his leading inclinations ; as he naturally has 
 most affinity for that of which he is framed. Moral ties are 
 irksome to him ; they are not his proper element : when he 
 enters their sphere, he feels them to be holy indeed ; but, 
 were he free, he would keep out of their reach, and follow 
 the circling seasons in their course, and always dwell merrily 
 in the fringes of Summer. Prospero quietly intimates his 
 instinctive dread of the cold by threatening to make him 
 " howl away twelve Winters." And the chief joy of his 
 promised release from service is, that he will then be free 
 
288 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 to live all the year through under the soft rule of Summer, 
 with its flowers and fragrancies and melodies. He is indeed 
 an arrant little epicure of perfume and sweet sounds, and 
 gives forth several songs which " seem to sound in the air, 
 and as if the person playing them were invisible." 
 
 A part of Ariel's unique texture is well shown in the scene 
 where he relents at the sufferings of the shipwrecked lords, 
 and remonstrates with his master in their behalf : — 
 
 Ariei. The King, 
 
 His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted ; 
 And the remainder mourning over them. 
 Brimful of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly 
 He that you term'd f/ie good old lord, Gonzalo : 
 His tears run down his beard, like winter-drops 
 From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 'em, 
 That, if you now beheld them, your affections 
 Would become tender. 
 
 Pros. Dost thou think so, spirit ? 
 
 Artel. Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 
 Another mark-worthy feature of Ariel is, that his power 
 does not stop with the physical forces of Nature, but reaches 
 also to the hearts and consciences of men ; so that by his 
 music he can kindle or assuage the deepest griefs of the one, 
 and strike the keenest pangs of remorse into the other. This 
 comes out in the different effects of his art upon Ferdinand 
 and the guilty King, as related by the men themselves : — 
 
 Where should this music be ? i' the air or th" earth ? 
 It sounds no more : and, sure, it waits upon 
 Some god o' the island. Sitting on a bank. 
 Weeping again the King my father's wreck, 
 This music crept by me upon the waters. 
 Allaying both their fury and my passion 
 With its sweet air : thence I have follow'd it, 
 Or it hath drawn me rather : but 'tis gone. 
 No, it begins again. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 289 
 
 Such is the effect on Ferdinand : now mark the contrast 
 when we come to the King : — 
 
 O, it is monstrous, monstrous! 
 Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it; 
 The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder, 
 That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced 
 The name of Prosper : it did bass my trespass. 
 Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded ; and 
 I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded, 
 And with him there lie mudded. 
 
 In the planting of love, too, Ariel beats old god Cupid all 
 to nothing. For it is through some witchcraft of his that 
 Ferdinand and Miranda are surprised into a mutual rapture ; 
 so that Prospero notes at once how " at the first sight they 
 have changed eyes," and " are both in cither's power." All 
 which is indeed just what Prospero wanted ; yet he is him- 
 self fairly startled at the result : that fine issue of nature out- 
 runs his thought ; and the wise old gentleman takes care 
 forthwith lest it work too fast : — 
 
 This swift business 
 I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 
 Make the prize light. 
 
 I must note one more trait in Ariel. It is his fondness of 
 mischievous sport, wherein he reminds us somewhat of Fairy 
 Puck in A Midsummer-Night'' s Dream. It is shown in the 
 evident gust with which he relates the trick he has played on 
 Caliban and his confederates, when they were proceeding to 
 execute their conspiracy against the hero's life : — 
 
 As I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; 
 So full of valour, that they smote the air 
 For breathing in their faces ; beat the ground 
 For kissing of their feet ; yet always bending 
 Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; 
 At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd their ears, 
 
290 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses 
 As they smelt music : so I charm'd their ears, 
 That, calf-like, they my lowing foUow'd through 
 Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, 
 Which enter'd their frail shins : at last I left them 
 r the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell. 
 There dancing up to th" chins. 
 
 Of Ariel's powers and functions as Prospero's prime min- 
 ister, no logical forms, nothing but the Poet's art, can give 
 any sort of an idea. No painter, I am sure, can do any 
 thing with him ; still less can any sculptor. Gifted with the 
 ubiquity and multiformity of the substance from which he 
 is named, before we can catch and define him in any one 
 shape, he has passed into another. All we can say of him 
 on this score is, that through his agency Prospero's thoughts 
 forthwith become things, his volitions events. And yet, 
 strangely and diversely as Ariel's nature is elemented and 
 composed, with touches akin to several orders of being, 
 there is such a self-consistency about him, he is so cut out 
 in individual distinctness, and so rounded-in with personal 
 attributes, that contemplation freely and easily rests upon 
 him as an object. In other words, he is by no means an 
 abstract idea personified, or any sort of intellectual diagram, 
 but a veritable person ; and we have a personal feeling to- 
 wards the dear creature, and would fain knit him into the 
 living circle of our human affections, making him a familiar 
 playfellow of the heart, to be cherished with " praise, blame, 
 love, kisses, tears, and smiles." 
 
 Caliban. 
 
 If Caliban strikes us as a more wonderful creation than 
 Ariel, it is probal)ly because he has more in common with 
 us, without being in any proper sense human. Perhaps I 
 
INTRODUCTION. 29 1 
 
 cannot hit him off better than by saying that he represents, 
 both in body and soul, a sort of intermediate nature between 
 man and brute, with an infusion of something that belongs 
 to neither ; as though one of the transformations imagined 
 by the evolutionists had stuck midway in its course, where 
 a breath or vapour of essential Evil had knit itself vitally into 
 his texture. Caliban has all the attributes of humanity from 
 the moral downwards, so that his nature touches and borders 
 upon the sphere of moral life : still the result but approves 
 his exclusion from such life, in that it brings him to recog- 
 nize moral law only as making for self ; that is, he has in- 
 telligence of seeming wrong in what is done to him, but no 
 conscience of what is wrong in his own doings. It is a most 
 singular and significant stroke in the delineation, that sleep 
 seems to loosen the fetters of his soul, and lift him above 
 himself: then indeed, and then only, "the muddy vesture 
 of decay " doth not so " grossly close him in," but that some 
 proper spirit-notices come upon him ; as if in his passive 
 state the voice of truth and good vibrated down to his soul, 
 and stopped there, being unable to kindle any answering 
 tones within : so that in his waking hours they are to him 
 but as the memory of a dream. 
 
 Sometime a thousand twangling instruments 
 Will hum about mine ears ; and sometime voices, 
 That, if I then had walced after long sleep. 
 Will make me sleep again : and then, in dreaming. 
 The clouds methought would open, and show riches 
 Ready to drop upon me ; that, when I waked, 
 I cried to dream again. 
 
 Thus Caliban is part man, part demon, part brute, each 
 being drawn somewhat out of itself by combination with the 
 others, and the union of all preventing him from being 
 either ; for which cause language has no generic term that 
 
292 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 fits him. Yet this strange, uncouth, but hfe-hke confusion of 
 natures Prospero has educated into a sort of poet. This, 
 however, has nowise tamed, it has rather increased, his in- 
 nate malignity and crookedness of disposition ; education 
 having of course but educed what was in him. Even liis 
 poetry is, for the most part, made up of the fascinations of 
 ughness ; a sort of inverted beauty ; the poetry of dissonance 
 and deformity ; the proper music of his nature being to 
 curse, its proper laughter to snarl. Schlegel finely compares 
 his mind to a dark cave, into which the light of knowledge 
 falling neither illuminates nor warms it, but only serves to 
 put in motion the poisonous vapours generated there. 
 
 Now it is by exhausting the resources of instruction on 
 such a being that his innate and essential deficiency is best 
 shown. For, had he the germs of a human soul, they must 
 needs have been drawn forth by the process that has made 
 him a poet. The magical presence of spirits has indeed cast 
 into the caverns of his brain some faint reflection of a better 
 world, but without calling up any answering emotions or as- 
 pirations ; he having no susceptibilities to catch and take in 
 the epiphanies that throng his whereabout. So that, para- 
 doxical as it may seem, he exemplifies the two-fold triumph 
 of art over nature, and of nature over art ; that is, art has tri- 
 umphed in making him a poet, and nature, in still keeping 
 him from being a man ; though he has enough of the human 
 in him to evince in a high degree the swelling of intellectual 
 pride. 
 
 But what is most remarkable of all in Caliban is the perfect 
 originality of his thoughts and manners. Though framed of 
 grossness and malignity, there is nothing vulgar or common- 
 place about him. ?Iis whole character indeed is developed 
 from within, not impressed from witliout ; the effect of Pros- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 293 
 
 pero's instructions Iiaving been to make him all the more 
 himself; and there being perhaps no soil in his nature for 
 conventional vices and knaveries to take root and grow in. 
 Hence the almost classic dignity of his behaviour compared 
 with that of the drunken sailors, who are little else than a 
 sort of low, vulgar conventionalities organized, and as such 
 not less true to the life than consistent with themselves. In 
 his simplicity, indeed, he at first mistakes them for gods who 
 " bear celestial liquor," and they wax merry enough at the 
 " credulous monster " ; but, in his vigour of thought and 
 purpose, he soon conceives such a scorn of their childish 
 interest in whatever trinkets and gewgaws meet their eye, as 
 fairly drives off his fit of intoxication ; and the savage of the 
 woods, half-human though he be, seems nobility itself beside 
 the savages of the city. 
 
 In fine, if Caliban is, so to speak, the organized sediment 
 and dregs of the place, from which all the finer spirit has 
 been drawn off to fashion the delicate Ariel, yet having some 
 parts of a human mind strangely interwoven with his struc- 
 ture ; every thing about him, all that he does and says, is 
 suitable and correspondent to such a constitution of nature. 
 So that all the elements and attributes of his being stand and 
 work together in living coherence, thus rendering him no 
 less substantive and personal to our apprehension than he is 
 original and peculiar in himself. 
 
 The Heroine. 
 
 Such are the objects and influences amidst which the 
 clear, placid nature of Miranda has been developed. Of 
 the world whence her father was driven, its crimes and fol- 
 lies and sufferings, she knows nothing ; he having studiously 
 kept all such notices from her, to the end, apparently, that 
 
294 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 nothing might thwart or hinder the plastic efficacies that 
 surrounded her. And here all the simple and original ele- 
 ments of her being, love, light, grace, honour, innocence, 
 all pure feelings and tender sympathies, whatever is sweet 
 and gentle and holy in womanhood, seem to have sprung 
 up in her nature as from celestial seed : " the contagion of 
 the world's slow stain " has not visited her; the chills and 
 cankers of artificial wisdom have not touched nor come nigh 
 her : if there were any fog or breath of evil in the place that 
 might else dim or spot her soul, it has been sponged up by 
 Caliban, as being more congenial with his nature ; while he 
 is simply "a villain she does not love to look on." Nor is 
 this all. 
 
 The aerial music beneath which her nature has expanded 
 with answering sweetness seems to rest visibly upon her, 
 linking her as it were with some superior order of beings : 
 the spirit and genius of the place, its magic and mystery, 
 have breathed their power into her face ; and out of them 
 she has unconsciously woven herself a robe of supernatural 
 grace, in which even her mortal nature seems half hidden, 
 so that we are in doubt whether she belongs more to Heaven 
 or to Earth. Thus both her native virtues and the efficacies 
 of the place seem to have crept and stolen into her unper- 
 ceived, by mutual attraction and assimilation twining together 
 in one growth, and each diffusing its life and beauty over 
 and through the others. It would seem indeed as if Words- 
 worth must have had Miranda in his eye, (or was he but 
 working in the spirit of that Nature which she so rarely 
 exemplifies ?) when he wrote the following : — 
 
 The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 To her; for her the willow bendj 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
INTRODUCTION. 295 
 
 Even in the motions of the storm 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round. 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 Yet, for all this, Miranda not a whit the less touches us as 
 a creature of flesh and blood, — 
 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller between life and death. 
 
 Nay, rather she seems all the more so, inasmuch as the 
 character thus coheres with the circumstances, the virtues 
 and poetries of the place being expressed in her visibly ; 
 and she would be far less real to our feelings, were not the 
 wonders of her whereabout thus vitally incorporated with 
 her innate and original attributes. 
 
 It is observable that Miranda does not perceive the work- 
 ing of her father's art upon herself. For, when he casts a 
 spell of drowsiness over her, so that she cannot choose but 
 sleep, on being awaked by him she tells him, " The strange- 
 ness of your story put heaviness in me." So his art conceals 
 itself in its very potency of operation ; and seems the more 
 like nature for being preternatural. It is another noteworthy 
 point, that while he is telling his strange tale he thinks she 
 is not listening attentively to his speech, partly because he 
 is not attending to it himself, his thoughts being busy with 
 the approaching crisis of his forttme, and drawn away to the 
 other matters which he has in hand, and partly because in 
 her trance of wonder at what he is relating she seems ab- 
 stracted and self-withdrawn from tlie matter of his discourse. 
 
296 
 
 THE TEMI'EST. 
 
 His own absent-mindedness on this occasion is aptly and 
 artfully indicated by his broken and disjointed manner of 
 speech. That his tongue and thought are not beating time 
 together appears in that the latter end of his sentences keeps 
 forgetting the beginning. 
 
 These are among the fine strokes and delicate touches 
 whereby the Poet makes, or rather permits, the character of 
 his persons to transpire so quietly as not to excite special 
 notice at the time. That Miranda should be so rapt at her 
 father's tale as to seem absent and wandering, is a charming 
 instance in point. For indeed to her the supernatural stands 
 in the place of Nature ; and nothing is so strange and won- 
 derful as what actually passes in the life and heart of man : 
 miracles have been her daily food, her father being the great- 
 est miracle of all ; which must needs make the common 
 events and passions and perturbations of the world seem to 
 her miraculous. All which is \VTOught out by the Poet with 
 so much art anei so little appearance of art, that Franz Horn 
 is the only critic, so far as I know, that seems to have thought 
 of it. 
 
 I must not dismiss Miranda without remarking the sweet 
 union of womanly dignity and childlike simplicity in her char- 
 acter, she not knowing or not caring to disguise the innocent 
 movements of her heart. This, too, is a natural result of 
 her situation. The instance to which I refer is when Fer- 
 dinand, his manhood all alive with her, lets her hear his soul 
 speak ; and she, weeping at what she is glad of, replies, — 
 
 Hence, bashful cunning ! 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! — 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me : 
 If not, I'll die your maid : to be your fellow 
 You may deny me ; but I'll be your servant, 
 Whether you will or no. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 297 
 
 Equally fine is the circumstance that her father opens to her 
 the story of his Hfe, and lets her into the secret of her noble 
 birth and ancestry, at a time when she is suffering with those 
 that she saw suffer, and when her eyes are jewelled with 
 " drops that sacred pity hath engender'd " ; as if on purpose 
 that the ideas of rank and dignity may sweetly blend and co- 
 alesce in her mind with the sympathies of the woman. 
 
 The Prince. 
 
 In Ferdinand is portrayed one of those happy natures, 
 such as we sometimes meet with, who are built up all the 
 more strongly in truth and good by contact with the vices 
 and meannesses of the world. Courage, piety, and honour 
 are his leading characteristics ; and these virtues are so much 
 at home in his breast, and have such an easy, natural ascen- 
 dant in his conduct, that he thinks not of them, and cares 
 only to prevent or remove the stains which affront his inward 
 eye. The meeting of him and Miranda is replete with magic 
 indeed, — a magic higher and more potent even than Pros- 
 pero's ; the riches that nestle in their bosoms at once leaping 
 forth and running together in a stream of poetry which no 
 words of mine can describe. So much of beauty in so few 
 words, and those few so plain and simple, — " O, wondrous 
 skill and sweet wit of the man ! " 
 
 Shakespeare's genius is specially venerable in that he makes 
 piety and honour go hand in hand with love. It seems to 
 have been a fixed principle with him, if indeed it was not 
 rather a genial instinct, that where the heart is rightly en- 
 gaged, there the highest and tenderest thoughts of religion do 
 naturally cluster and converge. For indeed the love tliat 
 looks to marriage is itself a religion : its first impulse is to in- 
 vest its object with poetry and consecration : to be " true to 
 
298 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 the kindred points of Heaven and home," is both its inspira- 
 tion and its law. It thus involves a sort of regeneration of the 
 inner man, and carries in its hand the baptismal fire of a 
 nobler and diviner life. 
 
 And so it is in this delectable instance. In Ferdinand, as 
 in all generous natures, " love betters what is best." Its first 
 springing in his breast stirs his heavenward thoughts and as- 
 pirations into exercise : the moment that kindles his heart 
 towards Miranda also kindles his soul in piety to God ; and 
 he knows not how to commune in prayer with the Source of 
 good, unless he may couple her welfare with his own, and 
 breathe her name in his holiest service. Thus his love and 
 piety are kindred and coefficient forces, as indeed all true 
 love and piety essentially are. However thoughtless we may 
 be of the Divine help and guardianship for ourselves, we can 
 hardly choose but crave them for those to whom our souls 
 are knit in the sacred dearness of household ties. And so 
 with this noble pair, the same power that binds them to each 
 other in the sacraments of love also binds them both in de- 
 vout allegiance to tlie Author of their being ; whose pres- 
 ence is most felt by them in the sacredness of their mutual 
 truth. 
 
 So much for the illustration here so sweetly given of the 
 old principle, that whatsoever lies nearest a Christian's heart, 
 whatsoever he tenders most dearly on Earth, whatsoever 
 draws in most intimately with the currents of his soul, that 
 is the spontaneous subject-matter of his prayers ; our purest 
 loves thus sending us to God, as if from an instinctive feel- 
 ing that, unless God be sanctified in our hearts, our hearts 
 cannot retain their proper life. 
 
 In regard to what springs up between Ferdinand and INIi- 
 randa, it is to be noted that Prospero does little but furnish 
 
INTRODUCTION. 299 
 
 occasions. He indeed thanks the quaint and delicate Ariel 
 for the kindling touch that so quickly puts them " both in 
 cither's power " ; for it seems to him the result of a finer 
 inspiration than his art can reach ; and so he naturally at- 
 tributes it to the magic of his airy minister ; whereas in truth 
 it springs from a source far deeper than the magic of either, 
 — a pre-established harmony which the mutual recognition 
 now first quickens into audible music. After seeing himself 
 thus outdone by the Nature he has been wont to control, 
 and having witnessed such a " fair encounter of two most 
 rare affections," no wonder that Prospero longs to be a man 
 again, like other men, and gladly returns to 
 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 The common Hfe, our nature breeds; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 Antonio, Sebastian, and Gonzalo. 
 
 The strength and delicacy of imagination displayed in the 
 characters already noticed are hardly more admirable than 
 the truth and subtilty of observation shown in others. 
 
 In the delineation of Antonio and Sebastian, short as it is, 
 we have a volume of wise science, which Coleridge remarks 
 upon thus : " In the first scene of the second Act, Shake- 
 speare has shown the tendency in bad men to indulge in 
 scorn and contemptuous expressions, as a mode of getting 
 rid of their own uneasy feelings of inferiority to the good, 
 and also of rendering the transition of others to wicknedness 
 easy, by making the good ridiculous. Shakespeare never 
 puts habitual scorn into the mouths of other than bad men. 
 as here in the instance of Antonio and Sebastian." 
 
 Nor is there less of judgment in the means used by Prospero 
 
300 THE TEMPEST, 
 
 for bringing them to a better mind ; provoking in them the 
 purpose of crime, and then taking away the performance ; 
 that so he may lead them to a knowledge of themselves, 
 and awe or shame down their evil by his demonstrations 
 of good. For such is the proper effect of bad designs thus 
 thwarted, showing the authors at once the wickedness of 
 their hearts and the weakness of their hands ; whereas, if 
 successful in their schemes, pride of power would forestall 
 and prevent the natural shame and remorse of guilt. And 
 we little know what evil it lieth and lurketh in our hearts to 
 will or to do, till occasion invites or permits ; and Prospero's 
 art here stands in presenting the occasion till the wicked 
 purpose is formed, and then removing it as soon as the hand 
 is raised. In the case of Antonio and Sebastian, the work- 
 ings of magic are so mixed up with those of Nature, that we 
 cannot distinguish them ; or rather Prospero here causes 
 the supernatural to pursue the methods of Nature. 
 
 And the same deep skill is shown in the case of the good 
 old Lord Gonzalo, whose sense of his own infelicities seems 
 lost in his care to minister comfort and diversion to others. 
 Thus his virtue spontaneously opens the springs of wit and 
 humour in him amid the terrors of the storm and shipwreck ; 
 and he is merry while others are suffering, and merry even 
 from sympathy with them ; and afterwards his thoughtful 
 spirit plays with Utopian fancies ; and if " the latter end of 
 his Commonwealth forgets the beginning," it is all the same 
 to him, his purpose being only to beguile the anguish of 
 supposed bereavement. It has been well said that " Gon- 
 zalo is so occupied with duty, in which alone he finds pleas- 
 ure, that he scarce notices the gnat-stings of wit with which 
 his opponents pursue him ; or, if he observes, firmly and 
 easily repels them," 
 
INTRODUCTION. 3OI 
 
 The Comic Matter. 
 
 The comic portions and characters of this play are in 
 Shakespeare's raciest vein ; yet they are perfectly unique 
 and singular withal, being quite unlike any other of his 
 preparations in that kind, as much so as if they were the 
 growth of a different planet. 
 
 The presence of Trinculo and Stephano in the play has 
 sometimes been regarded as a blemish. I cannot think it 
 so. Their part is not only good in itself as comedy, but is 
 in admirable keeping with the rest. Their follies give a zest 
 and relish to the high poetries amidst which they grow. 
 Such things go to make up the mysterious whole of human 
 life ; and they often help on our pleasure while seeming to 
 hinder it : we may think they were better left out, but, were 
 they left out, we should somehow feel the want of them. 
 Besides, this part of the work, if it does not directly yield a 
 grateful fragrance, is vitally connected with the parts that 
 do. For there is perhaps no one of the Poet's dramas of 
 which it can be more justly affirmed that all the parts draw 
 together in organic unity, so that every thing helps every 
 other thing. 
 
 Concluding Remarks. 
 
 Such are the strangely-assorted characters that make up 
 this charming play. This harmonious working together of 
 diverse and opposite elements, — this smooth concurrence 
 of heterogeneous materials in one varied yet coherent im- 
 pression, — by what subtile process this is brought about, is 
 perhaps too deep a problem for Criticism to solve. 
 
 I cannot leave the theme without remarking what an at- 
 mosphere of wonder and mystery overhangs and pervades 
 
302 THE TEMPEST, 
 
 this singular structure ; and how the whole seems steeped in 
 glories invisible to the natural eye, yet made visible by the 
 Poet's art : so that the effect, is to lead the thoughts insen- 
 sibly upwards to other worlds and other forms of being. It 
 were difificult to name any thing else of human workmanship 
 so thoroughly transfigured with 
 
 the gleam, 
 The hght that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration and the poet's dream. 
 
 The celestial and the earthly are here so commingled, — 
 commingled, but not confounded, — that we see not where 
 the one begins or the other ends : so that in the reading we 
 seem transported to a region where we are strangers, yet old 
 acquaintances ; where all things are at once new and famil- 
 iar; the unearthly visions of the spot hardly touching us 
 with surprise, because, though wonderful indeed, there is 
 nothing about them but what readily finds or creates some 
 answering powers and sympathies within us. In other words, 
 they do not surprise us, because they at once kindle us into 
 fellowship with them. That our thoughts and feelings are 
 thus at home with such things, and take pleasure in them, — 
 is not this because of some innate aptitudes and affinities of 
 our nature for a supernatural and celestial life? 
 
 Point not these mysteries to an art 
 Lodged above the starry pole ? 
 
 Professor Dowden's Comments. 
 The wrong-doers of The Tempest are a group of persons 
 of various degrees of criminality, from Prospero's perfidious 
 brother, still active in plotting evil, to Alonso, whose obliga- 
 tions to the Duke of Milan had been of a public or princely 
 kind. Spiritual powers are in alliance with Prospero ; and 
 
INTRODUCTION. 3O3 
 
 these, by terror and the awakening of remorse, prepare Alonso 
 for receiving the bahii of Prospero's forgiveness. He looks 
 upon liis son as lost, and recognizes in his son's loss the pun- 
 ishment af his own guilt. " The powers delaying, not for- 
 getting," have incensed the sea and shores against the sinful 
 men ; nothing can deliver them except " heart-sorrow, and 
 a clear life ensuing." Goethe, in the opening of the Second 
 Part of Faust, has represented the ministry of external nature 
 fulfilling functions with reference to the human conscience 
 precisely the reverse of those ascribed to it in The Tempest. 
 Faust, escaped from the prison-scene and the madness of 
 Margarete, is lying on a flowery grass-plot, weary, restless, 
 striving to sleep. The Ariel of Goethe calls upon his attend- 
 ant elvish spirits to prepare the soul of Faust for renewed 
 energy by bathing him in the dew of Lethe's stream, by 
 assuaging his pain, by driving back remorse. To dismiss 
 from his conscience the sense of the wrong he has done to 
 a dead woman, is the initial step in the further education 
 and development of Faust. Shakespeare's Ariel, breathing 
 through the elements and the powers of Nature, quickens 
 the remorse of the King for a crime of twelve years since. 
 
 The enemies of Prospero are now completely in his power. 
 How shall he deal with them ? They had perfidiously taken 
 advantage of his unworldly and unpractical habits of life ; 
 they had thrust him away from his dukedom ; they had 
 exposed him with his three-years'-old daughter in a rotten 
 boat to the mercy of the waves. Shall he not now avenge 
 himself without remorse? What is Prospero's decision? 
 
 Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th' quick, 
 
 Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury 
 
 Do I take part : the rarer action is 
 
 In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent, 
 
 The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
 
 Not a frown further. 
 
304 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 We have seen how Timon turned fiercely upon mankind, 
 and hated the wicked race : " I am Misanthropes, and hate 
 mankind." The wrongs inflicted upon Prospero were cru- 
 eller and more base than those from which Timon suffered. 
 But Prospero had not lived in a summer mood of lax and 
 prodigal benevolence : he had lived severely, " all dedicated 
 to closeness and the bettering of my mind." And out of the 
 strong comes forth sweetness. In the play of Cymbclme, the 
 wrong which Posthumus has suffered from the Italian lachimo 
 is only less than that which Othello endures at the hands of 
 lago. But lachimo, unlike lago, is unable to sustain the 
 burden of his guilt, and sinks under it. In the closing scene 
 of Cymbeline, that in which Postliumus is himself welcomed 
 home to the heart of Imogen, Posthumus in his turn becomes 
 the pardoner : — 
 
 Kneel not to me : 
 The power that I have on you is to spare you ; 
 The malice toward you to forgive you : live, 
 And deal with others better. 
 
 Hermione, Imogen, Prospero, — these are, as it were, 
 names for the gracious powers which extend forgiveness to 
 men. From the first, Hermione, whose clear-sightedness is 
 equal to her courage, had perceived that her husband laboured 
 under a delusion which was cruel and calamitous to himself. 
 From the first, she transcends all blind resentment, and has 
 true pity for the man who wrongs her. But, if she has forti- 
 tude for her own uses, she is also able to accept for her hus- 
 band the inevitable pain which is needful to restore him to 
 his better mind. She will not shorten the term of his suffer- 
 ing, because that suffering is beneficent. And at the last 
 her silent embrace carries with it — and justly — a portion 
 of that truth she had uttered long before : — 
 
INTRODUCTION. 305 
 
 How will this grieve you, 
 When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that 
 You thus have publish'd me ! Gentle my lord, 
 You scarce can right me throughly then, to say 
 You did mistake. 
 
 The calm and complete comprehension of the fact is a pos- 
 session painful yet precious to Hermione ; and it lifts her 
 above all vulgar confusion of heart or temper, and above all 
 unjust resentment. 
 
 Imogen, who is the reverse of grave and massive in char- 
 acter, but who has an exquisite vivacity of feeling and fancy, 
 and a heart pure, quick, and ardent, passes from the swoon 
 of her sudden anguish to a mood of bright and keen resent- 
 ment, which is free from every trace of vindictive passion, 
 and is indeed only pain disguised. And in like manner she 
 forgives, not with self-possession and a broad, tranquil joy in 
 the accomplished fact, but through a pure ardour, an exquis- 
 ite eagerness of love and delight. Prospero's forgiveness is 
 solemn, judicial, and has in it something abstract and imper- 
 sonal. He cannot wrong his own higher nature, he cannot 
 wrong his nobler reason, by cherishing so unworthy a passion 
 as the desire of vengeance. Sebastian and Antonio, from whose 
 conscience no remorse has been elicited, are met by no com- 
 fortable pardon. They have received their lesson of failure 
 and pain, and may possibly be convinced of the good sense 
 and prudence of honourable dealing, even if they cannot per- 
 ceive its moral obligation. Alonso, who is repentant, is sol- 
 emnly pardoned. The forgiveness of Prospero is an embod- 
 iment of impartial wisdom and loving justice. 
 
 When a man has attained some high and luminous table- 
 land of joy or of renouncement; when he has really trans- 
 cended self; or when some one of the everlasting ^ irtuous 
 powers of the world, — duty, or sacrifice, or the strength of 
 
306 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 any thing higher than oneself, — has assumed authority over 
 him ; forthwith a strange, pathetic, ideal light is shed over 
 all beautiful things in the lower world which has been aban- 
 doned. We see the sunlight on our neighbour's field, while 
 we are preoccupied about the grain that is growing in our 
 own. And when we have ceased to hug our souls to any 
 material possession, we see the sunlight wherever it falls. In 
 the last chapter of George Eliot's great novel, Romola, who 
 has ascended into her clear and calm solitude of self-trans- 
 cending duty, bends tenderly over the children of Tito, utter- 
 ing, in words made simple for their needs, the lore she has 
 learnt from hfe, and seeing on their faces the light of strange, 
 ideal beauty. In the latest plays of Shakespeare, the sympa- 
 thetic reader can discern unmistakably a certain abandon- 
 ment of the common joy of the world, a certain remoteness 
 from the usual pleasures and sadnesses of hfe, and at the 
 same time, all the more, this tender bending over those who 
 are Uke children, still absorbed in their individual joys and 
 sorrows. 
 
 Over the beauty of youth and the love of youth there is 
 shed, in these plays of Shakespeare's final period, a clear yet 
 tender luminousness, not elsewhere to be perceived in his 
 writings. In his earlier plays, Shakespeare writes concerning 
 young men and maidens, their loves, their mirth, their griefs, 
 as one who is among them, who has a lively ])ersonal interest 
 in their concerns, who can make merry with them, treat them 
 familiarly, and, if need be, can mock them into good sense. 
 There is nothing in these early i)lays wonderful, strangely 
 beautiful, pathetic about youth and its joys and sorrows. In 
 the histories and tragedies, as was to be expected, more mas- 
 sive, broader, or more profound objects of interest engaged 
 the Poet's attention. But, in these latest plays, the beauti- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 307 
 
 ful pathetic light is always present. There are the sufferers, 
 aged, experienced, tried, — Queen Catharine, Prospero, Her- 
 mione. And over against these there are the children ab- 
 sorbed in their happy and exquisite egoism, — Perdita and 
 Miranda, Florizel and Ferdinand, and the boys of old Bela- 
 rius. 
 
 The same means to secure ideality for these figures, so 
 young and beautiful, is in each case (instinctively, perliaps, 
 rather than deliljerately) resorted to. They are lost chil- 
 dren, — princes or princesses, removed from the Court, and 
 its conventional surroundings, into some scene of rare natural 
 beauty. There are the lost princes, Arviragus and Guiderius, 
 among the mountains of Wales, drinking the free air, and of- 
 fering their salutations to the risen Sun. There is Perdita, 
 the shepherdess-princess, " queen of curds and cream," 
 sharing with old and young her flowers, lovelier and more 
 undying than those that Proserpina let fall from Dis's wag- 
 on. There is Miranda, (whose very name is significant of 
 wonder,) made up of beauty, and love, and womanly pity, 
 neither courtly nor rustic, with the breeding of an island of 
 enchantment, where Prospero is her tutor and protector, and 
 Caliban her servant, and the Prince of Naples her lover. 
 In each of these plays we can see Shakespeare, as it were, 
 tenderly bending over the joys and sorrows of youth. We 
 recognize this rather through the total characterization, and 
 through a feeling and a presence, than through definite 
 incident or statement. But some of this feeling escapes in 
 the disinterested joy and admiration of old Belarius when he 
 gazes at the princely youths, and in Camillo's loyalty to Flo- 
 rizel and Perdita ; while it obtains more distinct expression 
 in such a word as that which Prospero utters, when from a 
 distance he watches with pleasure Miranda's zeal to relieve 
 
308 THE TEMPEST, 
 
 Ferdinand from his task of log-bearing : " Poor worm, thou 
 art infected." 
 
 It is not chiefly because Prospero is a great enchanter, 
 now about to break his magic staff, to drown his book deeper 
 than ever plummet sounded, to dismiss his airy spirits, and 
 to return to the practical service of his Dukedom, that we 
 identify him in some measure with Shakespeare himself. It 
 is rather because the temper of Prospero, the grave harmony 
 of his character, his self-mastery, his calm validity of will, his 
 sensitiveness to wrong, his unfaltering justice, and, with these, 
 a certain abandonment, a remoteness from the common joys 
 and sorrows of the world, are characteristic of Shakespeare 
 as discovered to us in all liis latest plays. Prospero is a 
 harmonious and fully-developed will. In the earlier play of 
 fairy enchantments, A Miihiiminer- Nighfs Dream, the 
 " human mortals " wander to and fro in a maze of error, 
 misled by the mischievous frolic of Puck, the jester and 
 clown of Fairyland. But here the spirits of the elements, 
 and Caliban the gross genius of brute-matter, — needful for 
 the service of life, — are brought under subjection to the 
 human will of Prospero. 
 
 What is more, Prospero has entered into complete posses- 
 sion of himself. Shakespeare has shown us his quick sense 
 of injury, his intellectual impatience, his occasional moment 
 of keen irritability, in order that we may be more deeply 
 aware of his abiding strength and self-possession, and that 
 we may perceive how these have been grafted upon a tem- 
 perament not impassive or unexcitable. And Prospero has 
 reached not only the higher levels of moral attainment ; he 
 has also reached an altitude of thought from which he can 
 survey the whole of human life, and see how small and yet 
 how great it is. His heart is sensitive, he is profoundly 
 
INTRODUCTION. SOQ 
 
 touched by the joy of children, with whom in the egoism of 
 their love he passes for a thing of secondary interest ; he is 
 deeply moved by the perfidy of his brother. His brain is 
 readily set a-work, and can with difficulty be checked from 
 eager and excessive energizing ; he is subject to the access 
 of sudden and agitating thought. But Prospero masters his 
 own sensitiveness, emotional and intellectual : — 
 
 We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd ; 
 Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled : 
 Be not disturb'd with my infirmity : 
 If you be pleased, retire into my cell, 
 And there repose : a turn or two I'll walk, 
 To still my beating mind. 
 
 " Such stuff as dreams are made on." Nevertheless, in 
 this little life, in this dream, Prospero will maintain his dream - 
 rights and fulfil his dream-duties. In the dream, he, a Duke, 
 will accomplish Duke's work. Having idealized every thing, 
 Shakespeare left every thing real. Bishop Berkeley's foot 
 was no less able to set a pebble flying than was the lumber- 
 ing foot of Dr. Johnson. Nevertheless, no material substance 
 intervened between the soul of Berkeley and the immediate 
 presence of the play of Divine power. 
 
 A thought which seems to run through the whole of T//e 
 Tempest, appearing here and there like a coloured thread in 
 some web, is the thought that the true freedom of man con- 
 sists in service. Ariel, untouched by human feeling, is pant- 
 ing for his liberty : in the last words of Prospero are prom- 
 ised his enfranchisement and dismissal to the elements. Ariel 
 reverences his great master, and serves him with bright 
 alacrity ; but he is bound by none of our human ties, strong 
 and tender ; and he will rejoice when Prospero is to him as 
 
3IO THE TEMPEST. 
 
 though he never were. To Cahban, a land-fish, with the 
 duller elements of earth and water in liis composition, but 
 no portion of the higher elements, air and fire, though he 
 receives dim intimations of a higher world, — a musical hum- 
 ming, or a twangling, or a voice heard in sleep ; — to Cali- 
 ban, service is slavery. He hates to bear his logs ; he fears 
 the incomprehensible power of Prospero, and obeys, and 
 curses. The great master has usurped the rights of the 
 brute-power Caliban. And when Stephano and Trinculo 
 appear, ridiculously impoverished specimens of humanity, 
 with their shallow understandings and vulgar greeds, this 
 poor earth-monster is possessed by a sudden fanaticism for 
 liberty ! — 
 
 'Ban, 'Ban, Ca — Caliban 
 Has a new master : get a new man. 
 Freedom, hey-day ! hey-day, freedom ! freedom, hey-day, freedom! 
 
 His new master also sings his impassioned hymn of lib- 
 erty, the Marseillaise of the enchanted island : — 
 
 Flout 'em and scout 'em, and scout 'em and flout 'em; 
 Thought is free. 
 
 The leaders of the revolution, escaped from the stench 
 and foulness of the horse-pond, King Stephano and his 
 prime minister Trinculo, like too many leaders of the people, 
 bring to an end their great achievement on behalf of liberty 
 by quarrelling over booty, — the trumpery which the provi- 
 dence of Prospero had placed in their way. Caliban, though 
 scarce more truly wise or instructed than before, at least dis- 
 covers his particular error of the day and hour : — 
 
 What a thrice-double ass 
 Was I, to take this drunkard for a god. 
 And worship this dull fool ! 
 
INTRODUCTION. 3 I I 
 
 It must be admitted that Shakespeare, if not, as Hartley 
 Coleridge asserted, " a Tory and a gentleman," had within 
 him some of the elements of English conservatism. 
 
 But, while Ariel and Caliban, each in his own way, are im- 
 patient of service, the human actors, in whom we are chiefly 
 interested, are entering into bonds, — bonds of affection, 
 bonds of duty, in which they find their truest freedom. 
 Ferdinand and Miranda emulously contend in the task of 
 bearing the burden which Prospero has imposed upon the 
 Prince : — 
 
 I am, in my condition, 
 A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king, — 
 I would, not so ! — and would no more endure 
 This wooden slavery than to suffer 
 The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak: 
 The very instant that I saw you, did 
 My heart fly to your service ; there resides, 
 To make me slave to it ; and for your sake 
 Am I this patient log-man. 
 
 And Miranda speaks with the sacred candour from which 
 spring the nobler manners of a world more real and glad than 
 the world of convention and proprieties and pruderies : — 
 
 Hence, bashful cunning ! 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow 
 You may deny me; but I'll be your servant, 
 Whether you will or no. 
 
 Ferd. My mistress, dearest, 
 
 And I thus humble ever. 
 
 Mira. My husband, then ? 
 
 Ferd. Ay, with a heart as willing 
 As bondage e'er of freedom. 
 
 In an earlier part of the play, this chord which runs 
 through it had been playfully struck in the description of 
 
312 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Gonzalo's imaginary commonwealth, in which man is to be 
 enfranchised from all the laborious necessities of life. Here 
 is the ideal notional liberty, Shakespeare would say ; and to 
 attempt to realize it at once lands us in absurdities and self- 
 contradictions : — 
 
 For no kind of traffic 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
 Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, 
 And use of service, none ; contract, succession, 
 Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil ; 
 No occupation ; all men idle, all, 
 And women too, but innocent and pure; 
 No sovereignty : — 
 
 Sebas. Yet he would be king on't. 
 
 Anto. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning 
 
 Note. Professor Dowden's comments quoted in this Introduction 
 are taken by permission from his book, " Shakspere : A Critical StudY 
 of his Mind and Art." 
 
313 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 PEJeSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Alonso, King of Naples. 
 
 SEBASriAN, his Brother. 
 
 Prospero, the rightful Duke of Mi- 
 lan. 
 
 Antonio, his Brother, the usurping 
 Duke of Milan. 
 
 Ferdinand, Son to the King of Na- 
 ples. 
 
 GONZALO, an honest old Counsellor 
 of Naples. 
 
 Ai'i^'AN. {Lords. 
 
 FRANCISCO, ) 
 
 Caliban, a savage and deformed 
 Slave. 
 
 Trinculo, a Jester. 
 Stephano, a drunken Butler. 
 Master of a Ship, Boatswain, and 
 Mariners. 
 
 Miranda, Daughter to Prospero. 
 
 Ariel, an airy Spirit. 
 
 Other Spirits attending on Prospero. 
 
 Iris, 
 
 Ceres, 
 
 Juno, 
 
 Nymphs, 
 
 Reapers, 
 
 presented by Spirits. 
 
 Scene, a Ship at Sea; afteriuards an uninhabited Island. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — On a Ship at sea. A Storyn, with Thunder and 
 Lightning. 
 
 Enter Master and Boatswain severally. 
 
 Mast. Boatswain ! 
 
 Boats. Here, master : what cheer? 
 
314 THE TEMPEST. ACT 1. 
 
 Mast. Goodji speak to the mariners : fall to't yarely,- or 
 we run ourselves a-ground ; bestir, bestir. \E,xit. 
 
 E)iicr Mariners. 
 
 Boats. Heigh, my hearts ! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts ! 
 yare, yare ! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whis- 
 tle. \_Exciint Mariners.] — Blow till thou burst thy wind,^ if 
 room enough ! ^ 
 
 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo, 
 and Others. 
 
 Alon. Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master? 
 Play the men.^ 
 
 Boats. I pray now, keep below. 
 
 Anto. Where is the master, boatswain ? 
 
 Boats. Do you not hear him ? You mar our labour : 
 keep your cabins ; you do assist the storm. 
 
 1 Here, as in many other places, good is used just as we now use well. 
 So a little after : " Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard." Also in 
 Hamlet, i. i : "Good now, sit down, and tell me," &c. In the text, however, 
 it carries something of an evasive force ; as, " Let that go " ; or, " No matter 
 for that." 
 
 2 Yarely is niinbly, briskly, or alertly. So, in the next speech, yare, an 
 imperative verlj, is, be nimble, or be on the alert. The word is seldom if ever 
 used now in any form, but was much used in the Poet's time. In North's 
 Plutarch we liave such phrases as "galleys vio\. yare of steerage," and "ships 
 light oiyaragel' and "galleys heavy oiyaragc" 
 
 3 In Sliakespeare's time, the wind was often represented pictorially by 
 the figure of a man with his cheeks puffed out to their utmost tension with 
 the act of blowing. Probably the Poet liad such a figure in his mind. So 
 in King Lear, iii. 2 : " Blow, winds, and crack your cliecks .'" Also in Peri- 
 cles, iii. I : " Blow, and split thyself." 
 
 4 That is, " if we have sea-room enough." So in Pericles, iii. i : " FUit 
 sea-room, an the brine and cloudy billow kiss the Moon, I care not." 
 
 5 Act \\ ith spirit, behave like men. So in 2 Samuel, x. 12 : " Be of good 
 courage, and let us//iy the men for our people." 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 3 I 5 
 
 Gonza. Nay, good, be patient. 
 
 Boats. When the sea is. Hence ! What care these 
 roarers for the name of king ? To cabin : silence ! trouble 
 us not. 
 
 Gonza. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. 
 
 Boats. None that I more love than myself. You are a 
 counsellor : if you can command these elements to silence, 
 and work the peace of the present,^ we will not hand a rope 
 more ; use your authority : if you cannot, give thanks you 
 have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin 
 for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap. — Cheerly, good 
 hearts ! — Out of our way, I say. \^Exit. 
 
 Gonza. I have great comfort from this fellow : methinks 
 he hath no drowning-mark upon him; his complexion''' is 
 ]:)erfect gallows. — Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging ! 
 make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth 
 little ad\antage ! If he be not born to be hang'd, our case 
 is miserable. \_Excunt. 
 
 Re-enter Boatswain. 
 
 Boats. Down with the top-mast!^ yare ; lower, lower! 
 Bring her to try wi' th' main-course.^ \_^A cry withiuP\ A 
 
 ^ Present {oY present time. So in the Prayer-Book : "That those things 
 may please Him which we do at th\s present." And in i Corinthians, xv. 6: 
 " Of whom the greater part remain unto \W\s present." 
 
 "^ Complexion was often used for tiature, native bent or aptitude. See The 
 Aferchant of Venice, page 134, note 7. 
 
 ^ Of this order Lord Mtilgrave, a sailor critic, says, " The striking the 
 top-mast was a new invention in Shakespeare's time, which he here very 
 properly introduces. He has placed his ship in the situation in which it was 
 indisputably right to strike the top-mast, — where he had not sea-room." 
 
 9 This appears to have been a common nautical phrase. So in Hack- 
 luyt's Voyages, 1598 : "And when the bark had way we cut the hauser, and 
 so gat the sea to our friend, and tried out all the day n'itli our maine course." 
 Also in Smith's Sea Grammar, 1627 ; " Let us lie at trie with our maine 
 
3l6 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 plague upon this howling ! they are louder than the weather 
 or our ofifice.^" — 
 
 Re-enter Sebastian, Antonio, atid Gonzalo. 
 
 Yet again ! wliat do you liere ? Shall we give o'er, and 
 drown ? Have you a mind to sink ? 
 
 Sebas. A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, 
 incharitable dog ! 
 
 Boats. Work you, then. 
 
 Auto. Hang, cur, hang ! you whoreson, insolent noise- 
 maker, we are less afraid to be drown'd^i than thou art. 
 
 Gonza. I'll warrant him for drovvning,^- though the ship 
 were no stronger than a nut-shell. 
 
 Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold ! set her two courses ! ^"^ off 
 to sea again ; lay her off ! 
 
 course." And Sir Walter Raleigh speaks of being " obliged to lye at trye 
 with our main course and mizen." To lie at try is to keep as close to the 
 wind as possible. 
 
 1" Weather iox star 711. "Their howling drowns both the roaring of the 
 tempest and the commands of the officer," or " our official orders." 
 
 11 " Less afraid of being drown'd." So the Poet often uses the infinitive 
 gerundively, or like the Latin gerund. See King Lear, page 117, note 18; 
 also page 205, note 28. 
 
 12 As to, or as regards, drowning. A not uncommon use oi for. — Gon- 
 zalo has in mind the old proverb, " He that is born to be hanged will never 
 be drowned." 
 
 13 A ship's courses are her largest lower sails; "so called," says Holt, 
 "because they contribute most to give her way through the water, and thus 
 enable her to feel the helm, and steer her course better than when they are 
 not set or spread to the wind." Captain Glascock, another sailor critic, 
 comments thus : " The ship's head is to be put leeward, and the vessel to 
 be drawn off the land under that canvas nautically denominated the two 
 courses." To lay a ship a-hold is to bring her to lie as near the wind as 
 she can, in order to keep clear of the land, and get her out to sea. So Ad- 
 miral Smith, in his ^Sai7o/:s-' Wordbook: "Ahold: A term of our early navi- 
 gators, for bringing a ship close to the wind, so as to hold or keep to it." 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 317 
 
 Re-enter Mariners, wet. 
 
 Mariners. All lost ! to prayers, to prayers ! all lost ! 
 
 \_Exeu7it. 
 
 Boats. What, must our mouths be cold ? 
 
 Gonza. The King and Prince at prayers ! let us assist 
 them, 
 For our case is as theirs. 
 
 Sebas. I'm out of patience. 
 
 Anto. We're merely ^^ cheated out of our lives by drunk- 
 ards. 
 This wide-chopp'd rascal — would thou mightst lie drown- 
 ing 
 The washing of ten tides ! 
 
 Gonza. He'll be hang'd yet, 
 
 Though every drop of water swear against it, 
 And gape at widest to glut him.'^ 
 
 A conftised noise within. Mercy on us ! We split, we 
 split ! — Farewell, my wife and children ! — Farewell, bro- 
 ther ! — We split, we split, we split ! \_Exit Boatswain. 
 
 Anto. Let's all sink wi' th' King.i^ {^Exit. 
 
 Sebas. Let's take leave of him. \_Exit. 
 
 Gonza. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for 
 an acre of barren ground ; ling, heath, broom, furze, any 
 
 1* Merely, here, is utterly or absolutely. A frequent usage. So in Hamlet, 
 i. 2: "Things rank and gross in nature possess it merely." 
 
 15 Glut for englut ; that is, swallow up. — Widest is here a monosyllable. 
 The same with many words that are commonly two syllables. 
 
 16 This double elision of with and the, so as to draw the two into one 
 syllable, is quite frequent, especially in the Poet's later plays. So before in 
 this scene : " Bring her to try wi' tk' main course." Single elisions for the 
 same purpose, such as by th' , forth', from th' , to th' , &c., are still more fre- 
 quent. So in the first speech of the next scene : " Mounting to th' welkin's 
 cheek," 
 
3l8 THE TEMPEST. act i. 
 
 tiling.^''' The wills above ^^ be done ! but I would fain die a 
 dry death. 19 [ii.v/V. 
 
 Scene II. — The Island : before the Cell of Vkosve.ko. 
 
 Enter Prospero and Miranda. 
 
 Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you have 
 Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. 
 The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, 
 But that the sea, mounting to th' welkin's cheek,i 
 Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'd 
 With those that I saw suffer ! a brave- vessel, 
 Who had no doubt some noble creatures in her, 
 
 ^' Ling, heath, broom, oVlA furze were names of plants growing on British 
 barrens. So in Harrison's description of Britain, prefixed to Holinslied : 
 "Brome, heth,firze, brakes, whinnes, ling, &c." 
 
 IS Of course, " the ■wills above " is the will of the Powers above. 
 
 13 The first scene of The Tempest is a very striking instance of the great 
 accuracy of Shakespeare's knowledge in a professional science, the most 
 difficult to attain without the help of experience. He must have acquired 
 it by conversation with some of the most skilful seamen of that time. The 
 succession of events is strictly observed in the natural progress of the dis- 
 tress described ; the expedients adopted are the most proper that could 
 have been devised for a chance of safety : and it is neither to the want of 
 skill of the seamen or the bad qualities of the ship, but solely to the power 
 of Prospero, that the shipwreck is to be attributed. The words of command 
 are not only strictly proper, but are only such as point the object to be attained, 
 and no superfluous ones of detail. Shakespeare's ship was too well manned 
 to make it necessary to tell the seamen how they were to do it, as well as 
 what they were to do. — Lord Mulgrave. 
 
 1 Welkin is sky. We have other like expressions ; as," the cloudy cheeks 
 of heaven," in Richard the Second, and " the wide cheeks o' the air," in 
 Coriolanus. — The hyperbole of waves rolling sky-high occurs repeatedly. 
 So in The Winter's Tale, iii. 3 : " Now the ship boring the Moon with her 
 main-mast, and anon swallowed with yeast and froth." And in Othello, ii. i : 
 " The wind-shaked surge seems to cast water on the burning bear." 
 
 2 Brave \sjine or splendid; like the Scottish braw. Repeatedly so in this 
 play, as also elsewhere. 
 
SCENE U. THE TEMPEST. 3I9 
 
 Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock 
 Against my very heart ! Poor souls, they perish'd ! 
 Had I been any god of power, I would 
 Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er ^ 
 It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and 
 The fraughting souls ■* within her. 
 
 Pros. Be collected ; 
 
 No more amazement : ^ tell your piteous heart 
 There's no harm done. 
 
 Mira. O, woe the day ! 
 
 Pros. No harm, 
 
 I have done nothing but in care of thee, — 
 Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, — who 
 Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing 
 Of whence I am ; nor that I am more better ^ 
 Than Prospero, master of a full-poor cell, 
 And thy no greater father. 
 
 Mira. More to know 
 
 Did never meddle "^ with my thoughts. 
 
 Pros. 'Tis time 
 
 I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand. 
 And pluck my magic garment from me. — So : 
 
 \^Lays down his robe. 
 
 3 Or e'er \s before or sooner than. So in Ecclesiastes, xii. 6: "Or ever the 
 silver cord be loosed." See, also, Hamlet, page 62, note 31. 
 
 * Fraught is an old form o\ freight. Present usage would x&(^\xe. fraiighted. 
 In Shakespeare's time, the active and passive forms were very often used 
 indiscriminately. So, here, " fraughting souls " is freighted souls, or souls 
 on freight. 
 
 ^ The sense of amazement was much stronger than it is now. Here it is 
 anguish or distress of mind. 
 
 *< This doubling of comparatives occurs continually in all the writers of 
 Shakespeare's time. The same with superlatives. 
 
 ' To meddle is, properly, to mix, to mingle. 
 
320 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Lie there, my art.^ — Wipe thou thine eyes ; have comfoit. 
 
 The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd 
 
 The very virtue of compassion in thee, 
 
 I have with such prevision in mine art 
 
 So safely order'd, that there is no souP — 
 
 No, not so much perdition as an hair 
 
 Betid to any creature in the vessel 
 
 Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down ; 
 
 For thou must now know further. 
 
 Mira. You have often 
 
 Begun to tell me what I am ; but stopp'd. 
 And left me to a bootless inquisition, 
 Concluding, Stay, not yet. 
 
 Pros. The hour's now come ; 
 
 The very minute bids thee ope thine ear : 
 Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember 
 A time before we came unto this cell? 
 I do not think thou canst ; for then thou wast not 
 Out three years o\AP 
 
 Mira. Certainly, sir, I can. 
 
 Pros. By what ? by any other house or person ? 
 Of any thing the image tell me that 
 Hath kept with thy remembrance. 
 
 Mira. 'Tis far off, 
 
 And rather like a dream than an assurance 
 That my remembrance warrants. Had I not 
 
 8 Lord Burleigh, at night when he put off his gown, used to say, " Lie 
 there, Lord Treasurer"; and, bidding adieu to all State affairs, disposed 
 himself to his quiet rest. — Fuller's Holy State. 
 
 9 The sense is here left incomplete, and purposely, no doubt. Prospero 
 has many like changes of construction in this part of the scene. 
 
 1" Not fully three years old. We have a like use oioutm iv. i : " But 
 play with sparrows, and be a boy right out" 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 321 
 
 Four or five women once that tended me ? 
 
 Pros. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it 
 That this Uves in thy mind? What see'st thou else 
 In the dark backward and abysm ^ ^ of time ? 
 If thou remember'st aught ere thou earnest here, 
 How thou earnest here, thou mayst.i^ 
 
 Mira. But that I do not. 
 
 Pros. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year^^ since. 
 Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and 
 A prince of power. 
 
 Mira. Sir, are you not my father? 
 
 Pros. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and 
 She said thou wast my daughter ; and thy father 
 Was Duke of Milan ; thou his only heir, 
 A princess, — no worse issued. 
 
 Mira. O the Heavens ! 
 
 What foul play had we, that we came from thence ? 
 Or blessed was't we did? 
 
 Pros. Both, both, my girl : 
 
 By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence ; 
 But blessedly holp i** hither. 
 
 Mira. O, my heart bleeds 
 
 To think o' the teen ^^ that I have tum'd you to, 
 
 11 Abysm is an old form of abyss ; from the old French abisme. 
 
 12 " If thou remember'st aught ere thou camest here, thou mayst also 
 remember how thou camest here." 
 
 13 In words denoting time, space, and quantity, the singular form was 
 often used with the plural sense. So we have mile ^.r^A pound for 7niles and 
 pounds. — In this line, the ^x^X year is two syllables, the second one. Often 
 so with various other words, such as hour, fire, &c. 
 
 l"" Holp or holpen is the old preterite of help ; occurring continually in The 
 Psalter, which is an older translation of the Psalms than that in the Bible. 
 
 IS Teen is an old word for trouble, anxiety, or sorrow. So in Love's La- 
 bours Lost, iv. 3 : "Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen" 
 
322 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Which is from my remembrance ! Please you, further. 
 
 Pros. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio, — 
 I pray thee, mark me ; — that a brother should 
 Be so perfidious ! — he whom, next thyself, 
 Of all the world I loved, and to him put 
 The manage ^^ of my State \ as, at that time, 
 Through all the signiories it was the first,!'' 
 And Prospero the prime Duke ; being so reputed 
 In dignity, and for the liberal arts 
 Without a parallel : those being all my study. 
 The government I cast upon my brother, 
 And to my State grew stranger, being transported 
 And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle, — 
 Dost thou attend me ? 
 
 Mira. Sir, most heedfuUy. 
 
 Pros. — Being once perfected how to grant suits, 
 How to deny them ; who '*^ t' advance, and who 
 To trash for over-topping,!'^ — new-created 
 The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em. 
 Or else new-form'd 'em ; having both the key 
 Of officer and office,-" set all hearts i' the State 
 To what tune pleased his ear ; that-' now he was 
 
 "J Alanage for management or administration. Repeatedly so. 
 
 1'' Signiory for lordship or principality. Botero, in his Relations of the 
 World, 1630, says, " Milan claims to be the first duchy in Europe." 
 
 IS This use of zvho where present usage requires whom was not ungram- 
 matical in Shakespeare's time. 
 
 1^ To t7-ash for overtopping is to check the overgrowth, to reduce the ex- 
 orbitancy. The word seems to have been a hunting-term for checking the 
 speed of hounds when too forward ; the trash being a strap or rope fastened 
 to the dog's neck, and dragging on the ground. The sense of clogging or 
 keeping back is the right antithesis to advance. 
 
 2" " The key of officer and office " is the tuning key ; as of a piano. 
 
 21 That is here equivalent to so that, or insomuch that. Continually so 
 in old poetry, and not seldom in old prose. 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 323 
 
 The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, 
 
 And suck'd the verdure out on't. Thou attend'st not.-^ 
 
 Mira, O good sir, I do. 
 
 Pros. I pray thee, mark me. 
 
 I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated 
 To closeness, and the bettering of my mind 
 With that which, but-"^ by being so retired, 
 O'er-prized all popular rate,-"* in my false brother 
 Awaked an evil nature ; and my trust, 
 Like a good parent, did beget of him 
 A falsehood, in its contrary as great 
 As my trust was ; which had indeed no limit, 
 A confidence sans^s bound. He being thus lorded, 
 Not only with what my revenue -^ yielded, 
 But what my power might else exact, — like one 
 Who having unto truth, by falsing of it,-^ 
 
 " The old gentleman thinks his daughter is not attending to his tale, 
 because his own thoughts keep wandering from it ; his mind being filled 
 with other things, — ^the tempest he has got up, and the consequences of it. 
 This absence or distraction of mind aptly registers itself in the irregular and 
 broken style of his narrative. 
 
 23 This is the exceptive but, as it is called, and has the force of be out, of 
 which it is, indeed, an old contraction. So later in this scene: "And, 3«/ 
 he's something stain'd with grief," &c. ; where but evidently has the force 
 of except that. 
 
 24 The meaning seems to be, "Which would have exceeded all popular 
 estimate, but that it withdrew me from my public duties"; as if he were 
 sensible of his error in getting so " rapt in secret studies " as to leave the 
 State a prey to violence and usurpation. 
 
 25 Sans is the French equivalent for -without. The Poet uses it whenevc- 
 he wants a monosyllable with that meaning. 
 
 26 Shakespeare, in a few instances, has revenue with the accent on the 
 first syllable, as in the vulgar pronunciation of our time. Here the accent 
 is on the second syllable, as it should be. See Hamlet, page 135, note 8. 
 
 2" The verb to false was often used for to treat falsely, to falsify, to forge, 
 to lie. So in Cymbeline, ii. 3: "And make Diana's rangers yij/^^ them- 
 
324 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Made such a sinner of his memory 
 
 To credit ^^ his own lie, — he did believe 
 
 He was indeed the Duke ; out o' the substitution,^^ 
 
 And executing the outward face of royalty, 
 
 With all prerogative : hence his ambition growing, — 
 
 Dost thou hear? 2*^ 
 
 Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. 
 
 Pros. To have no screen between this part he play'd 
 And them he play'd it for,^! he needs will be 
 Absolute Milan. Me,^- poor man, my library 
 Was dukedom large enough : of temporal royalties 
 He thinks me now incapable ; confederates — 
 So dry he was for sway '^■^ — wi' th' King of Naples 
 To give him annual tribute, do him homage, 
 Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend 
 The dukedom, yet unbow'd, — alas, poor Milan ! — 
 To most ignoble stooping. 
 
 selves." And in The Faerie Queene, ii. I, I : "Whom Princes late displeas- 
 ure left in bands, for falsed letters." Also in i. 3, 30 : " And in his falsed 
 fancy he her takes to be the fairest wight," &c. And in Drant's Horace : 
 ■' The taverner that ya/5^M othes, and little reckes to lye." — The pronoun 
 it may refer to truth, or may be used absolutely ; probably the former. The 
 Poet has such phrases as to prince it, for to act the prince, and to monster it 
 for to be a monster. And so the word is often used now in all sorts of speech 
 and writing ; as to braze it out, and Xo foot it through. See Critical Notes. 
 
 28 " As to credit " is the meaning. The Poet often omits as in such 
 cases. Sometimes he omits both of the correlatives so and as. 
 
 29 That is, " in consequence of his being my substitute or deputy." 
 
 30 In this place, hearv/as probably meant as a dissyllable; just as year dL 
 little before. So, at all events, the verse requires. 
 
 31 This is well explained by Mr. P. A. Daniel : " Prospero was the screen 
 behind which the traitorous Antonio governed the people of Milan ; and, to 
 remove this screen between himself and them, he conspired his brother's 
 overthrow." 
 
 32 " For me " is the meaning. Such ellipses are frequent. 
 
 33 So thirsty for power or rule ; no uncommon use of dry now. 
 
SCENE n. THE TEMPEST. 325 
 
 Mira. O the Heavens ! 
 
 Pros. Mark his condition, and th' event ; "^^ then tell me, 
 If this might be a brother. 
 
 Mira. I should sin 
 
 To think but nobly ^^ of my grandmother. 
 
 Pros. Good wombs have borne bad sons. Now the con- 
 dition : 
 This King of Naples, being an enemy 
 To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit ; 
 Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises, ^^ — 
 Of homage, and I know not how much tribute, — 
 Should presently •'^^ extirpate me and mine 
 Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan, 
 With all the honours, on my brother : whereon, 
 A treacherous army levied, one midnight 
 Fated to th' practice ^^ did Antonio open 
 The gates of Milan ; and, i' the dead of darkness^ 
 The ministers for th' purpose hurried thence 
 Me and thy crying self. 
 
 Mira. Alack, for pity ! 
 
 I, not remembering how I cried on't then, 
 Will cry it o'er again : it is a hint "^^ 
 That wrings mine eyes to't. 
 
 Pros. Hear a little further, 
 
 8* Condition is the terms of his compact with the King of Naples ; event, 
 the consequences that followed. 
 
 35 "But nobly " is otherwise than nobly, of course. 
 
 36 In lieu of is in return for, or in consideration of. Shakespeare never 
 uses the phrase in its present meaning, instead of. 
 
 37 Presently is immediately or forthwith. A frequent usage. 
 58 Plot, stratagem, contrivance are old meanings o^ practice. 
 
 39 Hint for cause or theme. A frequent usage. So again in ii. I : " Our 
 hint of woe is common." 
 
326 THE TEMPEST. ACT I, 
 
 And then I'll bring thee to the present business 
 Which now's upon's ; without the which this story 
 Were most impertinent.''" 
 
 Mira. Wherefore did they not 
 
 That hour destroy us ? 
 
 Pros. Well demanded, wench : "^^ 
 
 My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not — 
 So dear the love my people bore me — set 
 A mark so bloody on the business ; but 
 With colours fairer painted their foul ends. 
 In few,'*''^ they hurried us aboard a bark, 
 Bore us some leagues to sea ; where they prepared 
 A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd, 
 Nor tackle, sail, nor mast ; the very rats 
 Instinctively had quit it : there they hoist us,'*^ 
 To cry to th' sea that roar'd to us ; to sigh 
 To th' winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 
 Did us but loving wrong, 
 
 Mira. Alack, v/hat trouble 
 
 Was I then to you ! 
 
 Pros. O, a cherubin 
 
 Thou wast that did preserve me ! Thou didst smile, 
 Infused with a fortitude from Heaven, 
 When I have degg'd^^ the sea with drops full salt, 
 
 ^o Itupcrtinent is irrelevant, or oxt of place ; not pertinent ; tlie old mean- 
 ing of the word. The Poet never uses irrelevant. 
 
 ■•i Wench was a common term of affectionate familiarity. 
 
 ■*- That is, in few words, in short. Often so. 
 
 43 Hoist for hoisted; as, a little before, quit for quitted. So in Hamlet, 
 iii. 4 : " 'Tis the sport to have the engineer hoist with his own petar." The 
 Poet has many preterites so formed. And the same usage occurs in Tht 
 Psalter; as in the 93d Psalm : " The floods are risen, O Lord, the floods 
 have lift \xp their voice." 
 
 ** To deg- is an old provincial word for to sprinkle. So explained in 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 127 
 
 Under my burden groan'd ; which raised in me 
 An undergoing stomach,^^ to bear up 
 Against what should ensue. 
 
 Mira. How came we ashore? 
 
 Pros. By Providence divine. 
 Some food we had, and some fresh water, that 
 A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 
 Out of his charity, — being then appointed 
 Master of this design, — did give us ; with 
 Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries. 
 Which since have steaded much ■,'^^ so, of his gentleness, 
 Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me. 
 From mine own library, with volumes that 
 I prize above my dukedom. 
 
 Mira. Would I might 
 
 But ever see that man ! 
 
 Pros. Now I arise : "^^ 
 
 Carr's Glossary : " To (/e£- clothes is to sprinkle them with water previous to 
 ironing." And in Atkinson's Glossary of the Cleveland Dialect, degg or 
 dagg is explained " to sprinkle with water, to drizzle." Also, in Brockett's 
 Glossary of North-Country Words: "Dag, a drizzling rain, dew upon the 
 grass." — The foregoing quotations are from the Clarendon edition. See 
 Critical Notes. 
 
 •*s An undergoing stomach is an enduring courage. Shakespeare uses 
 stomach repeatedly for courage. 
 
 *s Have stood us in good stead, or done us much service. 
 
 *~ These words have been a great puzzle to the editors, and various ex- 
 planations of them have been given. Staunton prints them as addressed to 
 Ariel, and thinks this removes the difficulty. So taken, the words are meant 
 to give Ariel notice that the speaker is now ready for his services in charm- 
 ing Miranda to sleep. But this does not seem to me very likely, as it makes 
 Prospero give Ariel a second notice, in his next speech. So I rather adopt 
 the explanation of Mr. William Aldis Wright, who thinks Prospero means 
 that " the crisis in his own fortunes has come " ; that he is now about to 
 emerge from the troubles of which he has been speaking ; and that he re- 
 
328 THE TEMPEST, ACT I. 
 
 Sit Still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 
 Here in this island we arrived ; and here 
 Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit ^^ 
 Than other princesses can, that have more time 
 For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. 
 
 Mira. Heavens thank you for't ! And now, I pray you, 
 sir, — 
 For still 'tis beating in my mind, — your reason 
 For raising this sea-storm ? 
 
 Pros. Know thus far forth : 
 
 By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune — 
 Now my dear lady — hath mine enemies 
 Brought to this shore ; and by my prescience 
 I find my zenith ^^ doth depend upon 
 A most auspicious star, whose influence 
 If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes 
 Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions : 
 Thou art inclined to sleep ; 'tis a good dulness, 
 And give it way : I know thou canst not choose.^^ — 
 
 [Miranda sleeps. 
 
 gards this " reappearance from obscurity as a kind of resurrection, like the 
 rising of the Sun." This view is fully approved by Mr. Joseph Crosby. 
 
 <8 Profit is here a verb : " Have caused thee to profit more," &c. 
 
 ■*9 The common explanation of this is, " In astrological language zenith 
 is the fughest point in one's fortunes." But I much prefer Mr. Crosby's ex- 
 planation, who writes me as follows : " Note, here, the blending of ideas by 
 the speaker: he means to say, 'My fortune depends upon a star which, 
 being now in its zenith, is auspicious to me.' " 
 
 ^0 In the second scene, Prospero's speeches, till the entrance of Ariel, 
 contain the finest example I remember of retrospective narration for the 
 purpose of exciting immediate interest, and putting the audience in posses- 
 sion of all the information necessary for the understanding of the plot. Ob- 
 serve, too, the perfect probability of the moment chosen by Prospero to open 
 out the truth to his daughter, his own romantic bearing, and how com- 
 pletely any thing that might have been disagreeable to us in the magician 
 
SCENE 11. THE TEMPEST. 329 
 
 Come away, servant, come ! I'm ready now : 
 Approach, my Ariel ; come ! 
 
 Enter Ariel. 
 
 Ari. All hail, great master ! grave sir, hail ! I come 
 To answer thy best pleasure ; be't to fly, 
 To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
 On the curl'd olouds : to thy strong bidding task 
 Ariel and all his quality.^^ 
 
 Pros. Hast thou, spirit, 
 
 ^^erform'd to point ^^ the tempest that I bade thee ? 
 
 Ari. To every article. 
 I boarded the King's ship ; now on the beak, 
 Now in the waist,^"' the deck, in every cabin, 
 X flamed amazement : sometime I'd divide, 
 A.nd burn in many places ; on the top-mast. 
 The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,^^ 
 Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors 
 O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary ^^ 
 And sight-outrunning were not : the fire, and cracks 
 Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune 
 
 is reconciled and shaded in the humanity and natural feelings of the father. 
 In the very first speech of Miranda the simplicity and tenderness of her 
 character are at once laid open ; it would have been lost in direct contact 
 with the agitation of the first scene. — Coleridge. 
 
 51 That is, all of his kind, all his fellow-spirits, or who are like him. 
 
 52 Perform'd exactly, or in every point ; from the French a point. 
 
 53 Beak, the prow of the ship; waist, the part between the quarter-deck 
 and forecastle. 
 
 51 So in the account of Robert Tomson's voyage, 1555, quoted by Mr. 
 Hunter : " This light continued aboard our ship about three hours, flying 
 from mast to mast, and from top to top ; and sometimes it would be in two 
 or three places at once." In the text, distinctly has the sense of separately ; 
 flaming in diiTerent places at the same time. 
 
 55 Momentary in the sense of instantaneous. 
 
33^ THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Seem'd to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble, 
 Yea, his dread trident shake. 
 
 Pros. My brave spirit S 
 
 Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil ^^ 
 Would not infect his reason ? 
 
 Art. Not a soul 
 
 But felt a fever of the mad,^''' and play'd 
 Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners 
 Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel. 
 Then all a-fire with me : the King's son, Ferdinand, 
 With hair up-staring,^^ — then like reeds, not hair, — 
 Was the first man that leap'd ; cried, He// ts empty , 
 And all the devils are here. 
 
 Pros. Why, that's my spirit ! 
 
 But was not this nigh shore ? 
 
 Ari. Close by, my master. 
 
 Pros. But are they, Ariel, safe ? 
 
 An. Not a hair perish'd ; 
 
 On their unstaining ^^ garments not a blemish, 
 But fresher than before : and, as tliou badest me, 
 In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle. 
 The King's son have I landed by himself; 
 
 ^6 Coil is stir, tumult, or disturbance. 
 
 5" Such a fever as madmen' feel when the frantic fit is on them. 
 
 "8 Upstaring is sticking out " like quills upon the fretful porpentine." So 
 in TAe Faerie Queene, vi. ii, 27 : " With ragged weedes, and locks upstaring 
 hye." And in Julius CcBsar, iv. 3: "Art thou some god, some angel, or 
 some devil, that makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare?" 
 
 59 Unstait? i??g ior unstained; another instance of the indiscriminate use 
 of active and passive forms. This usage, both in participles and adjectives, 
 is frequent all through these plays. So, in The Winter's Tale, iv. 4, we have 
 "discontenting father" for discontented father; and in Antony and Cleo- 
 patra, m. 13, " nll-(?(5t7/;/.;'- breath" for a.\\-ol>cyed breath, that is, breath that 
 all obey. See, also, page 49, note 4. 
 
3CENF. II. THE TEMPEST. 33^ 
 
 Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs 
 In an odd angle ^^ of the isle, and sitting, 
 His arms in this sad knot.^^ 
 
 Pros. Of the King's ship 
 
 The mariners, say, how hast thou disposed, 
 And all the rest o' the fleet ? 
 
 Ari. Safely in harbour 
 
 Is the King's ship ; in the deep nook, where once 
 Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetcli dew 
 From the still-vex'd Bermoothes,^^ there she's hid : 
 The mariners all under hatches stow'd ; 
 Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour, 
 I've left asleep : and, for the rest o' the fleet 
 Which I dispersed, they all have met again, 
 And are upon the Mediterranean flote,^-^ 
 Bound sadly home for Naples ; 
 Supposing that they saw the King's ship wreck'd, 
 And his great person perish. 
 
 Pros. Ariel, thy charge 
 
 Exactly is perform'd : but there's more work. 
 
 60 Odd angle is insiguificant or out-of-the-way corner. 
 
 61 His arms folded up as in sorrowful meditation. 
 
 62 Still-vex'd is ever-troubled. The Poet very often uses still in the sense 
 of ever or continually. The Bermudas were supposed to be inhabited or 
 haunted by witches and devils, and the sea around them to be agitated with 
 perpetual storms. Bermoothcs was then the common spelling oi Bertnudas. 
 So in Fletcher's Women Pleased, i. 2: "The Devil should think of purchas- 
 ing that egg-shell, to victual such a witch for the Burmoothes." Also in 
 Webster's Duchess of Alalfi, iii. 2 : " I would sooner swim to the Ber- 
 mootha's on two politicians' rotten bladders." 
 
 63 Flote, like the French y?;'/*, \z flood, wave, or sea. This passage shows 
 that the scene of the play is not laid m the Bermudas, as there has not been 
 time for the rest of the fleet to sail so far. And Ariel's trip to fetch the dew 
 mentioned above was a much greater feat than going from one part of the 
 Bermoothes to another. 
 
332 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 What is the time o' the day ? 
 
 Art. Past the mid season. 
 
 At least two glasses.^'' 
 
 Pros. The time 'twixt six and now 
 
 Must by us both be spent most preciously. 
 
 Ari, Is there more toil ? Since thou dost give me pains. 
 Let me remember ^^ thee what thou hast promised, 
 Which is not yet perform'd me. 
 
 Pros. How now ! moody? 
 
 What is't thou canst demand ? 
 
 AH, My liberty. 
 
 Pros. Before the time be out? no more ! 
 
 Art. I pr'ythee, 
 
 Remember I have done thee worthy service ; 
 Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, served 
 Without or grudge or grumblings : thou didst promise 
 To bate me a full year. 
 
 Pros. Dost thou forget 
 
 From what a torment I did free thee ? 
 
 Art. No. 
 
 Pros. Thou dost ; and think'st it much to tread the ooze 
 Of the salt deep ; to run upon the sharp 
 Wind of the North ; to do me business in 
 The veins o' the earth when it is baked with frost. 
 
 Art. I do not, sir. 
 
 Pros. Thou liest, malignant thing ! ^^ Hast thou forgot 
 The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy ^'' 
 
 64 Two glasses is two runnings of the hour-glass. 
 
 65 Retnetnberiox remind, or put in mind. Often so. 
 
 66 Prospero should not be supposed to say this in earnest : he is merely 
 playing with his delicate and amiable minister. 
 
 67 Here, as commonly in Shakespeare, envy is malice. And so he has 
 envious repeatedly for malicious. The usage was common. 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 333 
 
 Was grown into a hoop ? hast thou forgot her ? 
 
 Art. No, sir. 
 
 Pros. Thou hast : where was she born ? speak ; 
 
 tell me. 
 
 Art. Sir, in Argier.^^ 
 
 Pros. O, was she so? I must 
 
 Once in a month recount what thou hast been. 
 Which thou forgett'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax, 
 For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible 
 To enter human hearing, from Argier, 
 Thou know'st, was banish'd : for one thing she had,^^ 
 They would not take her life. Is not this true ? 
 
 Art. Ay, sir. 
 
 Pros. This blue-eyed hag '^^ was hither brought, 
 And here was left by th' sailors. Thou, my slave, 
 As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant ; 
 And, for ^^ thou wast a spirit too delicate 
 To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands. 
 Refusing her grand bests, ^^ ghe did confine thee, 
 \\y help of her more potent ministers, 
 And in her most unmitigable rage, 
 Into a cloven pine ; ''^ within which rift 
 
 68 Argier is the old English name for Algiers. 
 
 "s What this one thing was, appears in Prospero's next speech. 
 
 "0 Blue-eyed and blue eyes were used, not for what we so designate, but 
 for blueness about the eyes. So, in As You Like It, iii. 2, we have " a blue 
 eye, and a sunken," to denote a gaunt, haggard, and cadaverous look. And 
 so, in the text, blue-eyed is used as signifying extreme ugliness. In the Poet's 
 time, what we call blue eyes were commonly called gray, and were consid- 
 ered eminently beautiful. 
 
 '1 Here, as often, /&r is because. See The Merchant, page 96, note 6, 
 
 "- Hests is commands, orders, or behests. 
 
 '3 Into and in were often used indiscriminately. Here, however, I sus- 
 pect the sense of both words is implied : " She thrust you into a splitied 
 pinp, and there fastened you in" 
 
334 THE TEMPEST. A 
 
 Imprison 'd thou didst painfully remain 
 
 A dozen years ; within which space she died, 
 
 And left thee there ; where thou didst vent thy groans 
 
 As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island — 
 
 Save for the son that she did litter here, 
 
 A freckled whelp, hag-born — not honour'd with 
 
 A human shape. 
 
 Art. Yes, Caliban her son. 
 
 Pros. Dull thing, I say so ; he, that Caliban, 
 Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st 
 What torment I did find thee in : thy groans 
 Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts 
 Of ever-angry bears. It was a torment 
 To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax 
 Could not again undo : it was mine art. 
 When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape 
 The pine, and let thee out. 
 
 Ari. I thank thee, master. 
 
 Pros. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak, 
 And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till 
 Thou'st howl'd away twelve Winters. 
 
 Ari. Pardon, master : 
 
 I will be correspondent'^'* to command. 
 And do my spriting gently. 
 
 Pros. Do so ; and after two days 
 
 I will discharge thee. 
 
 Ari. That's my noble master ! 
 
 What shall I do ? say what ; what shall I do ? 
 
 Pros. Go make thyself like to a nymph o' the sea : 
 Be subject to no sight but mine ; invisible 
 To every eyeball else. Go take this shape, 
 
 '* Correspondent for responsive ; that is, obedient, or submissive. 
 
SCKNE II. THE TEMPEST. 335 
 
 And hitli^-r come in't : hence, with dihgence ! — 
 
 \_Ex2t Ariel 
 Awake, dear heart, awake ! thou hast slept well ; 
 Awake ! 
 
 Mira. [ Waking^ The strangeness of your story put 
 Heaviness in me. 
 
 Pros. Shake it off. Come on ; 
 
 We'll visit Caliban m)^ slave, who never 
 Yields us kind answer. 
 
 Mira. 'Tis a villain, sir, 
 
 I do not love to look on. 
 
 Pros. But, as 'tis. 
 
 We cannot miss him : "'^ he does make our fire, 
 Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices 
 That profit us. — What, ho ! slave ! Caliban ! 
 Thou earth, thou ! speak. 
 
 Cal. [ IVithin.'] There's wood enough within. 
 
 Pros. Come forth, I say ! there's other business for thee : 
 Come forth, thou tortoise ! when ! '^^ — 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, like a Water-nymph. 
 
 Fine apparition ! My quaint ^^ Ariel, 
 Hark in thine ear. 
 
 Ari. My lord, it shall be done, \_ExiL 
 
 Pros. Thou poisonous slave, come forth ! 
 Enter Caliban. 
 
 Cal. As wicked dew'^ as e'er my mother brush'd 
 
 ''S Cannot do 7vithout him, or cannot spare liim. So in Lvly's Eitphues : 
 " Honey and wax, both so necessary that we cannot miss them." 
 
 "6 When/ was in common use as an exclamation of impatience. 
 
 ■^7 Ingenious, artful, adroit, are old meanings of quaint. 
 
 ^8 " Wicked dew " is, probably, dew that has been cursed, and so made 
 poisonous or baleful. See Critical Notes. 
 
33^ THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 With raven's feather from unwholesome fen 
 Drop on you both ! a south-west blow on ye, 
 And blister you all o'er ! ^^ 
 
 Pros. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, 
 Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up ; urchins s° 
 Shall, for that vast ^^ of night that they may work, 
 All exercise on thee ; thou shalt be pinch'd 
 As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging 
 Than bees that made 'em.^^ 
 
 Cal. I must eat my dinner. 
 
 This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, 
 Which thou takest from me. When thou camest here first. 
 Thou strokedst me, and madest much of me ; wouldst give me 
 Water with berries in't ; ^^ and teach me how 
 To name the bigger light, and how the less, 
 That burn by day and night : and then I loved thee. 
 And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle. 
 The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile : 
 
 ^8 The Poet repeatedly ascribes a blighting virulence to the south-west 
 wind ; perhaps because, in England, that wind often comes charged with 
 the breath of the Gulf-stream. So he has " the south-fog rot him ! " and " all 
 the contagion of the south light on you! " 
 
 8" Urchins were fairies of a particular class. Hedgehogs were also called 
 urchins ; and it is probable that the sprites were so named, because they 
 were of a mischievous kind, the urchin being anciently deemed a very 
 noxious animal. 
 
 81 So in Hamlet, i. 2," in the dead vast and middle of the night" ; mean- 
 ing the silent void or vacancy of night, when spirits were anciently sup- 
 posed to walk abroad on errands of love or sport or mischief. 
 
 82 Honeycomb is here regarded as plural, probably in reference to the 
 cells of which honeycomb is composed. 
 
 83 It does not well appear what this was. Coffee was known, but, I 
 think, not used, in England in Shakespeare's time. Burton, in his Anatomy 
 of Melancholy, 1632, has the following: "The Turks have a drink called 
 coffa, so named of a berrv as black as soot, and as bitter." 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 337 
 
 Cursed be I that did so ! All the charms 
 
 Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you ! 
 
 For I am all the subjects that you have. 
 
 Which first was mine own king : and here you sty me 
 
 In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me 
 
 The rest o' the island. 
 
 Pros. Thou most lying slave, 
 
 Whom stripes may move, not kindness, I have used thee 
 Filth as thou art, with human care ; and lodged thee 
 In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate 
 The honour of my child. 
 
 Ca/. O ho, O ho ! would 't had been done ! 
 Thou didst prevent me ; I had peopled else 
 This isle with Calibans. 
 
 J^/vs. Abhorred slave. 
 
 Which any print of goodness wilt not take, 
 Being capable of all ill ! I pitied thee, 
 Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour 
 One thing or other : when thou didst not, savage. 
 Know thine own meaning,'^"' but wouldst gabble like 
 A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes 
 With words that made them known. But thy vile race. 
 Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures 
 Could not abide to be with ; therefore wast thou 
 
 ** Did not attach any meaning to the sounds he uttered. — Coleridge re- 
 marks upon Caliban as follows : " Caliban is all earth, all condensed and 
 gross in feelings and images ; he has the dawnings of understanding, with- 
 out reason or the moral sense; and in him, as in some brute animals, this 
 advance to the intellectual faculties, without the moral sense, is marked by 
 the appearance of vice. For it is in the primacy of the moral being onlv 
 that man is truly human ; in his intellectual powers he is certainly ap- 
 proached by the brutes; and, man's whole system duly considered, those 
 powers cannot be viewed as other than means to an end, that is, mo- 
 rality." 
 
338 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Deservedly confined into this rock, 
 Who hadst deserved more than a prison. 
 
 Cal. You taught me language ; and my profit on't 
 Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid®^ you 
 For learning me your language ! 
 
 Pros. Hag-seed, hence ! 
 
 Fetch us in fuel ; and be quick, thou'rt best, 
 To answer other business. Shrugg'st thou, malice ? 
 If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly 
 What I command, I'll rack thee with old^^ cramps, 
 Fill all thy bones with aches,*^''' make thee roar, 
 That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 
 
 Cal. No, pray thee. — 
 
 \Aside^ I must obey : his art is of such power, 
 It would control my dam's god, Setebos,^^ 
 And make a vassal of him. 
 
 Pros. So, slave ; hence ! 
 
 {Exit Caliban. 
 
 8^ Rid here means destroy or dispatch. So in Richard the Second, v. 4 : 
 " I am the King's friend, and will rid his foe." — Touching the" red plague," 
 Halliwell quotes from Practise of Physicke, 1605 : " Three different kinds of 
 plague-sore are mentioned ; sometimes it is red, otherwhiles yellow, and 
 sometimes blacke, which is the very worst and most venimous." 
 
 86 Old was much used simply as an intensive, just as huge often is now. 
 The Poet has it repeatedly. See The Merchant, page 181, note 2. 
 
 s' Ache was formerly pronounced like the letter H. The plural, aches, 
 was accordingly two syllables. We have many instances of such pronunci- 
 ation in the old writers. So in Antony and Cleopatra, iv. 7 : " I had a wound 
 here that was like a T, but now 'lis made an H." It is said that Kemble 
 the actor undertook to revive the old pronunciation of aches on the stage ; 
 but the audience would not stand it, and hissed him out of it. 
 
 8S Sctcbos was the name of an American god, or rather devil, worshipped 
 by the Patagonians. In Eden's History ofTravaile, 1577, is an account of 
 Magellan's voyage to the South Pole, containing a description of this god 
 and his worshippers ; wherein the author says : " When they felt the shackles 
 fast about their legs, they began to doubt ; but the captain did put them ia 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 339 
 
 Re-enter Ariel invisible, playing and singing; Ferdinand 
 following. 
 
 Ariel's Song. 
 Come unto these yellow sands, 
 
 And then take hands : 
 Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd 
 
 The wild waves whist,^^ 
 Foot it featly here and there ; 
 And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
 
 Burden dispersedCy. 
 
 Bow-wow. 
 Bow-wow. 
 
 Cock-a-diddle-dow. 
 
 Hark, hark ! 
 The watch-dogs bark : 
 Hark, hark ! I hear 
 The strain of strutting chanticleer. 
 
 Ferd. Where should this music be? i' the air, or th' 
 earth ? 
 It sounds no more : and, sure, it waits upon 
 Some god o' the island. Sitting on a bank, 
 Weeping again the King my father's wreck, 
 This music crept by me upon the waters, 
 Allaying both their fury and my passion s*' 
 With its sweet air : thence I have follow'd it. 
 Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone. 
 No, it begins again. 
 
 Ariel sings. 
 Full fathom five thy father lies ; 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 
 comfort and bade them stand still. In fine, when they saw how they were 
 deceived, they roared like bulls, and cryed upon \hQ\x great devil Setebos, to 
 help them." 
 
 «'•* Soothed or charmed the raging waters into stillness or peace. 
 
 90 Passion is here used in its proper Latin sense of suffering. 
 
340 THE TEMPEST, ACT I. 
 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade 
 But doth suffer a sea-change^' 
 Into something rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
 
 Burden. Ding-dong. 
 
 Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell. 
 
 Ferd. The ditty does remember my drown 'd father. 
 This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
 That the Earth owes.^^ I hear it now above me. 
 
 Pros. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,^^ 
 And say what thou see'st yond. 
 
 Mira. What is't ? a spirit ? 
 
 Lord, how it looks about ! Believe me, sir. 
 It carries a brave '^'^ form. But 'tis a spirit. 
 
 Pros. No, wench ; ^^ it eats and sleeps, and hath such 
 senses 
 As we have, such. This gallant which thou see'st 
 Was in the wreck ; and, but he's something stain'd 
 
 ^1 Nothing fades without undergoing a sea-change. This use of but 
 occurs repeatedly. So in Hamlet, i. 3 : " Do not sleep but let me hear 
 from you ; " that is, " without letting me hear." See, also, Macbeth, page 99, 
 note 6. 
 
 92 Owe is own, possess. The old form of the word was oiven. Abbott, in 
 his Shakespeare Grammar, has the following: "In the general destruction 
 of inflections which prevailed during the Elizabethan period, en was par- 
 ticularly discarded. So strong was the discarding tendency, that even the 
 n in owen, to possess, was dropped, and Shakespeare continually uses owe 
 for owen, or own. The n has now been restored." 
 
 93 Advance, here, is raise or lift up. So in Rotneo and Juliet, ii. 3 : " Ere 
 the Sun advance his burning eye." Especially used of lifting up military 
 standards. 
 
 94 Brave, again, iox fine or superb. See page 48, note 2. 
 
 95 Wench was often used thus as a term of playful familiarity, without 
 implying any thing of reproach or contempt. 
 
SCENE 11. THE TEMPEST. 341 
 
 With grief, that's beauty's canker,^^ thou mightst call him 
 A goodly person : he hath lost his fellows, 
 And strays about to find 'em. 
 
 Minx. I might call him 
 
 A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
 I ever saw so noble. 
 
 Pros. \_Asidc.'\ It goes on, I see. 
 As my soul prompts it. — Spirit, fine spirit ! I'll free thee 
 Within two days for this. 
 
 Ferd. Most sure, the goddess 
 
 On whom these airs attend ! — ■ Vouchsafe my prayer 
 May know if you remain upon this island ; 
 And that you will some good instruction give 
 How I may bear me here : my prime request, 
 Which I do last pronounce, is, — O you wonder ! — 
 If you be maid ^'' or no ? 
 
 Mira. No wonder, sir ; 
 
 But certainly a maid. 
 
 Ferd. My language ! Heavens ! — 
 
 I am the best of them that speak this speech. 
 Were I but where 'tis spoken. 
 
 Pros. How ! the best ? 
 
 What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee ? 
 
 Ferd. A single thing,^'^ as I am now, that wonders 
 
 96 Shakespeare uses canker va four distinct senses, — the canker-worm, 
 the dog-rose, a malignant sore, cancer, and rust or tarnish. Here it proba- 
 bly means the last ; as in St. James, v. 3 : " Your gold and silver is cankered ; 
 and the rust of them shall be a witness against you." 
 
 9'^ Ferdinand has already spoken of Miranda as a goddess : he now askb, 
 if she be a mortal; not a celestial being, but a maiden. Of course her an- 
 swer is to be taken in the same sense as his question. The name Miranda 
 literally signifies wonderful. 
 
 98 The Poet repeatedly uses single for weak or feeble : here, along with 
 
342 THE TEMPEST. ACT i. 
 
 To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me ; 
 And that he does I weep : myself am Naples ; 
 Who with mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb, beheld 
 The King my father wreck'd. 
 
 Mira. Alack, for mercy ! 
 
 Ferd. Yes, faith, and all his lords ; the Duke of Milan 
 And his brave son^^ being twain. 
 
 Pros. [Aside.} The Duke of Milan 
 
 And his more braver daughter could control thee,^*''' 
 If now 'twere fit to do't. At the first sight 
 They have changed eyes. — Delicate Ariel, 
 I'll set thee free for this ! — A word, good sir ; 
 I fear you've done yourself some wrong : '"^ a word. 
 
 Mira. Why speaks my father so ungently? This 
 Is the third man that e'er I saw ; the first 
 That e'er I sigh'd for : pity move my father 
 To be inclined my way ! 
 
 Ferd. O, if a virgin. 
 
 And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you 
 The Queen of Naples. 
 
 Pros. Soft, sir ! one word more. — 
 
 [^Aside.'] They're both in cither's powers : but this swift 
 
 business 
 I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 
 
 this, it has the further sense of solitary or co77!pa7tionless. Ferdinand sup- 
 poses himself to be the only one saved of all that were in the ship. 
 
 59 This young man, the son of Antonio, nowhere appears in the play, nor 
 is there any other mention of him. 
 
 ^"o To control \i2iS> formerly used in the sense of to refute ; from the French 
 contrc-roller, to exhibit a contrary account. Prospero means that he could 
 refute what Ferdinand has just said about the Duke of Milan. 
 
 1"! " Done wrong to your character, in claiming to be King of Naples." 
 Or incurred the penalty of being a spy or an usurper, by assuming a title 
 that does not belong to him. 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 343 
 
 Make the prize light. ^^- — One word more ; I charge thee 
 That thou attend me : Thou dost here usurp 
 The name thou owest not ; and hast put thyself 
 Upon this island as a spy, to win it 
 From me, the lord on't. 
 
 Ferd. No, as I'm a man. 
 
 Mira. There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple : 
 If the ill spirit have so fair a house, 
 Good things will strive to dwell with't. 
 
 Pros. [Tl? Ferd.] Follow me. — 
 
 Speak not you for him ; he's a traitor. — Come ; 
 I'll manacle thy neck and feet together : 
 Sea-water shalt thou drink ; thy food shall be 
 The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks 
 Wherein the acorn cradled : follow. 
 
 Ferd. No ; 
 
 I will resist such entertainment, till 
 Mine enemy has more power. 
 
 \_He dnnvs, and is charmed fro7)i moving. 
 
 Mira. O dear father, 
 
 Make not too rash a trial of him, for 
 He's gentle, and not fearful. ^^^ 
 
 Pros. What, I say, 
 
 My fool my tutor ! — Put thy sword up, traitor ; 
 
 lo^ In this scene, as it proceeds, is displayed the impression made by 
 Ferdinand and Miranda on each other; it is love at first sight, — "at the 
 first sight they have changed eyes." Prospero's interruption of the court- 
 ship has often seemed to me to have no sufficient motive; still, his alleged 
 reason, " lest too light winning make the prize light," is enough for the 
 ethereal connections of the romantic imagination, although it would not be 
 so for the historical. — ^ COLERIDGE. 
 
 !"•'* This clearly means that Ferdinand is brave and high-spirited, so that, 
 if pressed too hard, he will rather die than succumb. It is a good old notion 
 that bravery and gentleness naturally go together. 
 
344 THE TEMPEST. ACT I. 
 
 Who makest a show, but darest not strike, thy conscience 
 Is so possess'd with guilt : come from thy ward ; ^'^^ 
 For I can here disarm thee with this stick, 
 And make thy weapon drop. 
 
 Mira. Beseech you, father ! — 
 
 Pros. Hence ! hang not on my garments. 
 
 Mira. Sir, have pity ; 
 
 I'll be his surety. 
 
 Pros. Silence ! one word more 
 
 Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What ! 
 An advocate for an impostor ? hush ! 
 Thou think'st there are no more such shapes as he, 
 Having seen but him and Caliban : foolish wench ! 
 To th' most of men this is a Caliban, 
 And they to him are angels. 
 
 Mira. My affections 
 
 Are, then, most humble ; I have no ambition 
 To see a goodlier man. 
 
 Pros. [71^ Ferd.] Come on ; obey: 
 Thy nerves ^'^^ are in their infancy again. 
 And have no vigour in them. 
 
 Ferd. So they are : 
 
 My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. 
 My father's loss, the weakness which I feel, 
 The wreck of all my friends, and this man's threats 
 To whom I am subdued, are light to me. 
 Might I but through my prison once a day 
 
 104 Ward is posture or attitude of defence. Ferdinand is standing with 
 his sword drawn, and his body planted, ready for defending himself. So, in 
 I He7iry the Fourth^ ii. 4, Falstaff says, "Thou knowest my old ward: 
 here I lay, and thus I bore my point." 
 
 105 Nerves for sinews ; the two words being used indifferently in the 
 Poet's time. See Hamlet, page 80, note 20. 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 345 
 
 Behold this maid : all corners else o' the Earth 
 Let liberty make use of; space enough 
 Have I in such a prison. 
 
 Pros. \_Asi(ie^ It works. — [71? Ferd.] Come on. — 
 Thou hast done well, fine Ariel ! — Follow me. — 
 \^To Ariel.] Hark, what thou else shalt do me. 
 
 Mira. Be of comfort ; ""^ 
 
 My father's of a better nature, sir. 
 Than he appears by speech : this is unwonted 
 Which now came from him. 
 
 Pros. \_To Ariel.] Thou shalt be as free 
 
 As mountain winds : but then exactly do 
 All points of my command. 
 
 Art. To th' syllable. 
 
 Pros. Come, follow. — Speak not for him. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Scene I. — Another part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Fran- 
 cisco, and Others. 
 
 Gonza. Beseech you, sir, be merry : you have cause — 
 So have we all — of joy ; for our escape 
 Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe , 
 Is common ; every day some sailor's wife. 
 The master of some merchant,^ and the merchant, 
 Have just our theme of woe : but for the miracle — 
 
 106 "Be of comfort" is old language for be comforted. 
 1 It was usual to call a merchant-vessel a merchant ; as we now say a 7ner- 
 ckant-man. 
 
346 THE TEMPEST. act ii. 
 
 I mean our preservation — few in millions 
 Can speak like us : then wisely, good sir, weigh 
 Our sorrow with our comfort. 
 
 Alon. Pr'ythee, peace. 
 
 Sebas. He receives comfort like cold porridge. 
 
 Anto. The visitor- will not give him o'er so. 
 
 Selhis. Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit ; by- 
 and-by it will strike. 
 
 Gonza. Sir, — 
 
 Sebas. One : — tell.^ 
 
 Gonza. — ■ When every grief is entertain'd that's offer'd. 
 Comes to the entertainer — 
 
 Sebas. A dollar. 
 
 Gonza. Dolour comes to him, indeed : you have spoken 
 truer than you purposed. 
 
 Sebas. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you 
 should. 
 
 Gonza. Therefore, my lord, — 
 
 Anfo. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue ! 
 
 Alon. I pr'ythee, spare me. 
 
 Gonza. Well, I have done : but yet — 
 
 Sebas. He will be talking. 
 
 Anto. Which, of he or Adrian,'' for a good wager, first 
 begins to crow ? 
 
 2 He calls Gonzalo a visitor in allusion to the office of one who visits the 
 sick or the afflicted, to give counsel and consolation. The caustic scoffing 
 humour of Sebastian and Antonio, in this scene, is wisely conceived. See 
 the Introduction, page 29. 
 
 3 Tell is count, or keep tally ; referring to " the watch of his wit," which 
 he was said to be " winding up," and which now begins to strike. See King 
 Lear, page 115, note 10. 
 
 ^ This, it appears, is an old mode of speech, which is now entirely obso- 
 lete. Shakespeare has it once again in A Afidstimmer-Night' s Dream, iii. 2: 
 " Now follow, if thou darest, to try whose right, of thine or mine, is most in 
 
SCENE I. IHE TEMPEST. ' 347 
 
 Sebas. The old cock. 
 
 Atito. The cockerel. 
 
 Sebas. Done ! The wager? 
 
 Anfo. A laughter. 
 
 Sebas. A match ! 
 
 Adri. Though this island seem to be desert, — 
 
 Sebas. Ha, ha, ha ! — So, you're paid/' 
 
 Adri. — uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible, — 
 
 Sebas. Yet — 
 
 Adri. — yet — 
 
 Anto. He could not miss't. 
 
 Adri. — it must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate 
 temperance.^ 
 
 Anto. Temperance was a delicate wench. 
 
 Sebas. Ay, and a subtle ; as he most learnedly delivered. 
 
 Adri. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. 
 
 Sebas. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones. 
 
 Anto. Or as 'twere perfumed by a fen. 
 
 Gonza. Here is every thing advantageous to life. 
 
 Anto. True ; save means to live. 
 
 Sebas. Of that there's none, or little. 
 
 Gonza. How lush ' and lusty the grass looks ! how 
 green ! 
 
 Anto. The ground, indeed, is tawny. 
 
 Helena." And Walker quotes ;in apposite passage from Sidney's Arcadia: 
 " The question arising, who should be the first to fight against Phalantus, 
 of the black or the ill-apparelled knight," &c. 
 
 5 A laugh having been agreed upon as the wager, and Sebastian having 
 lost, he now pays with a laugh. 
 
 6 By temperance Adrian means temperature, and Antonio plays upon the 
 word ; alluding, perhaps, to the Puritan custom of bestowing ^he narne§ of 
 the cardinal virtues upon their children. 
 
 ^ Lush K Juicy, ,?«?(:«/?«/', — luxuriant, 
 
34^ THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 Sebas. With an eye of green in't.^ 
 
 Anto. He misses not much. 
 
 Sebas. No ; he doth but mistake the truth totally. 
 
 Gonza. But the rarity of it is, — which is indeed almost 
 beyond credit, — 
 
 Sebas. As many vouch'd rarities are. 
 
 Gonza. — that our garments, being, as they were, drenched 
 in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their freshness and gloss, 
 being rather new-dyed than stain'd with salt water. 
 
 Ajito. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not 
 say he lies ? 
 
 Sebas. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. 
 
 Gonza. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when 
 we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the King's 
 fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis. 
 
 Sebas. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in 
 our return. 
 
 Adri. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon 
 to 9 their Queen. 
 
 Gonza. Not since widow Dido's time. 
 
 Anto. Widow? a pox o' that! How came that widow 
 in? Widow Dido ! 
 
 Sebas. What if he had said widower ^neas too ? Good 
 Lord, how you take it ! 
 
 Adri. Widow Dido, said you? you make me study of 
 that : she was of Carthage, not of Tunis. 
 
 8 A tint or shade of green. So in Sandy's Travels: "Cloth of silver, 
 tissued with an eye of green; " and Bayle says: " Red with an eye of blue 
 makes a purple." 
 
 9 To was continually used in such cases where we should use for or as. 
 So in the Marriage Office of the Church : " Wilt thou have this woman to 
 thy wedded wife?" Also, in St. Mark, xii. 23: "The seven had her tQ 
 wife." 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 349 
 
 Gonza. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. 
 
 Adri. Carthage ! 
 
 Gonza. I assure you, Carthage. 
 
 Anfo. His word is more than the miraculous harp.^** 
 
 Sebas. He hath raised the wall and houses too. 
 
 A?ito. What impossible matter will he make easy next ? 
 
 Sebas. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, 
 and give it his son for an apple. 
 
 Anto. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth 
 more islands. 
 
 Alon. Ah ! 
 
 Afito. Why, in good time. 
 
 Gonza. Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now 
 as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your 
 daughter, who is now Queen. 
 
 Anto. And the rarest that e'er came there. 
 
 Sebas. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. 
 
 Anto. O, widow Dido ! ay, widow Dido. 
 
 Gonza. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I 
 wore it ? I mean, in a sort. 
 
 Afito. That sort was well fish'd for.^i 
 
 Gonza. When I wore it at your daughter's marriage? 
 
 Alon. You cram these words into mine ears against 
 The stomach of my sense. i~ Would I had never 
 
 1*^ Amphion, King of Thebes, was a prodigious musician: god Mercury 
 gave him a lyre, with which he charmed the stones into their places, and thus 
 built the walls of the city : as Wordsworth puts it, " The gift to King Am- 
 phion, that wall'd a city with its melody." Tunis is in fact supposed to be 
 on or near the site of ancient Carthage. 
 
 ^1 A punning allusion, probably, to one of the meanings of sort, which 
 was lot ox portion ; from the Latin sors. 
 
 12 That is, " when the state of mv feelings does not relish them, or has no 
 appetite for them." Stomach for appetite occurs repeatedly. 
 
35° THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 Married my daughter there ! for, coming thence, 
 My son is lost ; and, in my rate,^'' she too, 
 Who is so far from Italy removed, 
 I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir 
 Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish 
 Hath made his meal on thee? 
 
 Fran. Sir, he may live : 
 
 I saw him beat the surges under him, 
 And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water. 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 The surge most swoln that met him : his bold head 
 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd 
 Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke 
 To th' shore, that o'er his''* wave-worn basis bow'd, 
 As '-^ stooping to relieve him : I not doubt 
 He came alive to land. 
 
 Alon. No, no ; he's gone. 
 
 Sebas. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss, 
 That would not bless our Europe with your daughter, 
 But rather lose her to an African ; 
 Where she at least is banish 'd from your eye, 
 Who'^ hath cause to wet the grief on't. 
 
 13 Rate for reckoning, account, or estimation. 
 
 14 His for its, referring to shore. In the Poet's time its was not an ac- 
 cepted word : it was then just creeping into use ; and he has it occasionally, 
 especially in his later plays; as it occurs once or twice in this play. It does 
 not occur once in tlie Bible as printed in i6ii. 
 
 15 Here as is put for as if; a very frequent usage with the Poet, as also 
 with other writers of the time. 
 
 ic Who and which were used indifferently both of persons and things. 
 Mere who refers to eye. And the meaning probably is, "your eye, which 
 hath cause to sprinkle or water your grief with tears." This would of course 
 make the grief grow stronger. " The grief cwV " is the grief arising from it or 
 out ofit; that is, from the loss or banishment of Claribel. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 35 1 
 
 Alon, Pr'ythee, peace. 
 
 Sebas. You were kneel'd to, and imp6rtuned otherwise, 
 By all of us ; and the fair soul herself 
 VVeigh'd, between loathness and obedience, at 
 Which end the beam should bow.^" We've lost your son, 
 I fear, for ever : Milan and Naples have 
 More widows in them of this business' making 
 Than we bring men to comfort them : the fault's 
 Your own. 
 
 Alon. So is the dear'st o' the loss.'^ 
 
 Gonza. My lord Sebastian 
 
 The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness. 
 And time to speak it in : you rub the sore. 
 When you should bring the plaster. 
 
 Sebas. Very well. 
 
 Anto. And most chirurgeonly.^^ 
 
 Gonza. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, 
 When you are cloudy .^° 
 
 Sebas. Foul weather ! 
 
 Anto. Very foul. 
 
 Gonza. Had I plantation-^ of this isle, my lord, — 
 
 Anto. He'd sow't with nettle-seed. 
 
 1' Hesitated, or stood in doubt, between reluctance and obedience, which 
 way the balance should turn or incline. To weigh is to deliberate, ■asidi hence 
 to pause, to be /';/ suspense, or to suspend action. 
 
 18 Dear was used of any thing that causes strong feeling, whether of 
 pleasure or of pain ; as it hurts us to lose that which is dear to us. So that 
 here the sense is, the -worst or heaviest of the loss. 
 
 19 Chirurgeon is the old word, which has got transformed into surgeoft. 
 
 20 The meaning is, " your gloom makes us all gloomy." A cloud in the 
 face is a common metaphor both for anger and for sorrow. 
 
 21 In Shakespeare's time a plantation meant a colony, and was so used 
 of the American colonies. HetQ plantation is a " verbal noun," and means 
 the colonizing. 
 
352 THE TEMPEST. act ii, 
 
 Sebas. Or docks, or mallows. 
 
 Gonza. — And were the King on't, what would I do? 
 
 Sebas. 'Scape being drunk for want of wine. 
 
 Gonza. V the commonwealth I would by contraries 
 Execute all things : for no kind of traffic 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
 Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, 
 And use of service, none \ contract, succession, 
 Bourn, bound of land, tilth,^- vineyard, none ; 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil ; 
 No occupation ; all men idle, all. 
 And women too, but innocent and pure ; 
 No sovereignty : — 
 
 Sebas. Yet he would be king on't. 
 
 Anto. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the 
 beginning. 
 
 Gonza. — All things in common Nature should produce 
 Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony. 
 Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,-^ 
 Would i not have ; but Nature should bring forth, 
 Of its own kind, all foison,-^ all abundance. 
 To feed my innocent people. 
 
 Sebas. No marrying 'mong his subjects? 
 
 Anto. None, man ; all idle, — trulls and knaves. 
 
 22 Succession is the tenure of property by inheritance, as the son succeeds 
 the father. — Bourn is boundary or limit. Properly it means a stream of 
 water, river, rivulet, or brook ; these being the most natural boundaries of 
 landed property. — Tilth is tillage : also used of land tilled, or prepared 
 for sowing. So in Measure for Measure, iv. I : " Our corn's to reap, for yet 
 our tilth's to sow." 
 
 23 Engine was applied to any kind of fnachine : here it probably means 
 furniture of war. 
 
 24 Foison is an old word for plenty or abundance of provision, especially 
 of the fruits of tlie soil. Often used so by the Poet. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 353 
 
 Gonza. I would with such perfection govern, sir, 
 T' excel the golden age.~^ 
 
 Sebas. God save his Majesty ! 
 
 Anta. Long live Gonzalo ! 
 
 Gonza. And, — do you mark me, sir ? — 
 
 Alon. Pr'ythee, no more : thou dost talk nothing to me. 
 
 Gonza. I do well believe your Highness ; and did it to 
 minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensi- 
 ble-^ and nimble lungs, that they always use to laugli at 
 nothing. 
 
 Anto. 'Twas you we laugh'd at. 
 
 Gonza. Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to 
 you : -"^ so you may continue, and laugh at nothing still. 
 
 Anto. What a blow was there given ! 
 
 Sebas. An it had not fallen flat-long.^s 
 
 Gonza. You are gentlemen of brave mettle ;29 you would 
 lift the Moon out of her sphere, if she would 3° continue in it 
 five weeks without changing. 
 
 •25 " The golden age" is that fabulous period in "the dark backward of 
 time " when men knew nothing of sin and sorrow, and were so wise and 
 good as to have no need of laws and government. Milton, in his Ode on the 
 Nativity, has " Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold." 
 
 ■^6 Sensible for sensitive or ticklish. So in Coriolanus, i. 3 : " I would your 
 cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for 
 pity." See, also, Hamlet, page 109, note 44. 
 
 '^' Nothing in comparison with you. So the Poet often uses to. 
 
 28 The idea is of a sword handled so awkwardly as to hit with the side, 
 and not with the edge. 
 
 29 Brave mettle is high, glorious, or magnificent spirit. The Poet often 
 has mettle in that sense. — Sphere, in the next line, is orbit. 
 
 ^'' Our present usage requires should. In Shakespeare's time, the auxil- 
 iaries could, should, and would were often used indiscriminately, as were 
 also shall and will. So a little further on : " Methinks I see it in thy face, 
 what thou shouldst be"; shouldst for wouldst. Again, later in this scene, 
 " should noX upbraid our course"; should for would. Also, "who shall be 
 of as little memory " ; shall for will. 
 
354 THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 Enter Ariel, invisible^ playing solemn music. 
 
 Sebas. We would so, and then go a-bat-fowling."*! 
 
 Anto. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. 
 
 Gonza. No, I warrant you ; I will not adventure my dis- 
 cretion-^- so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep? for I am 
 very heavy. 
 
 Ajito. Go sleep, and hear us not. 
 
 \_All sleep but Alon., Sebas., and Anto. 
 
 Alon. What, all so soon asleep ! I wish mine eyes 
 Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts : I find 
 They are inclined to do so. 
 
 Sebas. Please you, sir, 
 
 Do not omit the heavy offer of it : ^^ 
 It seldom visits sorrow ; when it doth, 
 It is a comforter. 
 
 Anto. We two, my lord, 
 
 Will guard your person while you take your rest, 
 And watch your safety. 
 
 Alon. Thank you. — Wondrous heavy. 
 
 [Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel. 
 
 Sebas. What a strange drowsiness possesses them ! 
 
 Anto. It is the quality o' the climate. 
 
 Sebas. Why 
 
 Doth it not, then, our eyelids sink ? I find not 
 
 SI Bat-fowling was a term used of catching birds in the night. Fielding, 
 ill Joseph Andrews, calls it bird-battifig, and says " it is performed by holding 
 a large clap-net before a lantern, and at the same time beating the bushes; 
 for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of rest or roost, im- 
 mediately make to the light, and so are enticed within the net." 
 
 32 That is, " hazard my character for discretion, or put it in peril." 
 
 33 " Do not slight or neglect the offer of sleep which it holds out," or 
 " when it offers to make you sleepy." Heavy is here used proleptically, or 
 anticipatively. See Macbeth, page 113, note 11. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 355 
 
 Myself disposed to sleep. 
 
 Anio. Nor I ; my spirits are nimble. 
 
 They fell together all, as by consent ; 
 They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, 
 Worthy Sebastian, O, what might I^'* No more : 
 And yet methinks I see it in thy face, 
 What thou shouldst be : th' occasion speaks thee ; ^^ and 
 My strong imagination sees a crown 
 Dropping upon thy head. 
 
 Sebas. What, art thou waking? 
 
 An/o. Do you not hear me speak ? 
 
 Sebas. I do ; and surely 
 
 It is a sleepy language, and thou speak'st 
 Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say ? 
 This is a strange repose, to be asleep 
 With eyes wide open ; standing, speaking, moving. 
 And yet so fast asleep. 
 
 Anto. Noble Sebastian, 
 
 Thou lett'st thy fortune sleep, — -die rather ; wink'st 
 Whiles thou art waking.^*^ 
 
 Sebas. Thou dost snore distinctly ; 
 
 There's meaning in thy snores. 
 
 Anto. I am more serious than my custom : you 
 Must be so too, if heed me ; which to do 
 Trebles thee o'er."^'^ 
 
 S'* " What might you be ! " is probably the meaning. 
 
 3i Reveals or pj-oclahns thee. Such an opportunity kindles the devil in 
 Sebastian, and makes his ambitious thoughts legible in his face. So in 
 Macbeth, i. 5 : " Your face is as a book where men may read strange mat- 
 ters." 
 
 3fi " Closest thine eyes as if asleep while thou art awake." While, whiles, 
 and whilst were used indifferently. 
 
 3" " The doing of which will make thee thrice what thou art now." 
 
356 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Sebas. Well, I am standing water.^s 
 
 Auto. I'll teach you how to flow. 
 
 Sebas. Do so : to ebb 
 
 Hereditary sloth instructs me. 
 
 Anto. O, 
 
 If you but knew how you the purpose cherish 
 Whiles thus you mock it ! how, in stripping it, 
 You more invest it I-^^ Ebbing men, indeed, 
 Most often do so near the bottom run 
 By their own fear or sloth. 
 
 Seluis. Pr'ythee, say on : 
 
 The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim 
 A matter from thee ; and a birth indeed 
 Which throes thee much to yield."*" 
 
 Anfo. Thus, sir : 
 
 Although this lord of weak remembrance, this, 
 Who shall be of as little memory "^^ 
 When he is earth'd, hath here almost persuaded — 
 For he's a spirit of persuasion, only 
 Professes to persuade — the King his son's alive, 
 'Tis as impossible that he's undrown'd 
 
 38 Water standing between ebb and flow, and so ready to be moved in 
 either direction. So in Twelfth Night, i. 5 : " 'Tis with him e'en standing 
 ■water between boy and man." 
 
 ^'■1 Sebastian shows that he both takes and welcomes Antonio's sugges- 
 tion, by his making it a theme of jest ; and the more he thus denudes the 
 hint of obscurity by playing with it, the more he clothes it with his own 
 approval. — "Ebbing men " are men whose fortunes are ebbing away or de- 
 clining. 
 
 ■"' " In the yielding of which you struggle very hard, and suffer much 
 pain." — Matter, here, is something of vast import. 
 
 ■*! Will be as little remembered, or as quickly forgotten, as he is apt to 
 forget. Weak remembrance means feeble memory. Francisco is the lord 
 referred to. — Shall ior will, as noted a little before^ 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 357 
 
 As he that sleeps here swims. 
 
 Sebas. , I have no hope 
 
 That he's undrown'd. 
 
 Auto. O, out of that no hope 
 
 What great hope have you ! no hope that way is 
 Another way so high a hope, that even 
 Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, — 
 But doubt discovery there.^- Will you grant with me 
 That Ferdinand is drown'd ? 
 
 Scbas. He's gone. 
 
 Aufo. Then, tell me, 
 
 Who's the next heir of Naples ? 
 
 Sti>as. Claribel. 
 
 Anto. She tliat is Queen of Tunis ; she that dwells 
 Ten leagues beyond man's life ; '^'^ she that from Naples 
 Can have no note,'*'* unless the Sun were post, — 
 The Man-i'-the-moon's too slow, — till new-born chins 
 Be rough and razorable. She 'twas for whom '•^ we 
 All were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again ; ''^ 
 
 ^2 Cannot pierce so much beyond as may be measured by a wink of the 
 eye ; wink meaning the same as Jot or atom. Probably all are familiar with 
 the word in that sense. — The last clause is obscure, or worse : probably„if 
 the text be right, the force of cannot was meant to be continued over Bui 
 doubt. See Critical Notes. 
 
 43 Beyond a lifetime of travelling. Of course this passage is a piece of 
 intentional hyperbole ; and Sebastian shows that he takes it so, by exclaim- 
 ing, " What stuff is this ! " 
 
 ■*4 A'ote for knowledge or notice. See King Lear, page 128, note 3. 
 
 45 For whom is here equivalent to because of whom, or on whose account. 
 For IS often used so. Antonio means, apparently, to imply that, inasmuch 
 as Claribel has been the occasion of what has befallen them, they need not 
 scruple to cut her off from the Neapolitan throne. And he goes on to inti- 
 mate that, by the recent strange events, Sebastian and himself are marked 
 out, as by destiny, for some mighty achievement or some peerless honour. 
 
 4* The image is of being swallowed by the sea, and then cast up, or cast 
 
35^ THE TEMPEST. ACT II. 
 
 And, by that destiny, to perform an act 
 Whereof what's past is prologue ; what to come, 
 In yours and my discharge. 
 
 Selms. What stuff is this ! How say you ? 
 
 'Tis true, my brother's daughter's Queen of Tunis ; 
 So is she heir of Naples ; 'twixt which regions 
 There is some space. 
 
 Ani. A space whose every cubit 
 
 Seems to cry out, How shalt thou, Claribel, 
 Measure us back to Naples ? ''^ Keep in Tunis, 
 And let Sebastian wake ! Say, this were death 
 That now hath seized them ; why, they were no worse 
 Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples 
 As well as he that sleeps ; lords that can prate 
 As amply and unnecessarily 
 As this Gonzalo : I myself could make 
 A chough of as deep chat.'''* O, that you bore 
 The mind that I do ! what a sleep were this 
 For your advancement ! Do you understand me ? 
 
 Sebas. Methinks I do. 
 
 Anto. And how does your content 
 
 Tender your own good fortune?"*^ 
 
 Sebas. I remember 
 
 You did supplant your brother Prospero. 
 
 Anto. True : 
 
 ashore. — In the next line, "by that destiny" is by the same destiny through 
 which they have so miraculously escaped drowning. 
 
 ■*" " Measure the distance back from Naples to us ; " or " retnrii to us." 
 ^8 Could produce, breed, or train a parrot to talk as wisely. A chough is 
 a bird of the jackdaw kind. 
 
 "•2 Obscure, again. But the meaning seems to be, " How does your pres- 
 ent contentment, that is, apathy or indifference, regard or look out for your 
 own advantage or interest ? " To tender a. thing is to take care of\\., or be 
 careful for it. See Hamlet, page 73, note 27. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 359 
 
 And look how well my garments sit upon me ; 
 Much feater^" than before : my brother's servants 
 Were then my fellows ; now they are my men. 
 
 Sebas. But, for your conscience — 
 
 Anto. Ay, sir; and where hes that? if 'twere a kibe,^* 
 'Twould put me to my slipper : but I feel not 
 This deity in my bosom : twenty consciences. 
 That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied^- be they, 
 And melt, ere they molest ! Here lies your brother, 
 No better than the earth he lies upon, 
 If he were that which now he's like ; whom I, 
 With this obedient steel, three inches of it. 
 Can lay to bed for ever ; whiles you, doing thus, 
 To the perpetual wink for aye might put 
 This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who 
 Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, 
 They'll take suggestion ^'^ as a cat laps milk ; 
 They'll tell^"* the clock to any business that 
 We say befits the hour. 
 
 Sebas. Thy case, dear friend. 
 
 Shall be my precedent ; as thou gott'st Milan, 
 
 **• Feater is more finely, or more becomingly. — Fellows, in the next line, 
 is equals. The word is often used in that sense. 
 
 51 The Poet has kibe several times for the well-known heel-sore, an 
 ulcerated chilblain. 
 
 52 Candied, here, is congealed, or crystallized. So in Timon of Athens, 
 iv. 3 : " Will the cold brook, candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste ? " 
 
 53 Suggest and its derivatives were often used in the sense of to tempt. 
 Thus Shakespeare has such phrases as "tender youth is soon suggested," 
 and " what serpent hath suggested i\\ee." The meaning of the text is," They'll 
 fall in with any temptation to villainy " ; they referring to the other lords 
 present. 
 
 S'* Tell, again, for count. The meaning is, " They'll speak whatever words 
 we choose to have them speak," or " put into their mouths." 
 
3^0 THE TEMPEST. ACT il. 
 
 I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword : one stroke 
 Shall free thee from the tribute which thou pay'st ; 
 And I the King shall ^^ love thee. 
 
 An to. Draw together ; 
 
 And when I rear my hand, do you the like, 
 To fall it on Gonzalo. 
 
 Sebas. O, but one word. 
 
 \_They converse apart. 
 
 Music. Re-enter Ariel, invisible. 
 
 Ari. My master through his art foresees the danger 
 That you, his friend, are in ; and sends me forth — 
 For else his project dies — to keep thee living. 
 
 \_Sings in Gonzalo's ear. 
 While you here do snoring lie, 
 Open-eyed conspiracy 
 His time doth take. 
 If of life you keep a care, 
 Shake off slumber, and beware : 
 Awake ! awake ! 
 Anto. Then let us both be sudden. 
 Gonza. [ Waking.'] Now, good angels 
 
 Preserve the King! — \^To Sebas. ami Anto.] Why, how 
 
 now ! — \_To Alon.] Ho, awake ! — 
 [7b Sebas. and Anto.] Why are you drawn? wherefore 
 this ghastly looking? 
 A/on. [JVa/cing.] What's the matter? 
 Sebas. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, 
 Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing 
 Like bulls, or rather lions : did't not wake you ? 
 It struck mine ear most terribly. 
 
 65 S/ia/t for wi/t, again. See page 86, note 41. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 36 1 
 
 Alon. I heard nothing. 
 
 Anto. O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear, 
 To mal-ce an earthquake ! sure, it was the roar 
 Of a whole herd of Hons. 
 
 Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo? 
 
 Gonza. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a hunnning, 
 And that a strange one too, which did awake me : 
 I shaked you, sir, and cried : as mine eyes open'd, 
 I saw their weapons drawn : there was a noise. 
 That's verity. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard. 
 Or that we quit this place : let's draw our weapons. 
 
 Aloti. Lead off this ground ; and let's make further search 
 For my poor son. 
 
 Gonza. Heavens keep him from these beasts ! 
 
 For he is, sure, i' the island. 
 
 Alon. Lead away. 
 
 \^Exit with the others. 
 
 An. Prospero my lord shall know what I have done : — 
 So, King, go safely on to seek thy son. \_Exit. 
 
 Scene H. — Another part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Caliban, with a burden of wood. A noise of Thunder 
 heard. 
 
 Cal. All the infections that the Sun sucks up 
 From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him 
 By inch-meal ' a disease ! His spirits hear me. 
 And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch, 
 Fright me with urchin-shows,^ pitch me i' the mire, 
 
 1 Inch-meal and limb-meal were used just as we use piece-meal. 
 '■2 Urchin-shows are y^z/Vy-shows ; as urchin was the name of a certaia 
 description of fairies. See page 66, note 80. 
 
362 THE TEMPEST. act n. 
 
 Nor lead me, like a fire-brand,*' in the dark 
 Out of my way, unless he bid 'em : but 
 For every trifle are they set upon me ; 
 Sometime'* like apes, that mow^ and chatter at me, 
 And after bite me ; then like hedgehogs, which 
 Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount 
 Their pricks ^ at my foot-fall ; sometime am I 
 All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues 
 Do hiss me into madness. Lo, now, lo ! 
 Here comes a spirit of his ; and to torment me 
 For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat ; 
 Perchance he will not mind me. 
 
 Enter Trinculo. 
 
 Trin. Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any 
 weather at all, and another storm brewing ; I hear it sing i' 
 the wind : yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like 
 a foul bombard'^ that would shed his liquor. If it should 
 thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head : 
 yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. — What 
 have we here ? a man or a fish ? Dead or alive ? A fish : he 
 smells like a fish ; a very ancient and fish-like smell ; a kind 
 of not-of-the-newest poor-john.^ A strange fish ! Were I in 
 England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, 
 not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver : there 
 would this monster make a man ; any strange beast there 
 
 3 The ignis fatuus was thought to be the work of naughty spirits. 
 ^ Sometime and sometitnes were used indiscriminately. 
 
 5 To 7uo'w is to 7nake tnout/is. So Nash's Pierce Penniless : " Nobody at 
 home but an ape, that sat in the porch, and made mops and /nows at him." 
 
 6 Pricks is the ancient word for prickles. 
 
 ' A bombard is a black jack of leather, to hold beer, &c. 
 8 Poor-John is an old name for hake salted and dried. 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 363 
 
 makes a man : ^ when they will not give a doit to relieve a 
 lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. 
 Legg'd like a man ! and his fins like arms ! Warm, o' my 
 troth ! I do now let loose my opinion ; hold it no longer : 
 this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately sufi'ered by a 
 thunderbolt. \^T//unt/cr.^ Alas, the storm is come again ! 
 my best way is to creep under his gaberdine ; '^ there is no 
 other shelter hereabout : misery acquaints a man with strange 
 bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm 
 be past. [ Creeps under Caliban's garment. 
 
 Eftter Stephano, singing ; a bottle in his hand. 
 Steph. / shall no more to sea, to sea, 
 
 Here shall I die ashore ; — 
 This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral : well, 
 here's my comfort. \_D rinks. 
 
 [Sings.] The master, the swabber, ^^ the boatswain, and I, 
 The gunner, and his mate, 
 Loved Mall, Meg, a?id Marian, and Matgery, 
 But none of us eared for Kate ; 
 For she had a tongue with a tang}'^ 
 Would cry to a sailor. Go hang ! 
 She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch : 
 Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang! 
 
 9 Sets a man up, or makes his fortune. The phrase was often used thus. 
 So in A Midsummer-Night' s Dream, iv. 2: " If our sport had gone forward, 
 we had all been viade men" 
 
 1" A gaberdine was a coarse outer garment. "A shepherd's pelt, frock. 
 ox gaberdine, such a coarse long jacket as our porters wear over the rest of 
 their garments," says Cotgrave. " A kind of rough cassock or frock like an 
 Irish mantle," says Philips. 
 
 11 A swabber is one whose special business it is to sweep, mop, or swab 
 the deck of a ship. 
 
 i* Tang was used of what has a pungent or biting taste or flavour. 
 
364 THE TEMPEST. act ii. 
 
 This is a scurvy tune too : but here's my comfort. [^Drinks. 
 
 Cal. Do not torment me : — O ! 
 
 Steph. What's the matter ? Have we devils here ? Do you 
 put tricks upon's with savages and men of Inde, ha?^^ j 
 have not 'scaped drowning, to be afeard now of your four 
 legs ; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on 
 four legs cannot make him give ground ; and it shall be said 
 so again, while Stephano breathes at's nostrils. 
 
 Cal. The spirit torments me : — O ! 
 
 Skph. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, 
 who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the Devil should 
 he learn our language ? I will give him some relief, if it be 
 but for that. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, and 
 get to Naples with him, he's a present for any emperor that 
 ever trod on neat's-leather.'^ 
 
 Cal. Do not torment me, pr'ythee : 
 I'll bring my wood home faster. 
 
 Steph. He's in his fit now, and does not talk after the 
 wisest. He shall taste of my bottle : if he have never drunk 
 wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can re- 
 cover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for 
 him : '^ he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. 
 
 Cal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt ; 
 Thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling : 
 Now Prosper works upon thee. 
 
 Steph. Come on your ways ; open your mouth ; here is 
 
 '3 Alluding, probably, to the impostures practised by showmen, who 
 often exhibited sham wonders pretended to be brought from America. Iiidt 
 for India, East or West. 
 
 1* Neat is an old epithet for all cattle of the bovine genus. So that neat's- 
 leather \s cowhide or calfskin. So in The Winter's Tale, i. 2: "And yet the 
 Steer, the heifer, and the calf are all called neat." 
 
 " A piece of vulgar irony, meaning, " I'll take as much as I can get." 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 365 
 
 that which will give language to you, cat : ^^ open your 
 mouth ; this will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that 
 soundly: \_Gives him drink.'] you cannot tell who's your 
 friend; open your chops again. \_Gives him more drink. 
 
 Trin. I should know that voice : it should be — but he is 
 drown'd ; and these are devils : — O, defend me ! 
 
 Steph. Four legs, and two voices, — a most delicate mon- 
 ster ? His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend ; 
 his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. 
 If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his 
 ague: \_Gives him drink.'] — Come, — Amen ! 1^ I will 
 pour some in thy other mouth. 
 
 Trin. Stephano ! 
 
 Steph. Doth thy other mouth call me ? — Mercy, mercy ! 
 This is a devil, and no monster : I will leave him ; I have 
 no long spoon. 
 
 Trin. Stephano ! — If thou be'st Stephano, touch me, and 
 speak to me ; for I am Trinculo, — be not afeard, — thy 
 good friend Trinculo. 
 
 Steph. If thou be'st Trinculo, come forth : I'll pull thee 
 by the lesser legs : if any be Trinculo's legs, these are they. 
 \_PuUs Trinculo oiit.'\ Thou art very Trinculo"^ indeed! 
 How earnest thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? ^9 
 
 16 Shakespeare gives his characters appropriate language : " They belch 
 forth proverbs in their drink," " Good liquor will make a cat speak," and 
 " He who eats with the devil had need of a long spoon." 
 
 1' Stephano is frightened, and put to his religion ; and Amen! is the best 
 he can do towards praying. 
 
 18 That is, the real or veritable Trinculo. The Poet often has very so. 
 
 "^^ Moon-calf ^2i% an imaginary monster, supposed to be generated or 
 misshapen through lunar influence. So in Holland's Pliny : " A false con- 
 ception called 7nola, that is a moone-calfe; that is to say, a lump of flesh 
 without shape, without life." — Siege is an old word for seat. ^oinMectsure 
 for Measure, iv. 2 : " Upon the very siege of justice." 
 
366 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Trin. I took him to be kill'd with a thunder-stroke. But 
 art thou not drown'd, Stephano ? I hope, now, thou art not 
 drown'd? Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the 
 dead moon-calf's gaberdine for fear of the storm. And 
 art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans 
 'scaped ! 
 
 Sti'pli. Pr'ythee, do not turn me about ; my stomach is 
 not constant. 
 
 Cal. \_Aside^ These be fine things, an if^*^ they be not 
 sprites. 
 That's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor : 
 I will kneel to him. 
 
 Steph. How didst thou 'scape? How camest thou hither? 
 swear, by this bottle, how thou camest hither. I escaped 
 upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved o'erboard, by 
 this bottle ! which I made of the bark of a tree with mine 
 own hands, since I was cast ashore. 
 
 Cal. I'll swear, upon that bottle, to be thy 
 True subject ; for the liquor is not earthly. 
 
 Steph. Here ; swear, man, how thou escapedst. 
 
 Trin. Swam ashore, man, like a duck : I can swim like a 
 duck, I'll be sworn. 
 
 Steph. Here, kiss the book. \_Gives him dfink.~\ Though 
 thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose. 
 
 Trin. O Stephano, hast any more of this ? 
 
 Steph. The whole butt, man : my cellar is in a rock by 
 the sea-side, where my wine is hid. — How now, moon-calf ! 
 how does thine ague? 
 
 Ca/. Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven? 
 
 20 In old English, if, an, and an //are exactly equivalent expressions; 
 the latter being merely a reduplication; though it sometimes has the force 
 of even if. See Hamlet, page 89, note 34. 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 367 
 
 Steph. Out o' the Moon, I do assure thee : I was the 
 Man-i'-the-moon when thue was. 
 
 Cal. I've seen thee in her, and I do adore thee : 
 My mistress show'd me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush.-^ 
 
 Steph. Come, swear to that ; kiss the book : I will furnish 
 it anon with new contents : swear. [ Gives Caliban drink. 
 
 Trin. By this good light, this is a very shallow monster ! 
 — I afeard of him ! — a very weak monster ! — The Maii-i'- 
 the-moon ! — a most poor credulous monster ! — Well drawn, 
 monster, in good sooth. ^^ 
 
 Cal. I'll show thee every fertile inch o' the island ; 
 And I will kiss thy foot : I pr'ythee, be my god. 
 
 Triyi. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken mon- 
 ster ! when his god's asleep, he'll rob his bottle.-^ 
 
 Cal. I'll kiss thy foot ; I'll swear myself thy subject. 
 
 Steph. Come on then ; down, and swear. 
 
 Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed 
 monster. A most scurvy monster ! I could find in my heart 
 to beat him, — 
 
 Steph. Come, kiss. \^Gives Caliban drink. 
 
 Trin. — but that the poor monster's in drink : an abom- 
 inable monster ! 
 
 Cal. I'll show thee the best springs ; I'll pluck thee berries ; 
 I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. 
 A plague upon the tyrant that I serve ! 
 I'll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, 
 Thou wondrous man. 
 
 21 So in A Midsummer-Night' s Dream, v. I : " This man, with lantern, 
 dog, and bush of thorn, presenteth moonshine." 
 
 22 Well drawn probably means that Caliban has taken a large draught 
 of the liquor; as we should say, a ^«w/^r. — "In good %ooX\\y sooth is the 
 same as truth. So soothsayer originally meant a truth-speaker. 
 
 *8 That is, will steal the liquor out of his bottle. 
 
368 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Trin. A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of 
 a poor drunkard ! 
 
 Cal. I pr'ythee, let me bring thee where crabs grow ; 
 And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts ;-'* 
 Show thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how 
 To snare the nimble marmozet ; I'll bring thee 
 To clustering filberts, and sometimes I'll get thee 
 Young staniels-^ from the rock. Wilt thou go with me? 
 
 Steph. I pr'ythee now, lead the way without any more 
 talking. — Trinculo, the King and all our company else being 
 drown'd, we will inherit here. Here, bear my bottle : fellow 
 Trinculo, we'll fill him by-and-by again. 
 
 Cal. \Sings drunke?ily.'\ Farewell, master ; farewell, 
 farewell ! 
 
 Trin. A howling monster ; a drunken monster ! 
 
 Cal. No more dams I'll make for fish ; 
 
 Nor fetch in firing at requiring ; 
 Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish : 
 'Ban, 'Ban, Ca — Caliban 
 Has a new master ; get a new man. 
 
 Freedom, hey-day, hey-day, freedom ! freedom, hey-day, 
 freedom ! 
 Steph. O brave monster ! lead the way. \_Exeunt. 
 
 2* Pig-nuts are probably much the same as what we call ground-nuts, — 
 a small bulbous root growing wild. 
 
 -5 The staniel is a species of hawk, also called kestril ; a "beautiful 
 species," says Montagu. See Critical Notes, 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 369 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — ^<f/<^;-<? Prospero's Cell. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log. 
 
 Ferd. There be some sports are painful, and their labour 
 Delight in them sets off: ' some kinds of baseness 
 Are nobly undergone ; and most poor matters 
 Point to rich ends. This my mean task would be 
 As heavy to me as 'tis odious, but 
 The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead, 
 And makes my labours pleasures : O, she is 
 Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed, 
 And he's composed of harshness. I must remove 
 Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up. 
 Upon a sore injunction : my sweet mistress 
 Weeps when she sees me work ; and says such baseness 
 Had never like executor. I forget : 
 But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labour ; 
 Most busy when I do it least.^ 
 
 1 The delight we take in those painful sports offsets or compensates the 
 exertion they put us to. A similar thought occurs in Macbeth : " The labour 
 we delight in physics pain." 
 
 2 That is, "/ iein^ most busy when I am least occupied." The sense of 
 the two lines appears to be, " The sweet thoughts attending my labour, and 
 springing from what Miranda is thereby moved to say, make even the 
 labour itself refreshing to me; so that I am happiest when I work hardest, 
 and most weary when working least." And Ferdinand " forgets " his task, 
 or loses all sense of its irksomeness, in the pleasantness of his thoughts. 
 The passage is not so very dark to those who liave had their labour sweetened 
 to them by thoughts of the dear ones for whom they were working. " And 
 Jacob served seven years for Rachel ; and they seemed unto him but a few 
 days, for the love he had to her." See Critical Notes. 
 
370 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 Enter Miranda ; and Prospero behind. 
 
 Mira, Alas, now, pray you 
 
 Work not so hard : I would the lightning had 
 Burnt up those logs that you're enjoin'd to pile ! 
 Pray, set it down, and rest you : when this burns, 
 'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father 
 Is hard at study ; pray now, rest yourself : 
 He's safe for these three hours. 
 
 Ferd. O most dear mistress. 
 
 The Sun will set before I shall discharge 
 What I must strive to do. 
 
 Mira. If you'll sit down, 
 
 I'll bear your logs the while : pray, give me that ; 
 I'll carry 't to the pile. 
 
 Ferd. No, precious creature ; 
 
 I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back, 
 Than you should such dishonour undergo. 
 While I sit lazy by. 
 
 Mira. It would become me 
 
 As well as it does you : and I should do it 
 With much more ease ; for my good will is to it. 
 And yours it is against. 
 
 Pros. \_Aside.'] Poor worm, thou art infected ! 
 
 This visitation shows it. 
 
 Mira. You look wearily. 
 
 Ferd. No, noble mistress ; 'tis fresh morning with me 
 When you are by at night. I do beseech you, — 
 Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers, — 
 What is your name ? 
 
 Mira. Miranda : — O my father, 
 
 I've broke your hest to say so ! 
 
 Ferd. Admired Miranda ! 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST, 371 
 
 Indeed the top of admiration ; worth 
 
 What's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady 
 
 I've eyed with best regard ; and many a time 
 
 The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
 
 Brought my too diligent ear : for several virtues 
 
 Have I liked several women ; never any 
 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, 
 
 And put it to the foil : "^ but you, O you. 
 
 So perfect and so peerless, are created 
 
 Of every creature's best ! 
 
 Mira. I do not know 
 
 One of my sex ; no woman's face remember, 
 Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have I seen 
 More that I may call men, than you, good friend. 
 And my dear father : how features are abroad, 
 I'm skilless of ; but, by my modesty, — 
 The jewel in my dower, — I would not wish 
 Any companion in the world but you ; 
 Nor can imagination form a shape, 
 Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle 
 Something too wildly, and my father's precepts 
 I therein do forget. 
 
 Ferd. I am, in my condition, 
 
 A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king, — 
 I would, not so ! — and would no more endure 
 This wooden slavery than to suffer 
 The flesh-fly blow'* my mouth. Hear my soul speak : 
 
 3 " Put it to the foil" means, apparently, compel it to Jight, or to stand on 
 its defence ; foil being often used as a general term for weapons of the sword 
 kind. Here, as usual, owed is owned. 
 
 ■* The Jlesh-Jly is the fly that blows dead flesh, that is, lays maggot-eggs 
 upon it, and so hastens its putrefaction. 
 
372 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 The very instant that I saw you, did 
 My heart fly to your service ; there resides, 
 To make me slave to it ; and for your sake 
 Am I this patient log-man. 
 
 Mira. Do you love me? 
 
 Ferd. O Heaven, O Earth, bear witness to this sound, 
 And crown what I profess with kind event, 
 If I speak true ! if hollowly, invert 
 What best is boded me to mischief ! I, 
 Beyond all limit of what else ^ i' the world, 
 Do love, prize, honour you. 
 
 Mira. I am a fool 
 
 To weep at what I'm glad of. 
 
 Pros. \_Aside.'\ Fair encounter 
 
 Of two most rare affections ! Heavens rain grace 
 On that which breeds between them ! 
 
 Ferd. Wherefore weep you ? 
 
 Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer 
 What I desire to give ; and much less take 
 What I shall die to want.^ But this is trifling ; 
 And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 
 The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning ! 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 If not, I'll die your maid : to be your fellow''' 
 You may deny me ; but I'll be your servant, 
 
 5 " What else " for 7vhatsoevcr else. The Poet has many instances of 
 relative pronouns thus used indefinitely. So in Ki7ig Lear, v. 3 : " What in 
 the world he is that names me traitor, villain-like he lies." And in Othello, 
 iii. 3 : " Who steals my purse steals trash." 
 
 6 Die from wanting; or by wanting. Another gerundial infinitive. We 
 have a like expression in Much Ado : " Yon kill me to deny it." 
 
 T Fellow for companion or equal, as before. See page 89, note 50. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST, 373 
 
 Whether you will or no. 
 
 Ferd. My mistress, dearest, 
 
 And I thus humble ever. 
 
 Mira. My husband, then ? 
 
 Ferd. Ay, with a heart as willing 
 As bondage e'er of freedom : ^ here's my hand. 
 
 Mira. And mine, with my heart in't : and now farewell 
 Till half an hour hence. 
 
 Ferd. A thousand thousand \^ 
 
 \_Fxeunf Ferdinand and Miranda. 
 
 Pros. So glad of this as they, I cannot be, 
 Who am surprised withal ; i" but my rejoicing 
 At nothing can be more. I'll to my book ; 
 For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform 
 Much business appertaining. \^Exit. 
 
 8 The abstract for the concrete. " I accept you for my wife as willingly 
 as ever a bondman accepted of freedom." 
 
 8 Meaning a thousand thousand farewells ; this word being taken liter- 
 ally, like the Latin bene vale. — Coleridge comments on this sweet scene as 
 follows : " The whole courting-scene, in the beginning of the third Act, is a 
 masterpiece; and the first dawn of disobedience in the mind of Miranda to 
 the command of her father is very finely drawn, so as to seem the working 
 of the Scriptural command. Thou shall leave father and mother, &c. O, with 
 what exquisite purity this scene is conceived and executed ! Shakespeare 
 may sometimes be gross, but I boldly say that he is always moral and mod- 
 est. Alas! in this our day, decency of manners is preserved at the expense 
 of morality of heart, and delicacies for vice are allowed, whilst grossness 
 against it is hypocritically, or at least morbidly, condemned." 
 
 1" Prospero may well be surprised at what has shot up between his 
 daughter and the Prince ; for, though the result is just what he has planned 
 and hoped for, it has come on far better than he has dared to expect. See 
 Critical Notes. 
 
374 THE TEMPEST. ACT m. 
 
 Scene II. — Another part of the Island. 
 Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, with a bottle. 
 
 Steph. Tell not me : when the butt is out, we will drink 
 water ; not a drop before : therefore bear up, and board 
 'em.i — Servant-monster, drink to me. 
 
 Trin. Servant-monster ! the folly of this island ! They 
 say there's but five upon this isle : we are three of them ; if 
 th' other two be brain'd like us, the State totters. 
 
 Steph. brink, servant-monster, when I bid thee : thy eyes 
 are almost set ^ in thy head. [Caliban drinks. 
 
 Trin. Where should they be set else? he were a brave 
 monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. 
 
 Steph. My man-monster hath drown'd his tongue in sack : 
 for my part, the sea cannot drown me ; I swam, ere I could 
 recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues, off and on, by this 
 light. — Thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my stan- 
 dard. ^ 
 
 Trin. Your lieutenant, if you list ; he's no standard.'* 
 
 Steph. We'll not run. Monsieur Monster. 
 
 Triti. Nor go neither : but you'll lie like dogs, and yet 
 say nothing neither. 
 
 Steph. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou be'st a 
 good moon-calf. 
 
 1 " To bear up, put the helm up, and keep a vessel off her course." So 
 says Admiral Smith. 
 
 2 Set here means, I suppose, fixed in a vacant stare. So in Twelfth Night, 
 V. I : " He's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone ; his eyes were set at eight i' the 
 morning." 
 
 3 Standard, like ensign, is put for the bearer o{ the standard. 
 
 * Trinculo is punning upon standard, and probably means that Caliban 
 is too drunk to stand. 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 375 
 
 Cal. How does thy Honour? Let me lick thy shoe. 
 I'll not serve him, he is not valiant. 
 
 Trill. Thou liest, most ignorant monster : I am in case 
 to justle a constable.^ Why, thou debosh'd '^ fish, thou, 
 was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack 
 as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a 
 fish and half a monster ? 
 
 Cal. Lo, how he mocks me ! wilt thou let him, my lord? 
 
 Trill. Lord, quoth he. That a monster should be such 
 a natural ! ~ 
 
 Cal. Lo, lo, again ! bite him to death, I pr'ythee. 
 
 Steph. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head : if 
 you prove a mutineer, — the next tree. The poor monster's 
 my subject, and he shall not suffer indignity. 
 
 Cal. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased 
 To hearken once again the suit I made thee ? 
 
 Steph. Marry, will I : kneel, and repeat it ; I will stand, 
 and so shall Trinculo. 
 
 Enter Ariel, invisible. 
 
 Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant ; a 
 sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island. 
 
 Ari. Thou liest. 
 
 Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou : 
 
 I would my valiant master would destroy thee ! 
 I do not lie. 
 
 5 The jester is breaking jests upon himself; his meaning being, " One so 
 deep in drink as I am is valiant enough to quarrel with an officer of the 
 law." 
 
 6 Debosh'd is an old form c>{ debauched. Cotgrave explains, " Deboshed, 
 lewd, incontinent, ungracious, dissolute, naught." 
 
 1 Natural was used for simpleton or fool. There is also a quibble in- 
 tended between monster and natural, a monster being unnatural. 
 
3/6 THE TEMPEST, ACT III. 
 
 Steph. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in's tale, by 
 this hand, I will sup])lant some of your teeth. 
 
 Trin. Why, I said nothing. 
 
 Steph. Mum, then, and no more. — \To Cal.] Proceed. 
 
 Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle ; 
 From me he got it. If thy Greatness will 
 Revenge it on him, — for, I know, thou darest, 
 But this thing dare not, — 
 
 Steph. That's most certain. 
 
 Cal. — Thou shalt be lord of it, and I will serve thee. 
 
 Steph. How now shall this be compass'd? Canst thou 
 bring me to the party ? 
 
 Cal. Yea, yea, my lord ; I'll yield him thee asleep, 
 Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. 
 
 Ari. Thou liest ; thou canst not. 
 
 Cal. What a pied ninny's this ! ^ — Thou scurvy patch ! — 
 I do beseech thy Greatness, give him blows, 
 And take his bottle from him : when that's gone. 
 He shall drink nought but brine ; for I'll not show him 
 Where the quick freshes ^ are. 
 
 Steph. Trinculo, run into no further danger : interrupt the 
 monster one word further, and, by this hand, I'll turn my 
 mercy out of doors, and make a stock-fish"' of thee. 
 
 Trin. Why, what did I ? I did nothing. I'll go further 
 off. 
 
 Steph. Didst thou not say he lied? 
 
 Ari. Thou liest. 
 
 8 Pied is dappled or diversely-coloured. Trinculo is " an allowed Fool " 
 or jester, and wears a motley dress. Patch refers to the same circumstance. 
 
 9 Quick freshes are living springs of fresh water. 
 
 1" A stock-fish appears to have been a thing for practising upon with the 
 fist, or with a cudgel. Ben Jonson has it in Every y'an in his Humour, iii. 
 a: " 'Slight, peace ! thou wilt be beaten like a stock-fish^ 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. '^J'J 
 
 Steph. Do I so? take thou that. \Str ikes him. '\ As you 
 like this, give me the lie another time. 
 
 Trin. I did not give thee the lie. Out o' your wits and 
 hearing too ? A pox o' your bottle ! this can sack and 
 drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the Devil 
 take your fingers ! 
 
 Cat. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Steph. Now, forward with your tale. — Pry 'thee stand fur- 
 ther off. 
 
 Cal. Beat him enough : after a little time, 
 I'll beat him too. 
 
 Steph. Stand further. — Come, proceed. 
 
 Cal. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him 
 r the afternoon to sleep : then thou mayst Ijrain hira,i^ 
 Having first seized his books ; or with a log 
 Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, 
 Or cut his weazand'- with thy knife. Remember, 
 First to possess his books ; for without them 
 He's but a sot,'^ as I am, nor hath not 
 One spirit to command : they all do hate him 
 As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. 
 He has brave utensils,'"* — for so he calls them, — 
 Which, when he has a house, he'll deck't withal : 
 
 11 That is, knock out his brains. So, in i Henry the Fourlh, ii. 3, Hotspur 
 says, " Zwounds ! an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his 
 lady's fan." 
 
 12 Weazand is windpipe or throat. So Spenser has weazand-pipe. 
 
 13 Sot, from the French, was frequently used for fool ; as our word be- 
 sotted sometimes is. The Poet has it repeatedly so. 
 
 I'' Here utensils has the accent on the first and third syllables. Such, it 
 seems, is the English pronunciation of the word. So Wordsworth has it; 
 and so Milton, in Paradise Regained, iii. 336 : — 
 
 Mules after these, camels, and dromedaries, 
 And wagons, fraught with utensils of war. 
 
37^ THE TEMPEST. ACT III, 
 
 And that most deeply to consider is 
 The beauty of his daughter ; he himself 
 Calls her a nonpareil : I ne'er saw woman. 
 But only Sycorax my dam and she ; 
 But she as far surpasseth Sycorax 
 As great'st does least. 
 
 Steph. Is it so brave a lass? 
 
 Cal. Ay, lord. 
 
 Steph. Monster, I will kill this man : his daughter and 1 
 will be king and queen, — save our Graces ! — and Trinculo 
 and thyself shall be viceroys. — Dost thou like the plot, 
 Trinculo ? 
 
 7>7'//. Excellent. 
 
 Sttpli. Give me thy hand : I am sorry I beat thee ; but, 
 while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head. 
 
 Cal. Within this half-hour will he be asleep ; 
 Wilt thou destroy him then? 
 
 Steph. Ay, on mine honour. 
 
 Ari. This will I tell my master. 
 
 Cal. Thou makest me merry ; I am full of pleasure : 
 Let us be jocund : will you troll the catch 
 You taught me but while-ere?'^ 
 
 Steph. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, ^^ any 
 reason. — Come on, Trunculo, let us sing. [_Sings. 
 
 Flout 'em and scout 'etn, and scout 'em and flout 'em ; 
 Thoug/tt is free. 
 
 15 While-ere is awhile since. Milton has another form of it in the open- 
 ing o{ Paradise Regained : " I who erewhile the happy garden sung," &c. — 
 A catch is a song in parts, where all the singers sing the same notes, but in 
 such order as to make harmony, and where each in turn catchesihQ others; 
 sometimes called a round. — To troll is to ivllox round out glibly or volubly. 
 
 16 That is, will do what is reasonable. See Hamlet, page 58, note 13. 
 
SCENE II. THE TEMPEST. 379 
 
 Cal. That's not the tune. 
 
 [Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe. 
 
 Steph. What is this same ? 
 
 Trin. This is the tune of our catch, play'd by the picture 
 of Nobody.'"'' 
 
 Steph, If thou be'st a man, show thyself in thy Hkeness : 
 if thou be'st a devil, — take't as thou hst.'^ 
 
 Trin. O, forgive me my sins ! 
 
 Steph. He that dies pays all debts : I defy thee. — Mercy 
 upon us ! 
 
 Cal. Art thou afeard ? 
 
 Steph. No, monster, not I. 
 
 Cal. Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises. 
 Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. 
 Sometime '^ a thousand twangling instruments 
 Will hum about mine ears ; and sometime voices, 
 That, if I then had waked after long sleep. 
 Will make me sleep again : and then, in dreaming, 
 The clouds methought would open, and show riches 
 Ready to drop upon me ; that, when I waked, 
 I cried to dream again. 
 
 Steph. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I 
 shall have my music for nothing. 
 
 Cal. When Prosper© is destroy'd. 
 
 Steph. That shall be by-and-by : I remember the story. 
 
 Cal. The sound is going away ; let's follow it, 
 .\nd after do our work. 
 
 I'f The picture of Nobody was a common sign, and consisted of a hear) 
 upon two legs, with arms. Tliere was also a wood-cut prefixed to an olil 
 play of Nobody and Somebody, which represented this personage. 
 
 18 Here Stephano probably shakes his fist at the invisible musician, oi 
 the supposed devil, by way of defiance or bravado. 
 
 19 Sometime, again, for sometimes. See page 92, note 4. 
 
3 So THE TEMPEST. ACT HI. 
 
 Steph. Lead, monster; we'll follow. — I would I could 
 see this laborer ! -^ he lays it on. — Wilt come ? 
 
 Trin. I'll follow, Stephano. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — Another part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Ani'onio, Gonzalo, Adrian, 
 Francisco, and Others. 
 
 Gonza. By'r lakin,' I can go no further, sir ; 
 My old bones ache : here's a maze trod, indeed, 
 Through forth-rights and meanders !- by your patience, 
 I needs must rest me. 
 
 Alon. ■ Old lord, I cannot blame thee, 
 
 Who am myself attach'd with weariness. 
 To th' dulling of my spirits : sit down, and rest. 
 Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it 
 No longer for my flatterer : he is drown'd 
 Whom thus we stray to find ; and the sea mocks 
 Our frustrate 3 search on land. Well, let him go. 
 
 20 " You shall heare in the ayre the sound of tabers and other instruments, 
 to put the travellers in feare, by evill spirites that makes these soundes, and 
 also do call diverse of the travellers by their names." Travels of Marcus 
 Paulus, 1579. To some of these circumstances Milton also alludes in 
 Comus : — 
 
 Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire ; 
 
 And aery tongues that syllable men's names 
 
 On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 
 
 J By'rlaktn is a contraction of by our ladykin, which, again, is a diminu- 
 tive oi our Lady. A disguised or softened form of s\veari.->g by the Blessed 
 Virgin. 
 
 2 Forth-rights are straight lines; meanders, crooked ones. 
 
 3 Frustrate for frustrated, meaning baffled ; in accordance with the usage 
 remarked in note 43, page 56. Shakespeare has many preterite forms made 
 in the same way, such as confiscate, consecrate, articulate, and suffocate. The 
 usage still holds in a few words, as in situate. 
 
SCENK in. THE TEMPEST. 38 1 
 
 Anto. {Aside to Sebas.] I am right glad that he's so out 
 of hope. 
 Do not, for one repulse, forgo the purpose 
 That you resolved t' effect. 
 
 Sebas. [Aside to Anto.] The next advantage 
 Will we take throughly.^ 
 
 Anto. {Aside to Sebas.] Let it be to-night • 
 For, now they are oppress 'd with travel, they 
 Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance 
 As when they're fresh 
 
 Sebas. {Aside to Anto.] I say, to-night : no more. 
 
 {Solemn and strange ?nusic. 
 
 Alon. What harmony is this ? My good friends, hark ! 
 
 Gonza. Marvellous sweet music ! 
 
 Enter Prospero above, invisible. Enter, below, several 
 strange Shapes, bringing in a Banquet : they dance about 
 it with gentle actions of salutation; and, inviting the 
 King, ^c, to eat, they depart. 
 Alon. Give us kind keepers, Heavens ! — What were 
 
 these? 
 Sebas. A living drollery.^ Now I will believe 
 
 That there are unicorns ; that in Arabia 
 
 There is one tree, the phoenix' throne ;^ one phoenix 
 
 At this hour reigning there. 
 
 * Thro7tgh and thorottgh, throughly and thoroughly, are but different forms 
 of the same word, as to be thorough in a thing is to^f through it. The old 
 writers use the two forms indifferently. So in St. Matthew, iii. 12 : " He will 
 throughly purge his floor." 
 
 5 Shows, called Drolleries, were in Shakespeare's time performed by 
 pi'.ppets only. " A living drollery " is therefore a drollery performed not by 
 puppets but by living personages ; a live puppet-show. 
 
 6 This imnginary bird is often referred to by the old poets; by Shake- 
 speare repeatedly. The ancient belief is expressed by Lyly in his Euphues, 
 
382 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 Anto. I'll believe both ; 
 
 And what does else want credit, come to me, 
 And I'll be sworn 'tis true : travellers ne'er did He, 
 Though fools at home condemn 'em. 
 
 Gonza. If in Naples 
 
 I should report this now, would they beheve me ? 
 If I should say I saw such islanders, — 
 For, certes,''' these are people of the island, — 
 Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note. 
 Their manners are more gentle-kind than of 
 Our human generation you shall find 
 Many, nay, almost any. 
 
 Pros. \_Aside.'] Honest lord, 
 
 Thou hast said well ; for some of you there present 
 Are worse than devils. 
 
 Alon. I cannot too much muse^ 
 
 Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing — 
 Although they want the use of tongue — a kind 
 Of excellent dumb discourse. 
 
 Pros. \_Aside.'] Praise in departing.^ 
 
 Fran. They vanish'd strangely. 
 
 Sebas. No matter, since 
 
 They've left their viands behind ; for we have stomachs. — 
 Will't please you taste of what is here ? 
 
 thus : " For as there is but one Phoenix in the world, so there is but one tres 
 in Arabia, wherein she buildeth." Also in Holland's Pliny : " I myself have 
 heard strange things of this kind of tree ; namely, in regard of the bird Phce- 
 nix; for it was assured unto me, that the said bird died with that tree, and 
 revived of itself as the tree sprung again." 
 
 '' Certes for certainly ; used several times by Shakespeare. 
 
 8 To 7nuse is to wonder; to wonder at, in this instance. 
 
 9 " Praise in departing" is said to have been a proverbial phrase mean- 
 ing, praise not your entertainment too soon ; wait till the end. 
 
SCENE III. THE TEMPEST. 383 
 
 Alon. Not I. 
 
 Gonza. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were 
 boys. 
 Who would behave that there were mountaineers 
 Dew-lapp'd hke bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em 
 Wallets of flesh?'" or that there were such men 
 Whose heads stood in their breasts?'^ which now we find, 
 Each putter-out of one for five ''^ will bring us 
 Good warrant of. 
 
 A/on. I will stand to, and feed. 
 
 Although my last : no matter, since I feel 
 The best is past. — Brother, my lord the Duke, 
 Stand to, and do as we. 
 
 Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel, like a harpy ; claps 
 his wings upon the table ; and, by a quaint device, the 
 banquet vanishes. 
 
 Art. You are three men of sin, whom Destiny — 
 That hath to '^ instrument this lower world 
 
 1" In the Alpine and other mountainous regions are many well-known 
 cases oi goitre that answer to this description. Probably, in the Poet's time, 
 some such had been seen by fravellers, but not understood. 
 
 1' These were probably the same that Othello speaks of: " The Anthro- 
 pophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders." Also in 
 Holland's Pliny : " The Blemmyi, by report, have no heads, but mouth and 
 ayes both in their breast." 
 
 '■- A sort of inverted life-insurance was practised by travellers in Shake- 
 speare's time. Before going abroad they//// out a sum of money, for which 
 Ihey were to receive two, three, four, or even five times the amount upon 
 their return ; the rate being according to the supposed danger of the expe- 
 dition. Of course the sum put out fell to the depositary, in case the putter- 
 out did not return. So in Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his Humour, ii. I : 
 " I am determined to put forth some five thousand pound, to be paid me 
 five for one, upon the return of myself and wife, and my dog, from the Turk's 
 Court in Constantinople." 
 
 >•* To, again, with the force ol for or as. See page 78, note 9. 
 
384 THE TEMPEST. ACT III. 
 
 And what is in't — the never-surfeited sea 
 Hath caused to belch up ; yea, and on this island 
 VVhere man doth not inhabit ; you 'mongst men 
 Being most unfit to live. I've made you mad ; 
 And even with such like valour men hang and drown 
 Their proper selves. 
 
 [^Seei/i^'^ Alon., Sebas., 6^r., dnnv tJu-ir stvords 
 You fools ! I and my fellows 
 Are ministers of Fate : the elements, 
 Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well 
 Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs 
 Kill the still-closing waters, ^'^ as diminish 
 One dowle '^ that's in my plume : my fellow-ministers 
 Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt, 
 Your swords are now too massy for your strengths, 
 And will not be uplifted. But remember, — 
 For that's my business to you, — that you three 
 From Milan did supplant good Prospero ; 
 Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit '^ it. 
 Him and his innocent child : for which foul deed 
 The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have 
 Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, 
 Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, 
 They have bereft ; and do pronounce, by me. 
 Lingering perdition — worse than any death 
 Can be at once — shall step by step attend 
 You and your ways ; whose wraths to guard you from, — 
 Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls 
 
 n Waters that cotitinually close over cuts made in them, and leave no 
 trace thereof. See page 61, note 62. 
 
 !•'' Dowle and down are said to have been equivalent. Here dowle seems 
 rather to mean a single particle or thread of downe. 
 
 '« RequU for requited, like others noted before. See page 56, note 43. 
 
SCENE III. THE TEMPEST. 3^5 
 
 Upon your heads, — is nothing, but heart-sorrow 
 And a clear hfe ensuing.'" 
 
 He vanishes in thunder ; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes 
 again, and dance with mocks and moives, and carry out 
 the table. 
 
 Pros. \^Aside^ Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou 
 Perform'd, my Ariel ; a grace it had, devouring : 
 Of my instruction hast thou nothing 'bated 
 In what thou hadst to say : so, with good life. 
 And observation strange,'^ my meaner ministers 
 Their several kinds have done.'^ My high charms work, 
 And these mine enemies are all knit up 
 In their distractions : they now are in my power ; 
 And in these fits I leave them, while I visit 
 Young Ferdinand, — who they suppose is drown'd, — 
 And his and my loved darling. \_Exitfrom above. 
 
 Gonza. V the name of something holy, sir, why stand you 
 In this strange stare ? 
 
 Alon. O, it is monstrous, monstrous ! 
 
 Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it ; 
 The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder, 
 That deep and dreadful organ pipe, pronounced 
 The name of Prosper : it did bass my trespass. 
 Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded ; and 
 
 1" " From whose wrath nothing can shield or deliver you but heart-felt 
 repentance and an amended life, or doing works meet for repentance." 
 Whose refers Xo powers, in the sixtli line before. 
 
 18 The sense appears to be, " with all the truth of life itself, and with rare 
 observance of the proprieties of action." 
 
 19 To do one's kitid is to act out one's nature, or act according to one's 
 nature ; though in this case the nature is an assumed one, that is, a part. 
 So, in Antony and Cleopatra, the rustic, speaking of the asp, says, " the wornft 
 will do his kind." Also in the phrase, " The cat will after kind." 
 
3^6 THE TEMPEST. ACT iv. 
 
 I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded, 
 
 And with him there lie mudded. \^£xit. 
 
 Sebas. But one fiend at a time, 
 
 I'll fight their legions o'er. 
 
 Anio. I'll be thy second. 
 
 \^Exeu7it Sebastian and Antonio. 
 
 Gonza. All three of them are desperate : their great guilt, 
 Like poison given to work a long time after,-*^ 
 Now 'gins to bite the spirits. — I do beseech you, 
 That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly, 
 And hinder them from what this ecstasy ^^ 
 May now provoke them to. 
 
 Adrt. Follow, I pray you. {^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Before Prospero's Cell. 
 
 Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda. 
 
 Pros. If I have too austerely punish'd you, 
 Your compensation ' makes amends ; for I 
 Have given you here a thread of mine own life,^ 
 Or that for which I live ; who once again 
 I tender to thy hand : all thy vexations 
 
 2" The natives of Africa have been supposed to possess the secret how to 
 temper poisons with such art as not to operate till several years after they 
 were administered. 
 
 21 Shakespeare uses ecstasy for any alienation of mind, a fit, or madness. 
 
 1 Your competisatioti is the compensation you receive. Shakespeare has 
 many instances of like construction. 
 
 2 "Thread of mine own life " probably means about the same as " my 
 very heart-strings" ; strings the breaking of which spills the life, 
 
SCENE I. THE lEMPEST. 387 
 
 Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
 
 Hast strangely stood the test : here, afore Heaven, 
 
 I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, 
 
 Do not smile at me that I boast her off, 
 
 For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise 
 
 And make it halt behind her. 
 
 Ferd. I do believe it 
 
 Against an oracle. 
 
 Pros. Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition 
 Worthily purchased, take my daughter : but, 
 If thou dost break her virgin-knot ^ before 
 All sanctimonious "* ceremonies may 
 With full and holy rite be minister'd, 
 No sweet aspersion ^ shall the Heavens let fall 
 To make this contract grow ; but barren hate, 
 Sour-eyed disdain, and discord, shall bestrew 
 The union of your bed with weeds so loathly,^ 
 That you shall hate it both : therefore take heed, 
 As Hymen's lamps shall light you. 
 
 Ferd. As I hope 
 
 For quiet days, fair issue, and long life. 
 With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest even. 
 The most opp6rtune place, the strong'st suggestion "^ 
 Our worser genius ^ can, shall never melt 
 
 3 Alluding, no doubt, to the zone or sacred girdle which the old Romans 
 used as the symbol and safeguard of maiden honour. 
 
 ■* Sanctimonious, here, is sacred or religious. The marriage ritual was 
 supposed to have something of consecrating virtue in it. 
 
 5 Aspersion in its primitive sense of spri}ikling, as with genial rain or 
 dew. — Here, again, as also just after, shall for -will. 
 
 6 Not with wholesome flowers, such as the bridal bed was wont to be 
 decked with, but with loathsome weeds. 
 
 "^ Suggestion, again, for temptation. See page 89, note 53. 
 
 * Genius, spirit, and angel were used indifferently for what we should 
 
388 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Mine honour into lust ; to take away 
 
 The edge of that day's celebration, 
 
 When I shall think, or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd, 
 
 Or Night kept chain'd below. 
 
 Pros. Fairly spoke. 
 
 Sit, then, and talk with her ; she is thine own. — 
 What, Ariel ! my industrious servant, Ariel ! 
 
 Enter Ariel. 
 
 Ari. What would my potent master ? here I am. 
 Pros. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service 
 Did worthily perform ; and I must use you 
 In such another trick. Go bring the rabble. 
 O'er whom I give thee power, here, to this place : 
 Incite them to quick motion ; for I must 
 Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 
 Some vanity ^ of mine art : it is my promise. 
 And they expect it from me. 
 
 Ari. Presently ? 
 
 Pros. Ay, with a twink. 
 Ari. Before you can say Co7ne and Go, 
 And breathe twice, and cry So, so. 
 Each one, tripping on his toe. 
 Will be here with mop and movv.^'^ 
 Do you love me, master? — no? 
 
 call a man's worser or better self. The Edinburgh Revietv, July, 1869, has 
 the following : " In mediaeval theology, the rational soul is an angel, the low- 
 est in the hierarchy for being clothed for a time in the perishing vesture of 
 the body. But it is not necessarily an angel of light. It may be a good or 
 evil genius, a guardian angel or a fallen spirit, a demon of light or dark- 
 ness." See, also, Julius CcBsar, page 76, note 16. 
 
 ^ Perhaps meaning some magical show or illusion. Display? 
 
 10 Mop and mow were very often used thus together. To tnow is to make 
 mouths, to grimace. Wedgwood, in his English Etymology, says that mop 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 389 
 
 Pros. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach 
 Till thou dost hear me call. 
 
 Ari. Well, I conceive. \_Exit. 
 
 Pros. Look thou be true ; do not give dalliance 
 Too much the rein : the strongest oaths are straw 
 To th' fire i' the blood. 
 
 Ferd. I warrant you, sir : 
 
 The white-cold virgin snow upon my heart 
 Abates the ardour of my liver. ^' 
 
 Pros. Well. — 
 
 Now come, my Ariel ! bring a corollary,'- 
 Rather than want a spirit : appear, and pertly ! 
 No tongue ; all eyes ; be silent. \_Soft music. 
 
 Enter Iris, 
 
 Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 
 Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas ; 
 Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, 
 And flat meads thatch'd with stover,'^ them to keep ; 
 Thy banks with peoned and twilled brims, '"^ 
 
 has exactly the same derivation as mock, and means to gibber. Thus the 
 ape both mops and mows ; that is, he gibbers or chatters, and ii!ail;cs faces. 
 
 11 The liver was supposed to be the special seat of certain passions, and 
 so was often put for the passions themselves. 
 
 12 Corollary here means a surplus number; more than enough. — Pertly, 
 in the next line, is nimbly, alertly. 
 
 13 Stover is fodder and provision of all sorts for cattle. Steevens says 
 that in some counties it " signifies hay made of coarse rank grass, such as 
 even cows will not eat while it is green." 
 
 !■* A writer in The Edinburgh Revieu' for October, 1872, argues, and, I 
 think, proves, that peoned here refers to the tnarsh-marigold, which grew 
 abundantly on the flat marshy banks of such still-running streams as the 
 Warwickshire Avon, and which was provincially called peony or piony. He 
 thus compares it with the garden peony: "The flowers, though differing in 
 colour, have a remarkable similarity in general growth and shape, especially 
 
390 THE TEMPEST. ACT III 
 
 Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, 
 
 To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; 'and thy brown groves. 
 
 Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, 
 
 Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipt vineyard ; '^ 
 
 And thy sea-marge, steril, and rocky-hard. 
 
 Where thou thyself dost air ; — the Queen o' the Sky, 
 
 Whose watery arch and messenger am I, 
 
 Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign Grace, 
 
 Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, 
 
 To come and sport. Her peacocks fly amain : 
 
 Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 
 
 Enter Ceres. 
 Cer. Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er 
 Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; 
 Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers 
 Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers ; 
 And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 
 My bosky acres ^^ and my unshrubb'd down, 
 
 in the early stage, when the fully-formed bud is ripe for blowing."— In ex- 
 planation of twilled the same writer has the following : " Twills is given by 
 Halliwell as an older provincial word for reeds; and it was applied, like 
 quills, to the serried rustling sedges of river reaches and marshy levels. It 
 was indeed while watching the masses of waving sedge cutting the water-line 
 of the Avon, not far from Stratford church, that we first felt the peculiar 
 force and significance of the epithet." — In the next line, April has the epi- 
 thet spongy, probably because at that season the earth or the air sponges up 
 so much water. So, in Cymbeline, iv. 2, we have " the spongy south," refer- 
 ring to the south or south-west 7vind, which, in England, is apt to be densely 
 charged with moisture; that k. foggy ; elsewhere called "the foggy south." 
 
 15 Lass-lorn is forsaken by his lass, the sweet-heart that has dismissed 
 him. — Pt^/^-c^)*/ probably means poles embraced or clasped by the vines. 
 Clip was often used for embrace. So in Coriolaims. i. 6: " Let me clif ye in 
 arms as sound as when I wood." — Vineyard is here a trisyllable. 
 
 16 "Bosky acres" are woody acres, fields intersected by luxuriant hedge- 
 rows and copses. So in Milton's Cotnus : — 
 
SCENE I. THE lEMPEST. 39 ^ 
 
 Rich scarf to my proud Earth ; — why hath thy Queen 
 Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green? 
 
 Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate ; 
 And some donation freely to estate 
 On the bless'd lovers. 
 
 Ce7-. Tell me, heavenly Bow, 
 
 If Venus or her son, as thou dost know, 
 Do now attend the Queen ? Since they did plot 
 The means that dusky Dis my daughter got,^'' 
 Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company 
 I have forsworn. 
 
 Iris. Of her society 
 
 Be not afraid : I met her deity 
 Cutting the clouds towards Paphos,'^ and her son 
 Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done 
 Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, 
 Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid 
 Till Hymen's torch be lighted : but in vain ; 
 Mars's hot minion is return'd again ; ^^ 
 Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, , 
 
 Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows, 
 And be a boy right out. 
 
 I know each lane, and every alley green, 
 Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood, 
 And every bosky bourn from side to side. 
 
 17 The means whereby Pluto caught and carried off Proserpina. Proser- 
 pina was the daughter of Jupiter and Ceres : Dis, King of dusky Hades, fell 
 so deep in love with her, that he must needs seize her, vi et aniiis, and spirit 
 her away to Hades, to be his Queen. 
 
 18 A city in Cyprus, where Venus had a favourite country-seat. 
 
 19 Has gone back to Paphos. Minion is darling or favourite, and refers 
 to Venus. — In what follows the meaning is, that Cupid is so chagrined and 
 mortified at being thus baffled, that he is determined to give up his busi- 
 ness, and act the love-god no more, but be a mere boy, or a boy outright 
 
392 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV 
 
 Cer. High'st Queen of state,20 
 
 Great Juno comes ; I know her by her gait.-' 
 Enter Juno. 
 Juno. How does my bounteous sister ? Go with me 
 To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, 
 And honour'd in their issue. 
 
 Song. 
 Juno. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing. 
 Long continuance, and increasing, 
 Hourly joys be still upon you J 
 Juno sings her blessings on you. 
 
 Cer. Earth's increase, ajidjoison plenty^'^ 
 
 Barns and garners never etnpty ; 
 
 Vines ivith clustering bunches grooving ; 
 
 Plants with goodly burden bowing ; 
 
 Spring come to you at the farthest 
 
 In the veiy end of harvest ! ^^ 
 
 Scarcity and want shall shuti you ; 
 « Ceres' blessing so is o?i you. 
 
 20 " High'st Queen of state" is the same as Queen of highest state, or 
 Queen above all other queens. State for throne, or chair of state. So the 
 word was often used. — The Poet has many similar inversions. 
 
 21 Juno was distinguished by her wali, a.s the gods and goddesses gener- 
 ally were. So in Pericles, v. i : "In pace another Juno." 
 
 22 " Foison plenty " is, strictly speaking, redundant or tautological, as both 
 words mean the same. But plenty is used as an adjective, — plentiful or 
 overflowing. See page 82, note 24. 
 
 23 " May your new Spring come, at the latest, as soon as the harvest of 
 the old one is over!" This explanation is sustained, as Staunton points 
 out, by Amos, ix. 13 : " Behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that the 
 ploughman shall overtake the reaper, and the treader of grapes him that 
 soweth the seed." Also, in The Faerie Queen, iii. 6, 42 : — 
 
 There is continuall Spring, and harvest there 
 Continual!, both meeting in one time. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 393 
 
 Ferd. This is a most majestic vision, and 
 Harmonious charmingly.^'* May I be bold 
 To think these spirits ? 
 
 Pros. Spirits, which by mine art 
 
 I have from their confines call'd to enact 
 My present fancies. 
 
 Ferd. Let me live here ever ; 
 
 So rare a wonder'd-^ father and a wife 
 Make this place Paradise. [Juno and Ceres whisper, and 
 
 send Iris on employment. 
 
 Pros. Sweet, now, silence ! 
 
 Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ; 
 There's something else to do : hush, and be mute, 
 Or else our spell is marr'd.-^ 
 
 Iris. You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the winding brooks. 
 With your sedge crowns and ever-harmless looks, 
 Leave your crisp channels,'-^^ and on this green land 
 
 2* That is, charmingly harmonious. See note 20, above. — " So bold as 
 to think." See page 54, note 28. 
 
 25 " So rare-wonder'd a father" is the prose order of the words. The 
 Poet has several such inversions for metre's sake. So in King yohn, iv. i : 
 " For putting on so new a fashion'd robe." So new-fashion'd a robe. The 
 meaning in the text is, so rarely-wonderful a father ; and the force of " so rare 
 a wonder d" extends over wife. Shakespeare has many instances of the 
 ending -ed used in the same way ; as in Macbeth, iii. 4 : " You have broke 
 the good meeting with most admired disorder." Admired for admirable, 
 and in the sense of wonderful. 
 
 '-6 It was supposed that any noise or disturbance would upset or discon- 
 cert " the might of magic spells." 
 
 27 Crisp is curled, from the curl made by a breeze on the surface of the 
 water. The transference of an epithet to an associated object, as of crisp 
 from the water to the channel in this instance, is one of Shakespeare's fa- 
 vourite traits of style. So in Romeo and Juliet, iii. 5, when the lovers see 
 tokens of the dawn that is to severxhum, Romeo says," what envious streaks 
 do lace the severing clouds in yonder east." 
 
394 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Answer our summons ; Juno does command : 
 Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate 
 A contract of true love ; be not too late. — 
 
 Enter certain Nymphs. 
 
 You sun-burn'd sicklemen, of August weary, 
 Come hither from the furrow, and be merry : 
 Make holiday ; your rye-straw hats put on, 
 And these fresh nymphs encounter every one 
 In country footing. 
 
 Enter certain Reapers, properly habited : they Join with the 
 Nymphs ifi a graceful dance ; towards the end whereof 
 Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to 
 a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish. 
 
 Pros. [Aside.'] I had forgot that foul conspiracy 
 Of the beast Caliban and his confederates 
 Against my life : the minute of their plot 
 Is almost come. — \_To the Spirits.] Well done; avoid j^^ 
 no more ! 
 
 Ferd. This is most strange : your father's in some passion 
 That works him strongly. 
 
 Alira. Never till this day 
 
 Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd. 
 
 Pros. You do, my son, look in a moved sort,29 
 As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir. 
 Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 Are melted into air, into thin air : 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 
 28 Vacate or make void the place ; that is to say, be gone. 
 
 29 Here, as often, sort is tnaniter or way. So in Coriolaniis, i. 3 ■ "I pray 
 you, daughter, express yourself iu a more comfortable sort." 
 
SCENE I. THE tempp:st. 395 
 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it iniierit,^^ shall dissolve, 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,-"^' 
 Leave not a rack 32 behind. We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep.33 Sir, I am vex'd ; 
 Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled : 
 Be not disturb'd with my infirmity : 
 If you be pleased, retire into my cell. 
 And there repose : a turn or two I'll walk. 
 To still my beating mind. 
 
 [• We wish you peace. 
 
 Pros. \_To Ariel.] Come with a thought! — I thank 
 ye.3'* \_Exeunt Ferd. and Mira.] — Ariel, come ! 
 Re-enter Ariel. 
 Art. Thy thoughts I cleave to : what's thy pleasure ? 
 Pros. Spirit, 
 
 We must prepare to meet with^^ Caliban. 
 
 3" All who possess it. Such is often the meaning of inherit. So in the 
 divine beatitude, " Blessed are the meek ; for they shall inherit the earth." 
 
 31 Faded, from the Latin vado, is the same as vanished. 
 
 3- Rack-^,'&s used of the highest, and therefore lightest or thinnest clouds. 
 So in Bacon's Si/va Silvaniin : " The winds in the upper region (which 
 move the clouds above, which we call the rack,z.ViA are not perceived below) 
 pass without noise." See, also, Hamlet, page ii8, note 77. — The v.ord rack 
 is from 7-eek, that is, vapour or smoke. See Critical Notes. 
 
 •"'•'5 On for of. Still used so, especially in colloquial speech.- — Rounded is 
 finished, rounded off. The sleep here meant is the sleep of death; as in 
 Hamlet's soliloquy: " To die, to sleep; no more." 
 
 •■'■' " I thank ye" is addressed to Ferdinand and Miranda, in return for 
 their " We w ish you peace." 
 
 35 To meet with was anciently the same as to covnteract or oppose. So in 
 
39^ THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Ari. Ay, my commander : when 1 presented Ceres, 
 I thought t' have told thee of it ; but I fear'd 
 Lest I might anger thee. 
 
 P/os. Well, say again, where didst thou leave these varlets ? 
 
 Ari. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; 
 So full of valour, that they smote the air 
 For breathing in their faces ; beat the ground 
 For kissing of their feet ; yet always bending 
 Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor ; 
 At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd their ears, 
 Advanced''^ their eyelids, lifted up their noses 
 As they smelt music : so I charm'd their ears, 
 That, calf-like, they my lowing follow'd through 
 Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, 
 Which enter'd their frail shins : at last I left them 
 r the filthy-mantled pool ^^ beyond your cell, 
 There dancing up to th' chins, that the foul lake 
 O'erstunk their feet.^*^ 
 
 Pros. This was well done, my bird. 
 
 Thy shape invisible retain thou still : 
 The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither, 
 For stale ^^ to catch these thieves. 
 
 Herbert's Country Parson : " He knows the temper and pulse of every one 
 in his house, and accordingly either meefs -with their vices, or advanceth 
 their virtues." 
 
 ^^ Advanced is ^vzM^t/, as already explained. See page 70, note 93. — In 
 the next line, " As they smelt," as if they smelt. 
 
 3" The pool mantled with filth. Mantle for the scum that forms on the 
 surface of stagnant water. So in The Merchant, i. i : " There are a sort of 
 men whose visages do cream and mantle like a standing pond." 
 
 3S That for so that or insomuch that. — The meaning of this unsavoury 
 passage is, that " the foul lake " was so stirred up by their dancing as to give 
 out a worse odour than the men's feet did before they got into it. 
 
 '9 Stale, in the art of fowling, signified a bait or lure to decoy birds. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 39/ 
 
 Ari. I go, I go. \_Exif. 
 
 Pros. A devil, a bom devil, on whose nature 
 Nurture can never stick ; '"' on whom my pains, 
 Humanely taken, all are lost, quite lost ; 
 And as with age his body uglier grows, 
 So his mind cankers. ^^ I will plague them all, 
 Even to roaring. — 
 
 Re-enter Ariel loaden with glistering apparel, 6r»r. 
 
 Come, hang them on this line.'''- 
 
 Prospero and Ariel remain, invisible. Enter Caliban, 
 Stephano, and Trinculo, all ivet. 
 
 Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not 
 Hear a foot fall : we now are near his cell. 
 
 4" Nurture for education, tra'ming, or culture. 
 
 ^1 As before observed, page 71, note 96, canker was used of an eating, 
 malignant sore, like cancer, which is but another form of the same word ; 
 and also of rust. I am not quite certain which of these senses it bears here ; 
 probably the first. Shakespeare has the word repeatedly in both senses ; as 
 in Romeo and Juliet, i. i, where the first canker d means rusted, while the 
 second has the sense of cancer: — 
 
 To wield old partisans, in hands as old, 
 Canker'd with peace, to part your caiiker'd hate. 
 
 ■*2 Some question has been made as to what line means here. The word 
 is commonly taken as meaning a clothes-line ; but I rather agree with the 
 late Rev. Joseph Hunter, and with Mr. A. E. Brae, that it means a line-tree, 
 which may well be supposed to be growing in the lawn before Prospero's 
 cell, — the same that Stephano addresses a little after as " Mistress Line." 
 For Prospero is still in the same place where he has just been making a 
 display of his art ; and I can hardly think he has a clothes-line stretched 
 across it. It has indeed been objected that line, meaning the line-tree, 
 would not be used thus, without the adjunct tree or grove ; but Mr. Brae 
 disposes of this objection fairly, by quoting the following from Holinshed : 
 " We are not without the plane, the ugh, the sorfe, the chestnut, the line, the 
 black cherrie, and such like." 
 
39^ THE TEMPEST. act IV. 
 
 Steph. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless 
 fairy, has done Httle better than play'd the Jack with us.^*^ 
 
 Trin. Monster, I do smell all horse-stale ; at which my 
 nose is in great indignation. 
 
 Steph. So is mine. — Do you hear, monster? If I should 
 take a displeasure against you, look you, — 
 
 Trin. Thou wert but a lost monster. 
 
 Cal. Nay, good my lord,'*'* give me thy favour still. 
 Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to 
 Shall hoodwink this mischance ; ^^ therefore speak softly ; 
 All's hush'd as midnight yet. 
 
 Triri. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool, — 
 
 Steph. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, 
 monster, but an infinite loss. 
 
 Trin. That's more to me than my wetting : yet this is 
 your harmless fairy, monster. 
 
 Steph. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears for 
 my labour. 
 
 Cal. Pr'ythee, my King, be quiet. See'st thou here? 
 This is the mouth o' the cell : no noise, and enter. 
 Do that good mischief which may make this island 
 Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, 
 For aye thy foot-licker. 
 
 Steph. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody 
 thoughts. 
 
 ■*3 To play the Jack is to play the Knave ; or it may be to play the Jack- 
 o -lantern, by leading them astray. 
 
 •i'' We should say " my good lord." Similar inverted phrases occur con- 
 tinually in old plays; such as "dread my lord," "gracious my lord," "dear 
 my mother," " sweet my sister," "gentle my brother," <S:c. 
 
 •"' To hoodwink a thing is, apparently, to make one overlook it or forget it, 
 to blind him to it, or put it out of his sight. So hoodman-blind is an old 
 term for what we call blind-man's-buff. 
 
SCENE I. THE I EM PEST. 399 
 
 Trill. O King Stepliano ! O peer!""^ O worthy Ste- 
 phano ! look wliat a wardrobe here is for thee ! 
 
 Cal. Let it alone, thou fool ; it is but trash. 
 
 Trin. O, ho, monster ! we know what belongs to a frip- 
 pery.'*'^ — O King Stephano ! 
 
 Steph. Put off that gown, Trinculo ; by this hand, I'll 
 have that gown. 
 
 Trin. Thy Grace sliall have it. 
 
 Cal. The drops)- drown this fool ! — what do you mean, 
 To dote thus on such luggage? Let's along, 
 And do the murder first : if he awake, 
 From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches ; 
 Make us strange stuff. 
 
 Steph. Be you quiet, monsier. — Mistress line, is not this 
 my jerkin ? Now is the jerkin under the line : now, jerkin, 
 you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin. '^^ 
 
 Trin. Do, do : we steal by line and level,"*^ an't like your 
 Grace. 
 
 ^6 A humorous allusion to the old ballad entitled " Take thy old Cloak 
 about thee," a part of which is sung by lago in Othello, ii. 3. I add one 
 stanza of it : — 
 
 King Stephen was a worthy peer, 
 
 His breeches cost him but a crown; 
 
 He held them sixpence all too dear, 
 
 Therefore he call'd the tailor lown. 
 
 *' Frippery was the name of a shop where old clothes were sold. 
 
 ■*8 King Stephano puns rather swiftly here. The name of the tree, as 
 explained in note 42, suggests to him the equinoctial line, under which cer- 
 tain regions were much noted for their aptness to generate diseases that 
 commonly made the sufferers bald. Jerkin was the name of a man's upper 
 garment. Mr. Brae thinks there may be another quibble intended between 
 hair and air, as clothes are hung out to be aired, and the jerkin was likely 
 to lose the benefit of such airi?i,^ ; but I should rather take hair as referring 
 to the nap of the jerkin, which was likely to be worn off in Stephano's using ; 
 so as to make the jerkin a bald ]c\'k\n in the nearer sense of having lost its hair. 
 
 *9 Do, do, is said, apparently, in commendation of Stephano's wit as dis- 
 
400 THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. 
 
 Steph. I thank thee for that jest ; here's a garment for't : 
 wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country. 
 Steal by line and level \% an excellent pass of pate •,'-'^ there's 
 another garment for't. 
 
 Trin. Monster, come, put some lime^' upon your fingers, 
 and away with the rest. 
 
 Cal. I will have none on't : we shall lose our time. 
 And all be turn'd to barnacles,^- or to apes 
 With foreheads villainous low.-"'-* 
 
 Steph. Monster, lay-to your fingers : help to bear this away, 
 
 played in his address to the jerkin. — " Steal by line and level " is a further 
 punning on the same word ; the plumb-line and the level being instruments 
 used by architects and builders. So that to steal by line and level was to 
 show wit in stealing, or to steal artistically. 
 
 50 Pass of pate is a spurt or sally of wit ; pass being, in the language of 
 fencing, a thrust. 
 
 51 Lime, or bird-lime, was a sticky substance used for catching birds. 
 So in 2 Henry the Sixth, i. 3 : " Myself have limed a bush for her, and 
 placed a quire of such enticing birds, that she will light to listen to their 
 lays." See, also, Hamlet, page 154, note 8. 
 
 ^'^ Caliban's barnacle is the clakis or tree-goose, as it was called, which 
 was thought to be produced from the shell-fish, lepas antifera, also called 
 barnacle. Gerard's Herbal has the following account of the matter : " There 
 are in the north parts of Scotland certain trees whereon do grow shell-fishes, 
 which, falling into the water, do become fowls, whom we call barnaldes, in 
 the north of England brant-geese, and in Lancashire tree-geese." Perhaps 
 the old notion of the barnacle-goose being produced by the barnacle-fish 
 grew from the identity of name. As Caliban prides himself on his intellec- 
 tuality, he naturally has a horror of being turned into any thing so stupid 
 as a goose. 
 
 53 A low forehead was held a deformity. On the other hand, f. forehead 
 high and broad was deemed a handsome feature in man or woman. The 
 Poet has several allusions to this old idea. So in The Two Gentlemen, iv.4 : 
 " Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high." And in Spenser's de- 
 scription of Belphoebe, Faerie Queene, ii. 3, 24 : — 
 
 Her ivorie forehead, full of bountie brave, 
 Like a broad table did itselfe dispred. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 4OI 
 
 where my hogshead of wine is, or I'll turn you out of my 
 kingdom : go to,-'''' carry this. 
 
 Triti. And this. 
 
 Steph. Ay, and this. 
 
 A noise 0/ hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits in shape of 
 hounds, and hunt them about; Prospero and Ariel set- 
 ting them on. 
 
 Pros. Hey, Mountain, hey ! 
 
 Ari. Silver ! there it goes. Silver ! 
 
 Pros. Fury, Fury ! there, Tyrant, there ! hark ! hark ! — 
 [Cal., Steph., and Trin. are driven out. 
 Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints 
 With dry convulsions ; '^'-^ shorten up their sinews 
 With aged cramps ;^^ and more pinch-spotted make them 
 Than pard or cat-o'-mountain.^'^ 
 
 Ari. Hark, they roar ! 
 
 Pros. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour 
 Lie at my mercy all mine enemies : 
 Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou 
 Shalt have the air at freedom : for a little 
 Follow, and do me ser\'ice. {^Exeunt. 
 
 54 Go to is a phrase occurring very often, and of varying import, some- 
 times of impatience, sometimes of reproof, sometimes of encouragement. 
 Hush up, come on, be off, are among its meanings. 
 
 55 In certain fevers, the mucilage sometimes gets dried out of the joints, 
 especially the knee-joints, so as to cause a creaking or grating sound when 
 the patient walks. Of course the effect is very painful. 
 
 56 Aged seems to be used here with the sense of the intensive old, as 
 before explained. See page 68, note 86. 
 
 ^' Pard was in common use for leopm-d, as also for panther. — Cat-o'- 
 mountain is probably the wild-cat. So in Minsheu's Spanish Dictionary: 
 " Gato montes : A cat of mountaine, a wilde cat." This animal, however, 
 can hardly be called spotted; it is rather striped. Perhaps the term was 
 not confined to one species of animal. 
 
402 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — Before the Ce/l of V'r.osvero. 
 Enter Prospero ifi his magic rohes^ and Ariel. 
 
 Pros. Now does my project gather to a head : 
 My charms crack not ; my spirits obey ; and Time 
 Goes upright with his carriage.^ How's the day? 
 
 Ari. On the sixth hour ; at which time, my lord, 
 You said our work should cease. 
 
 Pros. I did say so, 
 
 When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, 
 How fares the King and's followers ? 
 
 Ari. Confined together 
 
 In the same fashion as you gave in charge ; 
 Just as you left them ; all are prisoners, sir, 
 In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell ;^ 
 They cannot budge till your release. ^ The King, 
 His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted ; 
 And the remainder mourning over them. 
 Brimful of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly 
 He that you term'd The good old lord, Gonzalo : 
 His tears run down his beard, like winter-drops 
 From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 'em, 
 
 1 Time does not break down or bend under its load, or what it carries; 
 that is, " we have time enough for what we have undertaken to do." 
 
 2 " Which defends your cell against the weather, or the storm." 
 
 3 " Till you release them," of course. The objective genitive, as it is 
 called, where present usage admits only of the subjective genitive. The 
 Poet has many such constructions. See page ii6, note i. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 4O3 
 
 That, if you now beheld them, your affections 
 Would become tender. 
 
 Pros. Dost thou think so, spirit? 
 
 Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 
 Pros. And mine shall. 
 
 Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 
 Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, 
 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply 
 Passion as they,^ be kindlier moved than thou art? 
 Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th' quick, 
 Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury 
 Do I take part : the rarer action is 
 In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent, 
 The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
 Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel : 
 My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore, 
 And they shall be themselves. 
 
 Ari. I'll fetch them, sir. \^Exit. 
 
 Pros. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves ; ^ 
 And ye that on the sands with printless foot 
 Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 
 When he comes back ; you demi-puppets that 
 By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets'* make, 
 
 ■* All is here used adverbially, in the sense of quite ; and passion is the 
 object of relish, and has the sense ol suffering. The sense of the passage is 
 sometimes defeated by setting a comma after sharply. 
 
 ^ This speech is in some measure borrowed from Medea's, in Ovid; the 
 expressions are, many of them, in the old translation by Golding. But the 
 exquisite fairy imagery is Shakespeare's own. 
 
 6 These ringlets were circles of bright-green grass, supposed to be pro- 
 duced by the footsteps of fairies dancing in a ring. The origin of them is 
 still, I believe, a mystery. Alluded to in A Midsummer-Night's Dream, ii. i. 
 — Mushrooms were also thought to be the work of fairies ; probably from 
 their growing in rings, and springing up with such magical quickness. 
 
404 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 Whereof the ewe not bites ; and you whose pastime 
 
 Is to make midnight muslirooms ; that rejoice 
 
 To hear the solemn curfew ; "^ by whose aid — 
 
 Weak masters though ye be^ — I have be-dimm'd 
 
 The noon-tide Sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, 
 
 And 'twixt the green sea and the azure vault 
 
 Set roaring war : to the dread-rattling thunder 
 
 Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 
 
 With his own bolt : the strong-based promontory 
 
 Have I made shake, and by the spurs ^ pluck'd up 
 
 The pine and cedar : graves at my command 
 
 Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth 
 
 By my so potent art. But this rough magic 
 
 I here abjure ; and, when I have required 
 
 Some heavenly music, — which even now I do, — 
 
 To work mine end upon their senses that 
 
 This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, 
 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth. 
 
 And deeper than did ever plummet sound 
 
 I'll drown my book. \_Solemn music. 
 
 Re-enter Ariel : after him, Alonso, with a frantic gesture, 
 attended by Gonzalo ; Sebastian and Antonio in like 
 manner, attended by Adrian and Francisco : they all 
 enter the circle which Prospero had tnade, and there 
 stand charmed ; 7uhich Prospero observing, speaks. 
 
 ' They rejoice, because " the curfew tolls the knell of parting day," and 
 so signals the time for the fairies to begin their nocturnal frolics. 
 
 8 Weak, if left to themselves, because they waste their force in sports and 
 in frivolous or discordant aims; but powerful when guided by wisdom, and 
 trained to worthy ends. This passage has often seemed to me a strange 
 prognostic of what human intelligence has since done in taming and mar- 
 shalling the great forces of Nature into the service of man. 
 
 ® The spurs are the largest and longest roots of trees. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 4O5 
 
 A solemn air, as the best comforter 
 
 To an unsettled fancy, cure the brains. 
 
 Now useless, boil'd ^^ within the skull ! — There stand, 
 
 For you are spell-stopp'd. — 
 
 Holy'' Gonzalo, honourable man, 
 
 Mine eyes, even sociable to '- the show of thine, 
 
 Fall fellowly drops. — The charm dissolves apace ; 
 
 And as the morning steals upon the night, 
 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses '-^ 
 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
 
 Their clearer reason. — O thou good Gonzalo, 
 
 My true preserver, and a lo}'al sir 
 
 To him thou follow'st ! I will pay thy graces 
 
 Home '^ both in word and deed. — Most cruelly 
 
 1' Boil'd for boiling ; the passive form with the ?ieuter sense : for the verb 
 to boil is used as active, passive, or neuter, indifferently. We have boil'd 
 just so again in The Winter's Tale, iii. 3: "Would any but these boiTd 
 brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather?" — Love, mad- 
 ness, and melancholy are imaged by Shakespeare under the figure of boiled 
 brains, or boiling brains, or seething brains. So m A Atidsummer-Night's 
 Dream, v. i : " Lovers and madmen have such seethiitg brains," &c. Also in 
 Twelfth Night, ii. 5 : " If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to 
 death with melancholy." Probably the expression grew from the heat 01 
 fever that was understood or supposed to agitate the brain in such cases. 
 
 11 In Shakespeare's time, holy, besides the religious sense oi godly or 
 sanctified, was also used in the moral sense of righteous or just. And why 
 not? 
 
 12 Sociable to is the same as sympathetic with. — Fall, in the next line, is 
 evidently a transitive verb, equivalent to let fall. The usage was common. 
 So in ii. i, of this play : " To fall it on Gonzalo." 
 
 1' Senses was very often used thus of the mental faculties ; as we still say 
 of one who does not see things as they are, that he is out 0/ his senses. The 
 meaning of the passage may be given something thus : " As morning dispels 
 the darkness, so their returning reason begins to dispel the blinding mists 
 or fumes that are gathered about it." 
 
 I'' Home was much used as a strong intensive ; meaning thoroughly, or to 
 the utmost. See Hamlet, page 152, note 2 ; and Macbeth, page 60, note 26. 
 
406 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter : 
 
 Thy brother was a furtherer in the act ; — 
 
 Thou'rt pinch'd for't now, Sebastian. — Flesh and blood. 
 
 You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, 
 
 Expell'd remorse and nature ; ^^ who, with Sebastian, — 
 
 Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, — 
 
 Would here have kill'd your King ; I do forgive thee, 
 
 Unnatural though thou art. — Their understanding 
 
 Begins to swell ; and the approaching tide 
 
 Will shortly fill the reasonable shore,^^ 
 
 That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them 
 
 That yet looks on me, or would know me. — Ariel, 
 
 Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell : — \_Exit Ariel. 
 
 I will disease me,i^ and myself present 
 
 As I was sometime Milan : — quickly, spirit ; 
 
 Thou shalt ere long be free. 
 
 Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Prospero. 
 
 Ari. Where the bee sucks, there suck I : 
 
 In a cowsHp's bell I lie, — 
 
 There I couch : when owls do cry, 
 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 
 After Summer, merrily. ^^ 
 Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 
 15 Here, as commonly in Shakespeare, remorse is pity or tenderness of 
 heart. Nature is put for natural affection. Often so. 
 
 16 " The reasonable shore " is the shore of reason. 
 
 1' " Will put off my disguise." The Poet repeatedly uses case for clothes ; 
 also for skin. — Sometime, in the next line, '\s formerly. Often so. 
 
 18 Ariel uses " the bat's back " as his pleasant vehicle, to pursue Summer 
 in its progress to other regions, and thus live merrily under continual blos- 
 soms. Such appears the most natural as well as most poetical meaning 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 407 
 
 Pros. Why, that's my dainty Ariel ! I shall miss thee ; 
 But yet thou shalt have freedom : — so, so, so. 
 To the King's ship, invisible as thou art : 
 There shalt thou find the mariners asleep 
 Under the hatches ; the master and the boatswain 
 Being awaked, enforce them to this place, 
 And presently, I pr'ythee. 
 
 Ari. I drink the air before me, and return 
 Or e'er your pulse twice beat. \_Exit Ariel. 
 
 Gonza. All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement 
 Inhabit here : some heavenly power guide us 
 Out of this fearful country ! 
 
 Pros. Behold, sir King, 
 
 The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero : 
 For more assurance that a living prince 
 Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body ; 
 And to thee and thy company I bid 
 A hearty welcome. 
 
 Alon. Wher^^ thou be'st he or no. 
 
 Or some enchanted trifle-'^ to abuse me, 
 As late I have been, I not know : thy pulse 
 
 of this much disputed passage. As a matter of fact, however, bats do 
 not migrate in quest of Summer, but become torpid in winter. Was the 
 Poet ignorant of this, or did he disregard it, thinking that such beings as 
 Ariel were not bound to observe the rules of natural history? See Critical 
 Notes. 
 
 '9 The Poet often so contracts -whether. See yulius Ccesar, page 43, 
 note 19. 
 
 -" Enchanted trifle probably means bewitching phantom. Enchanted for 
 enchanting,m accordance with the usage, before noted, of active and passive 
 forms indiscriminately. See page 60, note 59. Walker, however, thinks 
 the meaning to be " some trifle produced by enchantment to abuse me." — 
 Abuse, both verb and substantive, was often used in the sense of deceive, 
 delude, or cheat. 
 
408 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 Beats, as of flesh and blood ; and, since I saw thee, 
 
 Th' affliction of my mind amends, with which, 
 
 I fear, a madness held me : this must crave — 
 
 An if this be at all-' — a most strange story. 
 
 Thy dukedom I resign-- and do entreat 
 
 Thou pardon me my wrongs.-** But how should Prospero 
 
 Be living and be here ? 
 
 Pros. First, noble friend. 
 
 Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot 
 Be measured or confined. 
 
 Gonza. Whether this be 
 
 Or be not, I'll not swear. 
 
 Pros. You do yet taste 
 
 Some subtilties^"* o' the isle, that will not let you 
 Believe things certain. — Welcome, my friends all : — 
 \_Aside to Sebas. aud Anto.] But you, my brace of lords, 
 
 were I so minded, 
 I here could pluck his Highness' frown upon you, 
 And justify you traitors :-^ at this time 
 I'll tell no tales. 
 
 Sebas. \_Aside to Anto.] The Devil speaks in him. 
 
 21 That is, if there be any reality in all this. An if, again, as before ex- 
 plained. See page 96, note 20. 
 
 22 The dukedom of Milan had been made tributary to Naples by Anto- 
 nio, as the price of aid in his usurpation. 
 
 23 Still another instance of the construction mentioned in note 3 of this 
 scene. "My wrongs " may mean either the wrongs I have done, or the 
 wrongs I have suffered. Here it means the former. 
 
 -^ Subtilties are quaint deceptive inventions ; the word is common to 
 ancient cookery, in which a disguised or ornamented dish is so termed. 
 Fabyan's Chronicle, 1542, describes one made of pastry, " called a pelican 
 sitting on his nest with his birds, and an image of Saint Catharine holding 
 a book, and disputing with the doctors." 
 
 25 "Prove you traitors," or, "justify myself for calling you such." 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 4O9 
 
 Pros. Now, 
 
 For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 
 Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive 
 Thy rankest fault ; all of them ; and require 
 My dukedom of thee, which perforce,^^ I know, 
 Thou must restore. 
 
 Alon. If thou be'st Prospero, 
 
 Give us particulars of thy preservation ; 
 How thou hast met us here, who three hours since 
 Were wreck'd upon this shore ; where I have lost — 
 How sharp the point of this remembrance is ! — 
 My dear son Ferdinand. 
 
 Pros. I'm woe^^ for't, sir. 
 
 Alon. Irreparable is the loss ; and patience 
 Says it is past her cure. 
 
 Pros. I rather think 
 
 You have not sought her help ; of whose soft grace, 
 For the like loss I have her sovereign aid. 
 And rest myself content. 
 
 Alon. You the like loss ! 
 
 Pros. As great to me, as late ;-*^ and. portable 
 To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker 
 Tlian you may call to comfort you ; for I 
 Have lost my daughter. 
 
 Alon. A daughter ! 
 O Heavens, that they were living both in Naples, 
 The King and Queen there ! that they were, I wish 
 
 26 Perforce is of force, that is, necessarily or of necessity. 
 
 27 Woe was often used tlius with an adjective sense; sorry. 
 
 28 " As great to me, and as recent!' Or the meaning may be, •' As great 
 to me as // is recent." Either explanation suits, but I prefer tnc first.— 
 Portable is endurable. The Poet has it repeatedly. 
 
41 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 Myself were mudded in that oozy bed 
 
 Where my son Hes. When did you lose your daughter? 
 
 Pros. In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords 
 At this encounter do so much admire,^^ 
 That they devour their reason, and scarce think 
 Their eyes do offices of truth, these words 
 Are natural breath : ^^ but, howsoe'er you have 
 Been justled from your senses, know for certain 
 That I am Prospero, and that very Duke 
 Which was thrust forth of Milan ; who most strangely 
 Upon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was landed, 
 To be the lord on't. No more yet of this ; ^^ 
 For 'tis a chronicle of day by day, 
 Not a relation for a breakfast, nor 
 Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir ; 
 This cell's my Court : here have I {t\N attendants, 
 And subjects none abroad : pray you, look in. 
 My dukedom since you've given me again, 
 I will requite you with as good a thing ; 
 At least bring forth a wonder to content ye 
 As much as me my dukedom. 
 
 The entrance of the Cell opens, and discovers Ferdinand and 
 Miranda playing at chess. 
 
 Mira. Sweet lord, you play me false. 
 Ferd. No, my dear'st love, 
 
 I would not for the world. 
 
 29 Shakespeare commonly uses admire and its derivatives in the Latin 
 sense ; that of ■wonder or amazement. The meaning here is, that their reason 
 is swallowed up in wonder. 
 
 3* " That these words which I am speaking are the words of a real living 
 man." 
 
 3i No more of this now, ox for tke present. Soyet was often used. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 4I I 
 
 Mira. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,^^ 
 And I would call it fair play. 
 
 Alon. If this prove 
 
 A vision of the island, one dear son 
 Shall I twice lose.^^ 
 
 Sebas. A most high miracle ! 
 
 Ferd. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful ! 
 I've cursed them without cause. \^Kneels to Alon. 
 
 Alon. Now all the blessings 
 
 Of a glad father compass thee about ! 
 Arise, and say how thou camest here. 
 
 Mira. O, wonder ! 
 
 How many goodly creatures are there here ! 
 How beauteous mankind is ! O brave new world, 
 That has such people in't ! 
 
 Pros. 'Tis new to thee. 
 
 Alon. What is this maid with whom thou wast at play ? 
 Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours : 
 Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us. 
 And brought us thus together? 
 
 3"-2 The sense evidently wanted here \s," yon tnight play i>ie false"; but 
 how to get this out of wrangle, is not very apparent. Was wrangle used as 
 a technical term in chess and other games ? In King Henry V., i. 2, we 
 have this : " He hath made a match with such a wrangle?; that ail the Courts 
 of France will be disturb'd with chases." This is said with reference to the 
 game of tennis ; and wrangler here seems to mean opponent or antagonist. 
 Wrangle, however, is from the same original as wrong, ■Awd its radical sense 
 is the same. Mr. Joseph Crosby thinks the word is used here in this its 
 radical sense. He writes me as follows: " In the North of England, wnz»^- 
 doin is a common word for wrong, and wraugously for wrongfully. Wrattgle 
 in this sentence is an explanatory parallelism of Miranda's ' play me false,' 
 and means wrong me, — cheat me in the game." 
 
 83 " Shall huice lose" appears to mean " sh'sSWo^^^i. second time!' He 
 has in effect lost his son once in supposing him drowned ; and will lose him 
 again in the dispelling of the vision, if vision it should prove. 
 
412 THE TEMPEST. AC 
 
 Ferd. Sir, she's mortal ; 
 
 But by immortal Providence she's mine : 
 I chose her when I could not ask my father 
 For his advice, nor thought I had one. She 
 Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, 
 Of whom so often I have heard renown, 
 But never saw before ; of whom I have 
 Received a second life ; and second father 
 This lady makes him to me. 
 
 Alo7i. I am hers : 
 
 But, O, how oddly will it sound that I 
 Must ask my child forgiveness ! 
 
 Pros. There, sir, stop : 
 
 Let us not burden our remembrance with 
 A heaviness that's gone. 
 
 Gonza. I've inly wept, 
 
 Or should have spoke ere this. — Look down, you gods, 
 And on this couple drop a blessed crown ! 
 For it is you that have chalk'd forth the way 
 Which brought us hither. 
 
 Alon. I say. Amen, Gonzalo ! 
 
 Gonza. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue 
 Should become Kings of Naples ! O, rejoice 
 Beyond a common joy ! and set it down 
 With gold on lasting pillars : In one voyage 
 Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis ; 
 And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife 
 Where he himself was lost ; Prospero, his dukedom, 
 In a poor isle ; and all of us, ourselves, 
 When no man was his own."''* 
 
 ** When no man was in his senses, or had self-possession. 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 413 
 
 Alon. [71; Ferd. 12//^/ MiRA.] Give me your hands : 
 Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart 
 That doth not wish you joy ! 
 
 Gonza. Be't so ! Amen ! — 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, with the Master (^?«(^/ Boatswain a viazedly fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 O, look, sir, look, sir ! here is more of us : 
 
 I prophesied, if a gallows were on land. 
 
 This fellow could not drown. — Now, blasphemy, 
 
 That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on shore ? 
 
 Hast thou no mouth by land ? What is the news ? 
 
 Boats. The best news is, that we have safely found 
 Our King and company ; the next, our ship — 
 Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split — 
 Is tight, and yare, and bravely rigg'd, as when 
 We first put out to sea. 
 
 A7-i. \_Aside to Pros.] Sir, all this service 
 Have I done since I went. 
 
 Pros. \_Asiiie to Ariel.] My tricksy ^^ spirit ! 
 
 Alon. These are not natural events ; they strengthen 
 From strange to stranger. — Say, how came you hither? 
 
 Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, 
 I'd strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep. 
 And — how we know not — all clapp'd under hatches ; 
 Where, but even now. with strange and several noises 
 Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, 
 And more diversity of sounds, all horrible, 
 We were awaked : straightway, at liberty : 
 When we, in all her trim, freshly beheld 
 
 '6 Ariel seems to he railed tricksy, because his execution has the celerity 
 of magic, or of a juggler's tricks ; " clever, adroit, dexterous," says Dyce, 
 
414 THE TEMPEST. ACT v. 
 
 Our royal, good, and gallant ship ; our master 
 Capering to eye her : ""^ on a trice, so please you, 
 Even in a dream, were we divided from them. 
 And were brought moping^" hither. 
 
 Ari. \_Aside to Pros.] Was't well done ? 
 
 Pros. \_Aside to Ari.] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt 
 be free. 
 
 Alo?i. This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod ; 
 And there is in this business more than Nature 
 Was ever conduct of : '^^ some oracle 
 Must rectify our knowledge. 
 
 Pros. Sir, my liege, 
 
 Do not infest your mind with beating on ^9 
 The strangeness of this business ; at pick'd leisure, 
 Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve^" you — 
 Which to you shall seem probable — of every 
 These happen'd accidents : till when, be cheerful, 
 And think of each thing well. — \_Aside to Ariel.] Come 
 
 hither, spirit : 
 Set Caliban and his companions free ; 
 
 Untie the spell. [^Exit Ari.] — How fares my gracious sir ? 
 There are yet missing of your company 
 Some few odd lads that you remember not. 
 
 36 " Capering to eye her " is leaping or dancing with joy at seeing her. 
 Still another instance of the infinitive used gerundively. 
 
 3" To mope is to be dull or stupid ; originally, dim-sighted. 
 
 38 Conduct for conductor ; that is, guide or leader. Often so. 
 
 89 We have a like expression in use now, — " Still hammering at it." 
 
 ^^ In Shakespeare, to resolve often means to satisfy, or to explain satis- 
 factorily. — Single appears to be used adverbially here, its force going with 
 the predicate ; and the last which refers to resolve : " I will explain to you 
 — and the explanation shall seem to you natural and likely — all these inci- 
 dents, severally, or in detail, as they have happened." 
 
SCENE I. THE TEMPEST. 415 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, driving in Caliban, Stephano, ami Trin- 
 CULO, in their stolen apparel. 
 
 Steph. Every man shift for all the rest,'*' and let no man 
 take care for himself; for all is but fortune. — Coragio, bully- 
 monster, coragio ! 
 
 Trin. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, 
 here's a goodly sight. 
 
 Cal. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed ! 
 How fine my master is ! I am afraid 
 He will chastise me. 
 
 Sebas. Ha, ha ! 
 What things are these, my Lord Antonio ? 
 Will money buy 'em ? 
 
 Anto. Very like ; one of them 
 
 Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. 
 
 Pros. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, 
 Then say if they be true. This mis-shaped knave, — 
 His mother was a witch ; and one so strong 
 That could control the Moon, make flows and ebbs, 
 And deal in her command without her power.""- 
 These three have robb'd me ; and this demi-devil — 
 For he's a bastard one — had plotted with them 
 To take my life : two of these fellows }'ou 
 Must know and own ; this thing of darkness I 
 Acknowledge mine. 
 
 *l Stephano's tongue is rather tipsy still, and staggers into a misplace- 
 ment of his words. He means " Let every man shift for himself." 
 
 42 Witkflut has here the sense of beyond ; a common usage in the Poet's 
 time. So in A Midsummer-Night' s Dream, iv. i : " Where we might be with- 
 out the peril of th' Athenian law." And in Jonson's Cynthia's Revels, i. 4 : 
 " O, now I apprehend you : your phrase was without me before." So that 
 the meaning of the text is, " who could outdo the Moon in exercising the 
 Moon's own command." 
 
41 6 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 Cal. I shall be pinch'd to death. 
 
 Alon. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler? 
 
 Sebas. He is drunk now : where had he wine ? 
 
 Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe : where should they 
 Find this grand liquor that hath gilded "^^ 'em? — 
 How earnest thou in this pickle ? 
 
 Tri?!. I have been in such a ])ickle since I saw you last, 
 that, I fear me, will never out of my bones : I shall not fear 
 fly-blowing."''* 
 
 Sebas. Why, how now, Stephano ! 
 
 Steph. O, touch me not ! I am not Stephano. but a 
 cramp. 
 
 P}os. You'd be king o' the isle, sirrah? 
 
 Stepli. I should have been a sore"*-^ one, then. 
 
 Alou. \_Pointing to Cal.] This is as strange a thing as 
 e'er I look'd on. 
 
 Pros. He is as disproportion'd in his manners 
 As in his shape. — Go, sirrah, to my cell ; 
 
 ^3 The phrase be'mg gilded was a trite one for being drunk ; perhaps 
 from the effect of liquor in colouring the face, but more Hkely because 
 drinking puts one into golden altitudes. It has been suggested, also, that 
 there is an allusion to the grand elixir oi the alchemists, which was an ideal 
 medicine {ox gilding a base metal in the sense of transmuti?/g it into gold ; 
 as also for repairing health and prolonging life in man. This, too, is proba- 
 ble enough ; for the Poet is fond of clustering various ideas round a single 
 image. 
 
 ** Trinculo is playing rather deeply vc^on pickle ; and one of the senses 
 here intended is that of being pickled in salt or brine so as not to become 
 tainted. Fly-blows are the maggot-eggs deposited by flies ; and to fly-blow 
 is to taint with such eggs. 
 
 ^5 A pun upon the different senses of sore, one of which is harsh, severe, 
 or oppressive. The same equivoque occurs in 2 Henry the Sixth, iv. 7, where 
 Dick proposes that Cade's mouth be the source of English law, and John 
 remarks, aside, — " Mass, 'twill be a sore law, then ; for he was thrust in the 
 mouth with a spear, and 'tis not whole yet." 
 
SCENE T. THE TEMPEST. 417 
 
 Take with you your companions ; as you look 
 To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 
 
 Cal. Ay, that I will ; and I'll be wise hereafter, 
 And seek for grace. What a thrice double ass 
 ^^'as I, to take this drunkard for a god. 
 And worship this dull fool ! 
 
 Pros. Go to ; away ! 
 
 Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it. 
 
 Sebas. Or stole it, rather. 
 
 \_Exeiint Qki.., Steph., c7;/^/Trin. 
 
 Pros. Sir, I invite your Highness and your train 
 To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest 
 For tliis one night ; which, part of it, I'll waste 
 With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it 
 Go quick away, — the story of my life. 
 And the particular accidents gone by. 
 Since I came to this isle : and in the morn 
 I'll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, 
 Where I have hope to see the nuptial 
 Of these our dear-beloved solemnized ; 
 And thence retire me''^ to my Milan, where 
 Every third thought shall be my grave. 
 
 Alon. I long 
 
 To hear trie story of your life, which must 
 Take the ear strangely. 
 , Pros. I'll deliver all ; 
 
 And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, 
 And sail so expeditious, that shall catch 
 Your royal fleet far off. — \_Aside to Ari.] My Ariel, 
 chick, 
 
 ■•6 That is, withdraw myself. The Poet has various instances of retire 
 thus used as a transitive verb. 
 
41 8 THE TEMPEST. ACT V. 
 
 That is thy charge : then to the elements 
 
 Be free, and fare thou well ! — Please you, draw near. 
 
 \_Exeunt 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY PROSPERO. 
 
 Now my charms are all o'erthrown, 
 . And what strength I have's mine own, — 
 Which is most faint : now, 'tis true, 
 I must be here confined by you, 
 Or sent to Naples. Let me not. 
 Since I have my dukedom got. 
 And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell 
 In this bare island by your spell ; 
 But release me from my bands, 
 With th€ help of your good hands.'*''' 
 Gentle breath of yours my sails 
 Must fill, or else my project fails. 
 Which was to please : now I want 
 Spirits to enforce, art to enchant ; 
 And my ending is despair. 
 Unless I be relieved by prayer ; 
 Which pierces so, that it assaults 
 Mercy itself, and frees all faults. 
 As you from crimes would pardon'd be, 
 Let your indulgence set me free. 
 
 *' The Epilogue is supposed to be addressed to the theatrical audience, 
 and the speaker here soHcits their applause by the clapping of their hands. 
 Noise was a breaker of enchantments and spells ; hence the applause would 
 release him from his bonds. 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART.i 
 
 The several forms of art, as painting, sculpture, music, 
 architecture, the poem, the drama, all have a common 
 root, and proceed upon certain common principles. The 
 faculties which produce them, the laws that govern them, 
 and the end they are meant to serve, in short their source, 
 method, and motive, are at bottom one and the same. Art, 
 therefore, is properly and essentially one: accordingly I 
 take care to use the phase sevey-al forms of art, and not 
 several arts. This identity of life and law is perhaps most 
 apparent in the well-known fact that the several forms of 
 art, wherever they have existed at all, and in any character 
 of originality, have all had a religious origin ; have sprung 
 up and taken their growth in and for the service of reli- 
 gion. The earliest poems everywhere were sacred hymns 
 and songs, conceived and executed in recognition and 
 honor of the Deity. Grecian sculpture, in all its primitive 
 and progressive stages, was for the sole purpose of making, 
 statues of the gods ; and when it forsook this purpose, and 
 sophisticated itself into a preference of other ends, it went 
 into a decline. The Greek architecture, also, had its force, 
 motive, and law in the work of building religious temples 
 and shrines. That the Greek drama took its origin from 
 the same cause, is familiar to all students in dramatic his- 
 
 1 From Hudson's Life, Art, and Characters of Shakespeare. 
 
420 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 tory. And I have already shown that the Gothic drama in 
 England, in its upspring and through its earlier stages, was 
 entirely the work of the Christian Church, and was purely 
 religious in its purpose, matter, and use. That the same 
 holds in regard to our modern music, is too evident to 
 need insisting on: it all sprang and grew in the service 
 of religion ; religious thought and emotion were the shap- 
 ing and informing spirit of it. I have often thought that 
 the right use of music, and perhaps that which drew it 
 into being, could not be better illustrated than in " the 
 sweet Singer of Israel," who, when the evil spirit got into 
 King Saul, took harp and voice, and with his minstrelsy 
 charmed it out. Probably, if David had undertaken to 
 argue the evil spirit out, he would have just strengthened 
 the possession ; for the devil was then, as now, an expert 
 logician, but could not stand a divine song. 
 
 Thus the several forms of art have had their source and 
 principle deep in man's religious nature : all have come into 
 being as so many projections or outgrowths of man's reli- 
 gious life. And it may well be questioned whether, with- 
 out the motives and inspirations of religion, the human soul 
 ever was, or ever can be, strong and free enough to pro- 
 duce any shape of art. In other words, it is only as the 
 mind stands dressed in and for religion that the creative 
 faculty of art gets warmed and quickened into operation. 
 So that religion is most truly the vivifying power of art in 
 all its forms ; and all works of art that do not proceed from 
 a religious life in the mind are but imitations, and can never 
 be anything more. Moreover the forms of art have varied 
 in mode, style, and character, according to the particular 
 genius and spirit of the religion under which they grew. 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 421 
 
 There is a most intimate correspondence between the 
 two. This is manifestly true of the Old Egyptian and 
 Grecian art. And it is equally true of Christian art, save 
 as this has been more or less modified by imitation of those 
 earlier works, and in so far as this imitative process has 
 got the better of original inspiration, the result has always 
 been a falling from the right virtue of art. For the Chris- 
 tian mind can never overtake the Greek mind in that style 
 of art which was original and proper to the latter. Noth- 
 ing but the peculiar genius of the Greek mythology could 
 ever freely and spontaneously organize or incarnate itself 
 in a body of that shape. The genius of Christianity re- 
 quires and naturally prompts a different body. Nor can 
 the soul of the latter ever be made to take on the body of 
 the former, but under the pressure of other than the innate 
 and organic law of the thing. For every true original ar- 
 tist is much more possessed by the genius of his work than 
 possessing it. Unless, indeed, a man be inspired by a 
 power stronger than his individual understanding or any 
 conscious purpose, his hand can never reach the cunning 
 of any process truly creative. And so in all cases the tem- 
 per and idiom of a people's religious culture will give soul 
 and expression to their art ; or, if they have no religious 
 culture, then there will not be soul-power enough in them 
 to produce any art at all.^ 
 
 1 On this subject Schlegel has some of the wisest and happiest sayings that 
 I have met with. For example : " All truly creative poetry must proceed 
 from the inward life of a people, and from religion, the root of that life." 
 And again : " Were it possible for man to rehounce all religion, including that 
 which is unconscious, or independent of the will, he would become a mere 
 surface without any internal substance. When this centre is disturbed, the 
 whole system of the mental faculties and feelings takes a new shape." Once 
 
422 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 As I am on the subject of art considered as the offspring 
 of religion, or the religious imagination, I am moved to 
 add a brief episode in that direction. And I the rather do 
 so, forasmuch as artistic beauty is commonly recognized 
 as among the greatest educational forces now in operation 
 in the Christian world. On this point a decided reaction 
 has taken place within my remembrance. The agonistic 
 or argumentative modes, which were for a long time in the 
 ascendant, and which proceeded by a logical and theologi- 
 cal presentation of Christian thought, seem to have spent 
 themselves, insomuch as to be giving way to what may be 
 called the poetical and imaginative forms of expression. 
 It is not my purpose to discuss whether the change be right 
 or for the better, but merely to note it as a fact ; for such I 
 think it clearly is. I presume it will be granted, also, that 
 as a general thing we need to have our places of worship 
 and our religious services made far more beautiful than 
 they are ; and that indeed we cannot have too much of 
 beauty in them, so that beauty be duly steeped in the 
 grace and truth of Christian inspiration. But art has its 
 
 more, speaking of the Greeks : '' Their religion was the deification of the 
 powers of nature and of earthly life ; but this worship, which, among other 
 nations, clouded the imagination with hideous shapes, and hardened the heart 
 to cruelty, assumed among the Greeks a mild, a grand, and a dignified form. 
 Superstition, too often the tyrant of the human faculties, here seems to have 
 contributed to their freest development. It cherished the arts by which it- 
 self was adorned, and its idols became the models of beauty. But, however 
 highly the Greeks may have succeeded in the beautiful, and even in the 
 moral, we cannot concede any higher character to their civilization than that 
 of a refined and ennobling sensuality. Of course this must be understood 
 generally. The conjectures of a few philosophers, and the irradiations of 
 poetical inspiration, constitute an occasional exception. Man can never alto- 
 gether turn aside his thoughts from infinity, and some obscure recollections 
 will always remind him of the home he has lost." 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 423 
 
 dangers here as well as its uses : especially it is apt to de- 
 generate from a discipline of religious virtue into a mere 
 relaxation, losing the severity that elevates and purifies, in 
 what is merely pretty or voluptuous or pleasing. It is 
 therefore of the utmost consequence what style of beauty 
 we cultivate, and how the tastes of people are set in this 
 matter. 
 
 Now Christianity is indeed a great " beauty-making 
 power"; but the beauty which it makes and owns is a 
 presence to worship in, not a bauble to play with, or a 
 show for unbaptized entertainment and pastime. It can- 
 not be too austerely discriminated from mere ornament, 
 and from everything approaching a striking and sensa- 
 tional character. Its right power is a power to chasten 
 and subdue. And it is never good for us, especially in 
 our religious hours, to be charmed without being at the 
 same time chastened. Accordingly the highest art always 
 has something of the terrible in it, so that it awes you 
 while it attracts. The sweetness that wins is tempered 
 with the severity that humbles ; the smile of love, with 
 the sternness of reproof. And it is all the more beautiful 
 in proportion as it knows how to bow the mind by the 
 austere and hushing eloquence of its forms. And when 
 I speak of art, or the creation of the beautiful, as the 
 highest and strongest expression of man's intellectual 
 soul, I must be understood to mean this order of the 
 beautiful : for indeed the beauty (if it be not a sin to call 
 it such) that sacrifices or postpones truth to pleasure is 
 not good ; 
 
 " And that which is not good is not delicious 
 To a well-govern'd and wise appetite." 
 
424 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 In all our use of art, therefore, it stands us much in 
 hand to know that true beauty is indeed an awful as well 
 as a pleasant thing ; and that men are not in a good way 
 when they have ceased to feel that it is so. Nor can 1 
 deem our case a very hopeful one when we surrender 
 ourselves to that style of beauty which pleases without 
 chastening the soul. For it is but too certain that when 
 art takes to gratifying such an unreligious taste, and so 
 works its forces for the pleasing of men without touching 
 them with awe, it becomes no better than a discipline of 
 moral enervation. Perhaps this same law would silence 
 much of the voluble rhetoric with which a certain school 
 of writers are wont to discourse of the great miracle of 
 beauty which has been given to men in the life and 
 character of the blessed Saviour. For I must needs think 
 that, if they duly felt the awfulness of that beauty, their 
 fluency would be somewhat repressed ; and that their 
 eloquence would be better if they feared more and 
 flourished less. 
 
 But the point which these remarks are chiefly meant to 
 enforce is, that there is no true beauty of art but what 
 takes its life from the inspirations of religious awe ; and 
 that even in our highest intellectual culture the intellect 
 itself will needs be demoralized, unless it be toned to 
 order by a supreme reference to the divine will. There 
 is no true school of mental health and vigor and beauty, 
 but what works under the presidency of the same chasten- 
 ing and subduing power. Our faculties of thought and 
 knowledge must be held firmly together with a strong 
 girdle of modesty, else they cannot possibly thrive ; and 
 to have the intellect " undevoutly free," loosened from 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 425 
 
 the bands of reverence, is a sure pledge and forecast of 
 intellectual shallowness and deformity.^ 
 
 1 Since this was written, I have met with some capital remarks, closely 
 bordering upon the topic, in Mr. J. C. Shairp's Studies hi Poetry and Philoso- 
 phy, a book which I cannot but regard as one of the choicest contributions to 
 the literature of our time. The passage is in his essay on The Moral 
 Dyttamic, near the end : 
 
 " There are things which, because they are ultimate ends in themselves, 
 refuse to be employed as means, and, if attempted to be so employed, lose 
 their essential character. Religion is one, and the foremost of these things. 
 Obedience, conformity of the finite and the imperfect will of man to the infinite 
 and perfect will of God, this, which is the essence of religion, is an end in 
 itself, the highest end which we can conceive. It cannot be sought as a means 
 to an ulterior end without being at once destroyed. This is an end, or rather 
 the end in itself, which culture and all other ends by right subserve. And 
 here in culture, as in pleasure, the great ethic law will be found to hold, that 
 the abandoning of it as an end, in obedience to a higher, more supreme aim, 
 is the very condition of securing it. Stretch the idea of culture, and of the 
 perfection it aims at, wide as you will, you cannot, while you make it your 
 last end, rise clear of the original self-reference that lies at its root ; this you 
 cannot get rid of, unless you go out of culture, and beyond it, abandoning it 
 as an end, and sinking it into what it really is, — a means, though perhaps the 
 highest means, towards full and perfect duty. No one ever really became 
 beautiful by aiming at beauty. Beauty comes, we scarce ktiow how, as an 
 emanation from sources deeper than itself. If culture, or rather the ends of 
 culture, are to be healthy and natural growths, they must come unconsciously, 
 as results of conformity to the will of God, sought not for any end but itself." 
 — " It cannot indeed be denied that these two, culture or the love of beauty, 
 religion or the love of godliness, appear in individuals, in races, in ages, as 
 rival, often as conflicting, forces. Tlie votary of beauty shrinks from religion 
 as something stern and ungenial, the devout Puritan discards beauty as a 
 snare ; and even those who have hearts susceptible of both find that a practical 
 crisis will come when a choice must be made whether of the two tliey will 
 serve. The consciousness of this disunion has of late years been felt deeply, 
 and by the most gifted minds. Painful often has the conflict been, when the 
 natural love of beauty was leading one way, loyalty to that which is higlier 
 than beauty called another, and no practical escape was possible, except by the 
 sacrifice of feelings which in themselves were innocent i.nd beautiful. Only 
 in recent times have we begun to feel strongly that both are good, that each 
 without the other is so far imperfect, and that some reconciliation, if it were 
 
426 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 It were something beside my purpose to unfold and 
 illustrate in detail the common principles of art : I shall 
 but endeavor to do this so far as may be needful for a 
 due understanding of those principles as we have them 
 embodied in the Shakespearian drama. 
 
 The first of those principles, as I am to view them, is 
 what I know not better how to designate than by the 
 term Solidarity. By which I mean that the several parts 
 of a given work must all stand in mutual sympathy and 
 intelligence; or that the details must not only have each 
 a force and meaning of their own, but must also be help- 
 ful, directly or remotely, to the force and meaning of the 
 others; all being drawn together and made to coalesce in 
 unity of effect by some one governing thought or para- 
 mount idea. This gives us what the philosophers of art 
 generally agree in calling an organic structure; that is, a 
 structure in which an inward vital law shapes and deter- 
 mines the outward form ; all the parts being, moreover, 
 assimilated and bound each to each by the life that 
 builds the organization, and so rendered mutually aidant, 
 and at the same time conducive to the well-being of the 
 whole. In a word, they must all have a purpose and a 
 truth in common as well as each a truth and purpose of 
 its own. 
 
 possible, is a thing to be desired. Violent has been the reaction which this 
 new consciousness has created. In the recoil from what they call Puritanism, 
 or religion without culture, many have given themselves up to culture without 
 religion, or, at best, with a very diluted form of religion. They have set up 
 for worship the golden calf of art, and danced round it to the pipe which the 
 great Goethe played. They have promulgated what they call the gospel of 
 art,— as Carlyle says, the windiest gospel ever yet preached, which never has 
 saved and never will save any man from moral corruption." 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 42/ 
 
 To illustrate this in a small instance, and perhaps the 
 more intelligible for being small : Critics had been wont 
 to speak lightly, not to say sneeringly, of the sonnet, as 
 being but an elaborate trifle that cost more than it came 
 to. Wordsworth undertook to vindicate the thing from 
 this unjust reproach, as he considered it ; and to that end 
 he wrote the following : — 
 
 "Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frown'd, 
 Mindless of its just honors : with this key 
 Shakespeare unlock'd his heart ; the melody 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 With it Camoens sooth'd an exile's grief ; 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd 
 His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, 
 It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew 
 Soul-animating strains, — alas, too few!" 
 
 Now, here we have a place for everything, ana every- 
 thing in its place. There is nothing irrelevant, nothing 
 ajar. The parts are not only each true and good and 
 beautiful in themselves, but each is helpful to the others, 
 and all to the author's purpose : every allusion, every 
 image, every word, tells in furtherance of his aim. There 
 need nothing be added, there must nothing be taken 
 away. The argument at every step is clear and strong. 
 The thing begins, proceeds, and ends, just as it ought ; 
 you cannot change a word in it without injuring it : the 
 understanding, the imagination, the ear, are all satisfied 
 with the result. And the specimen is itself a full triumph 
 of the sonnet, from the intellectual truth and beauty and 
 
428 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 sweetness which are here put into it. So that, what with 
 the argument, and what with the example, the vindication 
 of the sonnet is perfect. Accordingly, I beUeve no one 
 has spoken lightly of the thing since that specimen was 
 given to the public. 
 
 Many have written poetry, and good poetry too, who 
 notwithstanding have not written, and could not write, a 
 Poem. But this sonnet is, in its measure, a genuine 
 poem ; and as such I am willing to bear the responsibility 
 of pronouncing it faultless. Wordsworth could do the 
 sonnet completely, and did it so in many instances: and 
 he could do more than this ; in several of his longer pieces 
 the workmanship is perhaps equally faultless; as, for in- 
 stance, in "Laodamia" and the "Ode to Duty," which, to 
 my sense, are perfect poems in their kind. But to do 
 thus through so complex and multitudinous a work as 
 our higher specimens of the Gothic drama, is a very differ- 
 ent matter, — a thing far beyond the power of a Words- 
 worth. To combine and carry on together various 
 distinct lines of thought, and various individual members 
 of character, so that each shall constantly remember and 
 respect the others, and this through a manifold, diversi- 
 fied, and intricate course of action ; to keep all the parts 
 true to the terms and relations of organic unity, each 
 coming in and stopping just where it ought, each doing 
 its share, and no more than its share, in the common 
 plan, so as not to hinder the life or interfere with the 
 rights of the others ; to knit them all together in a con- 
 sistent and harmonious whole, with nothing of redundancy 
 or of deficiency, nothing " overdone or come tardy off," 
 — ^ the members, moreover, all mutually interacting, all 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 429 
 
 modifying and tempering one another ; — tliis is a task 
 which it is given to few to achieve. For the difficulty of 
 the work increases in a sort of geometrical ratio with the 
 number and greatness of the parts ; and when we come 
 to such a work as "Hamlet," or "Cymbeline," or "King 
 Lear," few of us have heads long enough and strong 
 enough to measure the difficulty of it. 
 
 Such, then, in my reckoning, is the first principle, I 
 will not say of artistic perfection, but of all true excel- 
 lence in art. And the same law, which thus requires 
 that in a given work each earlier part shall prepare for 
 what comes after, and each later part shall finish what 
 went before, holds with equal force in all the forms of 
 art ; for whether the parts be rendered or delivered in 
 space, as in painting and architecture, or in time, as in 
 music, a poem, or a drama, makes no difference in this 
 respect. 
 
 The second principle of art which I am to consider is 
 Originality. And by this I do not mean novelty or sin- 
 gularity, either in the general structure or in the particu- 
 lar materials, but something that has reference to the 
 method and process of the work. The construction must 
 proceed from the heart outwards, not the other way, and 
 proceed in virtue of the inward life, not by any surface 
 aggregation of parts, or by any outward pressure or rule. 
 In organic nature, every plant, and every animal, however 
 cast in the mould of the species, and so kept from novelty 
 or singularity, has an individual life of its own, which 
 life is and must be original. It is a development from 
 a germ; and the process of development is vital, and 
 works by selection and assimilation of matter in accord- 
 
430 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 ance with the inward nature of the thing. And so in art, 
 a work, to be original, must grow from what the workman 
 has inside of him, and what he sees of nature and natural 
 fact around him, and not by imitation of what others 
 have done before him. So growing, the work will, to be 
 sure, take the specific form and character; nevertheless, 
 it will have the essence of originality in the right sense of 
 the term, because it will have originated from the author's 
 mind, just as the offspring originates from the parent. 
 And the result will be, not a showy, emphatic, superficial 
 virtue, which is indeed a vice, but a solid, genuine, sub- 
 stantive virtue ; that is, the thing will be just what it 
 seems, and will mean just what it says. Moreover the 
 greatness of the work, if it have any, will be more or less 
 hidden in the order and temperance and harmony of the 
 parts; so that the work will keep growing larger and 
 richer to you as you become familiar with it : whereas in 
 case of a thing made in the unoriginal way, at a distance 
 it will seem larger than it is, and will keep shrinking and 
 dwarfing as you draw nearer to it; and perhaps, when 
 you get fairly into it, it will prove to be no substance at 
 all, but only a mass of shining vapor; or, if you undertake 
 to grasp it, your hand will just close through it, as it 
 would through a shadow.^ 
 
 1 This law of originality I have never seen better stated than by Coleridge, 
 in a passage justifying tlie form of Shakespeare's dramas against a mode of 
 criticism which has now, happily, gone out of use. "The true ground," says 
 he, " of the mistake lies in the confounding mechanical regularity with organic 
 form. The form is mechanic, when on any given material we impress a pre- 
 determined form, not necessarily arising out of the properties of the material ; 
 as when to a mass of wet clay we give whatever siiape we wish it to retain 
 when hardened. The organic form, on the other hand, is innate ; it shapes, 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 431 
 
 All this, however, is nowise to be understood as infer- 
 ring that a great original artist must be an independent 
 or isolated growth, without parents and brethren, and the 
 natural aids and inspirations of society. This never was 
 and never can be. Art-life must be had in common, or 
 not at all. In this, as in other things, many minds must 
 grow up together, else none can grow up. And no form 
 of art ever grew to perfection, or any thing near it, but 
 that it was and long had been matter of strong national 
 passion, or of a free and vigorous public spirit. Men 
 are not kindled to such a height without many convergent 
 rays of fellowship. In other words, before excellence of 
 art in any kind can come, there has to be a large and 
 long preparation, and this not only in the spiritual culture 
 and development of the people, but also in the formal 
 order and method of the thing. Accordingly great artists, 
 so far as the history of the matter is known, have always 
 
 as it develops, itself from within, and the fullness of its development is one 
 and the same with the perfection of its outward form. Such as the life is, 
 such is the form. Nature, the prime genial artist, inexhaustible in diverse 
 powers, is equally inexhaustible in forms : each exterior is the physiognomy 
 of the being within, — its true image reflected and thrown out from the con- 
 cave mirror." — With this may well be coupled Schlegel's remarks on the 
 same point : " Form is mechanical when it is impressed upon any piece of 
 matter by an outward operation, as an accidental addition without regard to 
 the nature of the thing ; as, for example, when we give any form at pleasure 
 to a soft mass, to be retained after induration. Organic form, on the con- 
 trary, is innate ; it unfolds itself from within, and attains its determinate 
 character along with the full development of the germ. Such forms are 
 found in nature universally, wherever living powers are in action. And in 
 art, as well as in Nature, the supreme artist, all genuine forms are organic, 
 that is, are determined by the quality of the work. In short, the form is no 
 other than a significant exterior, the physiognomy of a thing, — when not 
 defaced by disturbing accidents, the speaking physiognomy, — which bears 
 true witness of its hidden essence." 
 
432 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 lived and worked in successions and clusters, each add- 
 ing something, till at length a master-mind arose, and 
 gathered the finer efficacies of them all into one result. 
 This is notoriously true of Greek, Venetian, Florentine, 
 and Gothic art : Phidias, Sophocles, Titian, and Raphael 
 had each many precursors and companions. The fact 
 indeed is apt to be lost sight of, because the earlier and 
 inferior essays perish, and only the finished specimens 
 survive ; so that we see them more or less isolated ; 
 whereas in truth their origin and growth were social, the 
 fruit of a large intellectual partnership and cooperation. 
 — It is on the same principle that nothing truly excellent 
 either in the minds or the characters of men is reached 
 without much of "ennobling impulse from the Past"; 
 and that they who live too much in the present miss the 
 right food of human elevation, contented to be, perhaps 
 proud of being, the vulgar things they are, because 
 ignorant of what has been before them. It is not that 
 the present age is worse than former ages ; it may even 
 be better as a whole : but what is bad or worthless in an 
 age dies with the age ; so that only the great and good 
 of the Past touches us ; while of the present we are most 
 touched by that which is little and mean. 
 
 The third principle of art, as I am taking them, is 
 Complete?iess. A work of art must have within itself all 
 that is needful for the due understanding of it, as art; so 
 that the beholder will not have to go outside or beyond 
 the work itself to learn what it means ; that is, provided 
 he have the corresponding faculties alive within him, so 
 as to be capable of its proper force. For, if the work 
 speaks through form and color, there must be, in answer- 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 433 
 
 ing measure, a natural or an instructed eye ; if sound is 
 its organ, there must be a natural or an instructed ear; 
 if its speech is verbal, there must be, besides a natural or 
 an instructed taste, a sufficient knowledge also of the 
 language in which it is written. All this of course. But, 
 apart from this, the work must be complete in and of 
 itself, so as to be intelligible without a commentary. And 
 any work which requires a sign or a showman to tell the 
 beholder what it is, or to enable him to take the sense 
 and virtue of it, is most certainly a failure. 
 
 In all this, however, I am speaking of the work simply 
 as art, and not as it is or may be something else. For 
 works of art, in many cases, are or have a good deal 
 besides that. And in connection with such a work there 
 may arise various questions, — of antiquity, philology, 
 local custom and allusion ; in what place and at what 
 time it was done ; whence, how, and why it came to be 
 as it is ; where the author got any hints or materials for 
 it, and what of antecedent or contemporary history may 
 be gathered from it. All this is legitimate and right in 
 its place, but has nothing to do with the character and 
 meaning of the thing as a work of art, in which respect it 
 must know its cue without a prompter, and be able to tell 
 its own tale. That which holds the mirror up to nature 
 must not need another mirror to discover or interpret its 
 reflection to us. For instance, a building, as a building, 
 looks to certain practical ends and uses ; and, before we 
 can rightly understand the order and reason of it, we 
 must know from other sources the ends and uses for 
 which it was designed : but in so far as it is architecture, 
 in so far as it is truly imaginative, and embodies the 
 
434 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 author's intellectual soul, it must be able to express its 
 own meaning, so that we can understand and feel it with- 
 out any thing but what comes directly from the work 
 itself. But perhaps the point may be better illustrated 
 in the case of an historical drama, which may be viewed 
 either as history or as art : and to determine its merit as 
 history, we must go to other sources ; but for ascertain- 
 ing its merit as art, the work must itself give us all the 
 knowledge we need : so that the question of its historic 
 truth is distinct and separate from the question of its 
 artistic truth : it may be true as history, yet false as art ; 
 or it may be historically wrong, yet artistically right ; true 
 to nature, though not true to past fact : and, however we 
 may have to travel abroad in the historical inquiry, the 
 virtue of the work as art must be ascertainable directly 
 from the thing itself. This, then, is what I mean by 
 artistic completeness ; that quality in virtue of which a 
 work justifies itself, without foreign help, by its own full- 
 ness and clearness of expression. 
 
 The fourth and last principle that I am to consider is 
 Disinterestedness. This is partly an intellectual, but more 
 a moral quality. Now one great reason why men fail so 
 much in their mental work is because they are not willing 
 to see and to show things as they are, but must still be 
 making them as they would have them to be. Thus from 
 self-love or wilfulness or vanity they work their own 
 humors and crotchets and fancies into the matter, or 
 overlay it with some self-pleasing quirks of peculiarity. 
 Instead of this, the artist must lose himself, his personal 
 aims, interests, passions, and preferences, in the en- 
 thusiasm and inspiration of his work, in the strength, 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 435 
 
 vividness, and beauty of his ideas and perceptions, and 
 must give his whole mind and soul to the task of working 
 these out into expression. To this end, his mind must 
 live in constant loving sympathy and intercourse with 
 Nature ; he must work close to her life and order ; must 
 study to seize and reproduce the truth of Nature just 
 precisely as it is, and must not think to improve her or 
 get ahead of her ; though, to be sure, out of the materials 
 she offers, the selection and arrangement must be his 
 own ; and all the strength he can put forth this way will 
 never enable him to come up to her stern, honest, solid 
 facts. So, for instance, the highest virtue of good writ- 
 ing stands in saying a plain thing in a plain way. And 
 in all art- work the first requisite is, that a man have, in 
 the collective sense and reason of mankind, a firm foot- 
 hold for withstanding the shifting currents and fashions 
 and popularities of the day. The artist is indeed to work 
 in free concert with the imaginative soul of his age : but 
 the trouble is, that men are ever mistaking some transient 
 specialty of mode for the abiding soul ; thus tickling the 
 folly of the time, but leaving its wisdom untouched. 
 
 If, therefore, a man goes to admiring his own skill, or 
 airing his own powers, or imitating the choice touches of 
 others, or heeding the breath of conventional applause ; if 
 he yields to any strain of self-complacency, or turns to 
 practicing smiles, or to taking pleasure in his self-begotten 
 graces and beauties and fancies, — in this giddy and ver- 
 tiginous state he will be sure to fall into intellectual and 
 artistic sin. The man, in such a case, is no more smitten 
 with a genuine love of Art than Malvolio was with a genu- 
 ine love of Virtue : like that hero of conceit, he is merely 
 
436 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 " sick of self-love, and tastes with a distempered appetite." 
 And his giddiness of self-love will take from him the power 
 of seeing things as they are ; and because he sees them as 
 they are not, therefore he will think he sees them better 
 than they are. A man cannot find nature by gazing in a 
 looking-glass ; and it is vanity or some undisinterested 
 force, and not any inspiration of truth or genius, that puts 
 a man upon doing so. And, in the condition supposed, 
 the mind becomes a prism to sophisticate and falsify the 
 light of truth into striking and brilliant colors, instead of 
 being a clear and perfect lens to concentrate that light in 
 its natural whiteness and purity. For, assuredly, the 
 proper worth, health, strength, virtue, joy, and life of Art 
 is to be the interpreter and discoverer of Truth, to "feel 
 the soul of Nature, and see things as they are"; and when, 
 instead of this, it turns to glorifying its own powers and 
 achievements, or sets up any end apart from such dis- 
 covery and interpretation, it becomes sickly, feeble, foolish, 
 frivolous, vicious, joyless, and moribund ; and meanness, 
 cruelty, sensuality, impiety, and irreligion are the compan- 
 ions of it. 
 
 It is indeed true that an artist may find one of the main 
 spurs to his art-work in the needs, duties, and aft'ections 
 of his earthly being. The support of himself, of his wife, 
 or her whom he wishes to be his wife, of his children, his 
 parents, or remoter kin ; the desire of being independent, 
 of having the respect of society, or of doing the charities 
 of a Christian ; an honest, manly yearning after fame, an 
 ambition to achieve something that "the world will not 
 willingly let die," — all these, and yet others, may justly 
 be among the determining motives of his pursuit, and the 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 437 
 
 thought of them may add fresh life and vigor to his 
 efforts : nevertheless he will not succeed, nor deserve to 
 succeed, in his art, except he have such an earnest and 
 disinterested love for it, and such a passion for artistic 
 truth, as will find the work its own exceeding great reward. 
 In a word, his heart and soul must be in it as an end, and 
 not merely or chiefly as a means. However prudence 
 may suggest and shape his plans, love must preside over 
 the execution ; and here, as elsewhere, 
 
 " Love's not love 
 When it is mingled with respects that stand 
 Aloof from the entire point." 
 
 These four, then, are, in my account, essential principles 
 of art, and the only ones which it lies within my purpose 
 to consider ; namely, Solidarity, Originality, Completeness, 
 and Disinterestedness. And to the attaining of these 
 there needs, especially, three things in the way of faculty, 
 — high intellectual power, great force of will, and a very 
 tender heart, — a strong head to perceive and grasp the 
 truth of things, a strong will to select and order the ma- 
 terials for expressing it, and a strong heart, which is ten- 
 derness, to give the work a soul of beauty and sweetness 
 and amiability. As a man combines all these strengths, 
 and as, moreover, through the unifying power of imagina- 
 tion, he pours the united life and virtue of them all into 
 his work, so will his worth and honor stand as an artist. 
 For whence should the noblest fruitage of human thought 
 and culture grow, but from the noblest parts and attributes 
 of manhood, moving together in perfect concert and re- 
 ciprocity t 
 
438 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 MORAL SPIRIT.^ 
 
 I will begin by saying that soundness in moral spirit is 
 the corner-stone of all artistic excellence. Virtue, or the 
 loving of worthy objects, and in a worthy manner, is most 
 assuredly the highest interest of mankind, — an interest 
 so vital and fundamental that nothing which really con- 
 flicts with it, or even postpones it to any other regards, 
 can possibly stand the test of any criticism rooted in the 
 principles of human nature. To offend in this point is 
 indeed to be guilty of all : things must be substantially 
 right here, else there can be nothing right about them. 
 So that, if an author's moral teaching or moral influence 
 be essentially bad ; or even if it be materially loose and 
 unsound, so as to unstring the mind from thinking and 
 doing that which is right ; nay, even if it be otherwise 
 than positively wholesome and elevating as a whole ; then 
 I more than admit that no amount of seeming intellectual 
 or poetical merit ought to shield his workmanship from 
 reprobation, and this too on the score of art. But then, 
 on the other hand, I must insist that our grounds of 
 judgment in this matter be very large and liberal ; and 
 that to require or to expect a poet to teach better morals 
 than are taught by Nature and Providence argues either 
 a disqualifying narrowness of mind in us, or else a certain 
 moral valetudinarianism which poetry is not bound to re- 
 spect. For a poet has a right to the benefit of being 
 tried by the moral sense and reason of mankind : it is 
 indeed to that seat of judgment that every great poet 
 
 1 From Hudson's Life, Art and Characters of Sliakesfearc. 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 439 
 
 virtually appeals ; and the verdict of that tribunal must 
 be an ultimate ruling to us as well as to him. 
 
 But one of the first things to be considered here is the 
 natural relation of morality to art. Now I believe art 
 cannot be better defined than as the creation or the ex- 
 pression of the beautiful. And truth is the first principle 
 of all beauty. But when I say this, I of course imply 
 that truth which the human mind is essentially constituted 
 to receive as such. And in that truth the moral element 
 holds, constitutionally, the foremost place. I mean that 
 the human mind draws and cannot but draw to that point, 
 in so far as it is true to itself : for the moral conscious- 
 ness is the rightful sovereign in the soul of man, or it is 
 nothing ; it cannot accept a lower seat without forfeiting 
 all its rights, and disorganizing the whole intellectual 
 house. So that a thing cannot be morally false and 
 artistically true at the same time. And in so far as any 
 workmanship sins in the former kind, just so far, what- 
 ever other elements of the beautiful it may have, it still 
 lacks the very bond of order which is necessary to retain 
 them in power ; nay, the effect of those other elements is 
 to cultivate a taste which the whole thing fails to satisfy ; 
 what of true beauty is present tends to awaken a craving 
 for that part which is wanting. 
 
 Nor need we have any fear but that in the long run 
 things will come right in this matter. In this, however, 
 as in most things, truth is the daughter "of time. The 
 moral sense and reason is so strong a force in the calm 
 and disinterested judgments of mankind, that it must and 
 will prevail : its verdict may be some time in coming, but 
 come it will, sooner or later, and will ultimately have 
 
440 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 things all its own way. For the aesthetic conscience is 
 probably the most impartial and inexorable of the human 
 powers ; and this, because it acts most apart from any re- 
 gards of self-interest or any apprehension of conse- 
 quences. The elections of taste are in a special sort ex- 
 empt both from hope of profit and from fear of punish- 
 ment. And man's sense of the beautiful is so much in 
 the keeping of his moral reason, — secret keeping indeed, 
 and all the surer for being secret, — that it cannot be 
 bribed or seduced to a constant admiration of any beauty 
 where the moral element is wanting, or even where it is 
 excluded from its rightful place. In other words, the 
 law of goodness or of moral rectitude is so closely inter- 
 woven with the nature and truth of things, that the 
 human mind will not set up its rest with any workman- 
 ship in art where that law is either set at nought or dis- 
 crowned. Its natural and just prerogatives will assert 
 themselves in spite of us ; and their triumph is assured 
 the moment we go to resisting them. That which appeals 
 merely to our sense of the beautiful, and which has 
 nothing to recommend it but as it touches that sense, 
 must first of all have the moral element of beauty, and 
 this too in the foremost place, else it stands no chance of 
 a permanent hold upon us. 
 
 It is indeed true that works of art, or things claiming 
 to be such, in which this law of natural proportion is not 
 respected or not observed, may have a transient popular- 
 ity and success : nay, their success may be the greater, 
 or at least the louder and more emphatic, for that very 
 disproportion : the multitude may, and in fact generally 
 do, go after such in preference to that which is better. 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 44 1 
 
 And even men not exactly of the multitude, but still with- 
 out the preparation either of a natural or a truly educated 
 taste, — men in whom the sense of beauty is outvoiced 
 by cravings for what is sensational, and who are ever 
 mistaking the gratification of their lower passions for the 
 satisfaction of their aisthetic conscience, — such men 
 may be and often are won to a passing admiration of 
 works in which the moral law of art is plainly disre- 
 garded : but they seldom tie up with them ; indeed their 
 judgment never stays long enough in one place to acquire 
 any weight; and no man of true judgment in such things 
 ever thinks of referring to their preference but as a thing 
 to be avoided. With this spirit of ignorant or lawless 
 admiration the novelty of yesterday is eclipsed by the 
 novelty of to-day ; other things being equal, the later 
 instance of disproportion always outbids the earlier. For 
 so this spirit is ever taking to things which are impotent 
 to reward the attention they catch. And thus men of 
 such taste, or rather such want of taste, naturally fall in 
 with the genius of sensationalism ; which, whatever form 
 it takes on, soon wears that form out, and has no way to 
 sustain itself in life but by continual transmigration. 
 Wherever it fixes, it has to keep straining higher and 
 higher : under its rule, what was exciting yesterday is dull 
 and insipid to-day ; while the excess of to-day necessitates 
 a further excess to-morrow ; and the inordinate craving 
 which it fosters must still be met with stronger and 
 stronger emphasis, till at last exhaustion brings on dis- 
 gust, or the poor thing dies from blowing so hard as to 
 split its cheeks. 
 
 It is for these reasons, no doubt, that no artist or poet 
 
442 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 who aims at present popularity, or whose mind is pos- 
 sessed with the spirit of such popularity, ever achieves 
 lasting success. For the great majority of men at any 
 one time have always preferred, and probably always will 
 prefer, that which is disproportioned, and especially that 
 which violates the law of moral proportion. This, how- 
 ever, is not because the multitude have no true sense of 
 the beautiful, but because that sense is too slow in their 
 minds to prevent their being caught and carried away by 
 that which touches them at lower points. Yet that sense 
 is generally strong enough to keep them from standing to 
 the objects of their present election ; so that it is ever 
 drawing them back one by one to the old truth from 
 which the new falsehood withdrew them. Thus, however 
 the popular current of the day may set, the judgment of 
 the wise and good will ultimately give the law in this 
 matter ; and in that judgment the aesthetic and the moral 
 conscience will ever be found to coincide. So that he 
 who truly works upon the principle, " Fit audience let me 
 find, though few," will in the long run have the multitude 
 too : he will not indeed be their first choice, but he will 
 be their last : their first will be ever shifting its objects, 
 but their last will stand firm. For here we may justly 
 apply the aphoristic saying of Burke : " Man is a most 
 unwise and most wise being : the individual is foolish ; 
 the multitude is foolish for the moment, when they act 
 without deliberation ; but the species is wise." 
 
 I have said that in the legislation of art the moral 
 sense and reason must not only have a voice, but a pre- 
 rogative voice : I have also said that a poet must not be 
 required to teach better morals than those of Nature and 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 443 
 
 Providence. Now the law of moral proportion in art may 
 be defeated as well by overworking the moral element as 
 by leaving it out or by making too little of it. In other 
 words, redundancy of conscience is quite as bad here as 
 deficiency ; in some respects it is even worse, because its 
 natural effect is to set us on our guard against the subtle 
 invasions of pious fraud : besides, the deficiency we can 
 make up for ourselves, but the evil of such suspicions is 
 not so easily cured. For of all the things that enter into 
 human thought, I suppose morality is the one wherein we 
 are naturally least tolerant of special-pleading ; and any 
 thing savoring of this is apt to awaken our jealousy at 
 once ; probably from a sort of instinct that the better 
 the cause, the less need there is, and the more danger 
 there is too, of acting as its attorney or advocate. And 
 the temptation to " lie for God " is one to which pro- 
 fessed moral teachers are so exposed, that their lessons 
 seldom have much effect : I even suspect that, in many 
 cases if not in most, their moralizing is of so obtrusive a 
 kind, that it rather repels than wins the confidence of the 
 pupils. 
 
 Then too moral demonstrativeness is never the habit 
 either of the best poets or of the best men. True virtue 
 indeed is a very modest and retiring quality; and we 
 naturally feel that they who have most of it have " none 
 to speak of." Or, to take the same thing on another 
 side, virtue is a law of action, and not a distinct object of 
 pursuit : those about us may know what object we are 
 pursuing, but the mind with which we pursue it is a 
 secret to them ; they are not obliged to know it ; and 
 when we undertake to force that knowledge upon them, 
 
444 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 then it is that they just will not receive it. They will 
 sometimes learn it from our life, never from our lips. 
 Thus a man's moral rectitude has its proper seat inside 
 of him, and is then most conspicuous when it stays out of 
 sight, and when, whatever he does and wherever he goes, 
 he carries it with him as a thing of course, and without 
 saying or even thinking any thing about it. It may be 
 that our moral instincts are made to work in this way, 
 because any ambition of conscience, any pride or osten- 
 tation of virtue, any air of moral vanity or conceit, any 
 wearing of rectitude on the outside, as if put on for effect, 
 or " to be seen of men," if it be not essentially fictitious 
 and false, is certainly in the most direct course of be- 
 coming so. And how much need there still is of those 
 eloquently silent lessons in virtue which are fitted to in- 
 spire the thing without any boasting of the name, — all 
 this may well be judged when we consider how apt men 
 are to build their hopes on that which, as Burke says, 
 " takes the man from his house, and sets him on a stage, 
 — which makes him up an artificial creature, with 
 painted, theatric sentiments, fit to be seen by the glare 
 of candlelight." 
 
 These positions indicate, I believe, pretty clearly the 
 right course for poetry to pursue in order to keep the just 
 law of moral proportion in art. Ethical didacticism is 
 quite out of place in workmanship of this kind. To go 
 about moralizing as of set purpose, or to be specially deal- 
 ing in formal precepts of duty, is not the poet's business. 
 I repeat, that moral demonstrativeness and poetry do not 
 go well together. A poet's conscience of virtue is better 
 kept to himself, save as the sense and spirit thereof silently 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 445 
 
 insinuate themselves into the shapings of his hand, and 
 so live as an undercurrent in the natural course of truth 
 and beauty. If he has the genius and the heart to see 
 and to represent things just as they really are, his moral 
 teaching cannot but be good ; and the less it stands out 
 as a special aim, the more effective it will be : but if, for 
 any purpose, however moral, he goes to representing things 
 otherwise than as they are, then just so far his moral 
 teaching will miss its mark : and if he takes, as divers 
 well-meaning persons have done, to flourishing his ethical 
 robes in our faces, then he must be content to pass with 
 us for something less or something more than a poet : we 
 may still read him indeed from a mistaken sense of duty; 
 but we shall never be drawn to him by an unsophisticated 
 love of the beautiful and the true. 
 
 So much for what I hold to be the natural relation of 
 morality to art. And I have put the matter thus, on the 
 well-known principle that the moral sensibilities are the 
 most delicate part of our constitution ; that as such they 
 require to be touched with the utmost care, or rather not 
 to be touched directly at all ; and that the thrusting of 
 instruction upon them tends to dull and deaden, not to 
 quicken and strengthen them. For the true virtue-making 
 power is an inspiration, not a catechism ; and the truly 
 cunning moral teacher is he who, in the honest and free 
 enthusiasm of moral beauty, steals that inspiration into us 
 without our knowing it, or before we know it. The author 
 of Ecce Hofno tells us, and truly too, that " no heart is 
 pure that is not passionate ; no virtue is safe that is not 
 enthusiastic." And there is probably no vainer labor than 
 the going about to make men good by dint of moral argu- 
 
446 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 ments and reasoned convictions of the understanding. 
 One noble impulse will do more towards ennobling men 
 than a volume of ethical precepts ; and there is no sure 
 way to put down a bad passion but by planting a good 
 one. Set the soul on fire with moral beauty, that 's the 
 way to burn the devils out of it. So that, for making men 
 virtuous, there is, as Gervinus says, "no more fruitless 
 branch of literature than ethical science ; except, perhaps, 
 those dramatic moralities into whose frigid impotence 
 poetry will always sink when it aims at direct moral 
 teaching." 
 
 Now, I do not at all scruple to affirm that Shakespeare's 
 poetry will stand the test of these principles better than 
 any other writing we have outside the Bible. His rank in 
 the school of morals is indeed no less high than in the 
 school of art. He is every way as worthy to be our 
 teacher and guide in what is morally just and noble and 
 right as in what is artistically beautiful and true. In his 
 workmanship the law of moral proportion is observed with 
 a fidelity that can never be too much admired ; in other 
 words, the moral element of the beautiful not only has a 
 place, but is in the right place, — the right place, I mean, 
 to act the most surely and the most effectively on the 
 springs of life, or as an inspiration of good thoughts and 
 desires. And in the further explication or amplification of 
 the matter I shall take for granted that the old sophism 
 of holding Shakespeare responsible for all that is said and 
 done by his characters is thoroughly exploded ; though it 
 is not many years since a grave writer set him down as a 
 denier of immortality; because, forsooth, in "The Winter's 
 Tale" he makes the rogue Autolycus say, "For the life to 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 44/ 
 
 come, I sleep out the thought of it." This mode of judging 
 is indeed so perverse or so ignorant, that to spend any 
 words in refuting or reproving it would be a mere waste 
 of breath ; or, if there be any so innocent as to need help 
 on that point, it is not to them that I write. 
 
 As to the exact features of Shakespeare's own moral 
 character as a man ; whether or how far he was himself a 
 model of virtuous living; in what measure the moral beauty 
 of his poetical conceptions lived in the substance of his 
 practical conversations, the little that is known touching 
 the facts of his life does not enable us to judge. The most 
 we can say on this score is, that we have a few authentic 
 notes of strong commendation, and nothing authentic what- 
 ever to set against them. Thus Chattle, in his apology, 
 tells us that " divers of worship have reported his upright- 
 ness of dealing, which argues his honesty"; and his edi- 
 tors, Heminge and Condell, in their dedication claim to 
 have no other purpose than " to keep the memory of so 
 worthy a friend and fellow alive as was our Shakespeare." 
 Ben Jonson, too, a pure and estimable man, who knew him 
 well, and who was not apt to be over-indulgent in his judg- 
 ments of men, speaks of him as "my beloved Shake- 
 speare" and "my gentle Shakespeare"; and describes him 
 as follows : 
 
 '' Look, how the father's face 
 Lives in his issue, even so the race 
 Of Shakespeare's mind a fid man iters brightly shines 
 In his well-turned and true-filed lines." 
 
 These things were said some seven years after the poet's 
 death ; and many years later the same stanch and truthful 
 man speaks of him as "being indeed honest, and of an 
 open and free nature." I do not now recall any other 
 
448 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 authentic testimonials to his moral character ; and, con- 
 sidering how little is known of his life, it is rather surprising 
 that we should have so much in evidence of his virtues as 
 a man. But it is with what he taught, not what he prac- 
 ticed, that we are here mainly concerned : with the latter 
 indeed we have properly nothing to do, save as it may have 
 influenced the former : it is enough for our purpose that 
 he saw and spoke the right, whether he acted it or not. 
 For, whatever his faults and infirmities and shortcomings 
 as a man, it is certain that they did not infect his genius 
 or taint his mind, so as to work it into any deflection from 
 the straight and high path of moral and intellectual right- 
 eousness. 
 
 I have said that Shakespeare does not put his personal 
 views, sentiments, and preferences, in a word, his individu- 
 ality, into his characters. These stand, morally, on their 
 own bottom ; he is but the describer of them, and so is not 
 answerable for what they do : he holds the mirror up to 
 them, or rather to nature in them; they do not hold it up 
 to him : we see them in what he says, but not him in what 
 they say. And, of course, as we may not impute to him, 
 morally, their vices, so neither have we any right to credit 
 him, morally, with their virtues. All this, speaking generally, 
 is true; and it implies just the highest praise that can 
 possibly be accorded to any man as a dramatic poet. But, 
 true as it is generally, there is nevertheless enough of 
 exception to build a strong argument upon as to his moral 
 principles, or as to his theory of what is morally good and 
 noble in human character. 
 
 I have already mentioned Henry the Fifth as the one 
 of his characters into whom the poet throws something of 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 449 
 
 his own moral soul. He delivers him both as Prince 
 Hal and as king in such a way, that we cannot but feel 
 he has a most warm and hearty personal admiration of 
 the man ; nay, he even discovers an intense moral enthu- 
 siasm about him : in the choruses, where he ungirds his 
 individual loves from the strict law of dramatic self- 
 aloofness, and lets in a stream from his own full heart, 
 he calls him "the mirror of all Christian kings,'' and 
 ascribes to him such qualities, and in such a way, as show 
 unequivocally his own cherished ideal of manhood, and in 
 what course the current of his personal approval ran. 
 Here, then, we have a trustworthy exhibit of the poet's 
 moral principles ; here we are left in no doubt as to what 
 moral traits of character he in heart approved, whether 
 his own moral character exemplified them or not. What 
 sort of a man he represents this his favorite hero to be ; 
 how modest in his greatness, how great in his modesty ; 
 how dutiful and how devout ; how brave, how gentle, how 
 generous, how affable, how humane ; how full of religious 
 fervor, yet how bland and liberal in his piety ; with " a 
 tear for pity, and a hand open as day for melting charity" ; 
 how genuine and .unaffected withal these virtues grow in 
 him ; in short, how all alive he is with the highest and 
 purest Christian ethos which the old " ages of faith " could 
 breathe into a man ; — all this must stand over till I come 
 to the plays wherein he is delineated. 
 
 Something further to the same point may be gathered, 
 not so much from the poet's treatment of particular good 
 characters, as from the general style of character which 
 he evidently prefers to draw in that class, and from the 
 peculiar complexion and grain of goodness which he 
 
450 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 ascribes to them. Antonio the Merchant, Orlando, the 
 Sebastian of " Twelfth Night," Horatio, Kent, Edgar, Fer- 
 dinand, Florizel, Posthumus, Pisanio are instances of what 
 I mean. All these indeed differ very widely from each 
 other as individuals ; but they all have this in common, 
 that their virtues sit easy and natural upon them, as native 
 outgrowths, not as things put on : there is no am^bition, no 
 pretension, nothing at all boastful of fictitious or pharisa- 
 ical or squeamish or egoish in their virtues ; we never see 
 the men hanging over them, or nursing and cosseting them, 
 as if they were specially thoughtful and tender of them, 
 and fearful lest they might catch cold. Then too, with 
 all these men, the good they do, in doing it, pays itself: 
 if they do you a kindness, they are not at all solicitous to 
 have you know and remember it: if sufferings and hard- 
 ships overtake them, if wounds and bruises be their portion, 
 they never grumble or repine at it, as feeling that Prov- 
 idence has a grudge against them, or that the world is 
 slighting them : whether they live or die, the mere con- 
 science of rectitude suffices them, without further rec- 
 ompense. So that the simple happiness they find in 
 doing what is right is to us a sufficient pledge of their 
 perseverance in so doing. Now all this is, in its degree, 
 just the ideal of virtue which Christian morality teaches 
 and exemplifies. For so the right way of Christian virtue 
 is when a man's good deeds are so much a matter of 
 course with him, that he thinks not of himself for having 
 done them. As bees when they have made their honey ; 
 as birds when they have carolled their hymn ; as the vine 
 when it has produced its clusters ; so it is with the truly 
 good man when he has done a good act : it suffices him 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 451 
 
 that he has borne his proper fruit ; and, instead of calling 
 on others or even himself to note what he has done, he 
 goes right on and does other good acts, just as if nothing 
 had happened. 
 
 But if all this be true of the poet's men, it is true in a 
 still higher degree of his women. Here it is that the 
 moral element of the beautiful has its fullest and fairest 
 expression. And I am bold to say that, next to the 
 Christian religion, humanity has no other so precious 
 inheritance as Shakespeare's divine gallery of woman- 
 hood. Helena, Portia of Belmont, Rosalind, Viola, Portia 
 of Rome, Isabella, Ophelia, Cordelia. Miranda, Hermione, 
 Perdita, Desdemona, Imogen, Catharine of Arragon, — ■ 
 what a wealth and assemblage of moral beauty have we 
 here ! All the other poetry and art of the world put 
 together cannot show such a varied and surpassing treas- 
 ure of womanly excellence. And how perfectly free their 
 goodness is from anything like stress! How true it is 
 in respect of their virtues, that " love is an unerring light, 
 and joy its own security"! They are wise, witty, playful, 
 humorous, grave, earnest, impassioned, practical, imagi- 
 native ; the most profound and beautiful thoughts drop 
 from them as things too common and familiar to be spoken 
 with the least emphasis : they are strong, tender, and 
 sweet, yet never without a sufficient infusion of brisk 
 natural acid and piquancy to keep their sweetness from 
 palling on the taste: they are full of fresh, healthy sentiment, 
 but never at all touched with sentimentality : the soul of 
 romance works mightily within them, yet never betrays 
 them into any lapses from good sense, or any substitutions 
 of feeling for duty. 
 
452 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 Then, too, how nobly and serenely indifferent the glori- 
 ous creatures are to the fashions and opinions and criti- 
 cisms of the world ! How composedly some of them walk 
 amidst the sharpest perils and adversities, as " having the 
 spirit to do anything that is not foul in the truth of their 
 spirit." Full of bitterness their cup sometimes is indeed ; 
 yet they do not mind it, — not they ! — save as the welfare 
 and happiness of others are involved in what pinches 
 them. Several of them are represented passing through 
 the most ticklish and trying situations in which it is pos- 
 sible for female modesty to be placed, — disguised in male 
 attire and sharing as men in the conversations of men ; 
 yet so unassailable is their modesty, that they give them- 
 selves, apparently, no trouble about it. And, framed as 
 they are, all this may well be so : for indeed such is their 
 fear of God, or, which comes to the same thing, their fear 
 of doing wrong, that it casts out all other fears ; and so 
 their " virtue gives herself light through darkness for to 
 wade." Nor do we wonder that, timid maidens as they 
 are, they should " put such boldness on "; for we see that 
 with them 
 
 " Mighty are the soul's commandments 
 To support, restrain, or raise : 
 Foes may hang upon their path, snakes rustle near, 
 But nothing from their inward selves have they to fear." 
 
 It is very noteworthy, withal, how some of them are so 
 secure in the spirit and substance of the moral law, that 
 they do not scruple, in certain circumstances, to overrule 
 its letter and form. Thus Isabella feigns to practice sin ; 
 and she does so as a simple act of self-sacrifice, and be- 
 cause she sees that in this way a good and pious deed may 
 be done in aid of others : she shrinks not from the social 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 453 
 
 imputation of wrong in that case, so her conscience be 
 clear ; and she can better brave the external finger of 
 shame than the inward sense of leaving a substantial good 
 undone. Helena, also, puts herself through a course of 
 literal dishonors, and this too, with a perfect understand- 
 ing of what she is about ; yet she yields to no misgivings ; 
 not indeed on the ground that the end justifies the means, 
 but because she knows that the soul of a just and honor- 
 able purpose, such as hers, will have power to redeem and 
 even to sanctify the formal dishonors of its body. Much 
 the same principle holds, again, in the case of Desde- 
 mona's falsehood, when, Emilia rushing into the room, 
 and finding her dying, and asking, " Who has done this ? " 
 she sighs out, " Nobody, — I myself : commend me to my 
 kind lord. " I believe no natural heart can help thinking 
 the better of Desdemona for this brave and tender un- 
 truth, for it is plainly the unaffected utterance of a deeper 
 truth ; and one must be blind indeed not to see that the 
 dying woman's purpose is to shield her husband, so far as 
 she can, from the retribution which she apprehends will 
 befall him, and the thought of which wrings her pure 
 breast more sharply than the pangs of death. 
 
 These are plain cases of virtue tried and purified in the 
 straits of self-humiliation, virtue strained, as it were, 
 through a close-knit fabric of difficulties and hardships, 
 and triumphing over the wrongs that threaten its total de- 
 facement, and even turning its obstructions into a sub- 
 stance glorious as its own ; that is, they are exceptional 
 instances of a conscious departure from the letter and 
 form of moral beauty for the fuller and clearer manifesta- 
 tion of its spirit and soul. 
 
454 MORAL SPIRIT. 
 
 Nor are the virtues of Shakespeare's men and women 
 the mere result of a certain felicity and harmony of nature, 
 or the spontaneous movements of a happy instinct so 
 strong in them that they do what is right without know- 
 ing or meaning it. No ; his Henry the Fifth, and 
 Horatio, and Kent, and Edgar, and Posthumus, his 
 Helena, and Isabella, and Cordelia, and Hermione, and 
 Imogen, and Catharine, are most truly " beings breathing 
 thoughtful breath." Virtue is with them a discipline as 
 well as a joy ; a strong upright will is the backbone of it, 
 and a healthy conscience is its keeper. They all have 
 conscious reasons for what they do, and can state them 
 with piercing eloquence, if occasion bids. For so the 
 poet, much as he delights in that fineness of nature or 
 that innate grace which goes right of its own accord, 
 evidently prefers, even in women, the goodness that has 
 passed through struggles and temptations, and has its 
 chief seat, not in impulse, but in principle, a virtue tested, 
 and not merely instinctive : rather say, he delights most 
 in the virtue that proceeds by a happy consent and mar- 
 riage of the two. He therefore does not place his highest 
 characters, whether men or women, in an atmosphere so 
 pure that average mortals cannot breathe in it : he depicts 
 their moral nature in conflict, with the powers of good 
 and evil striving in them for the mastery; and when the 
 former prevail, it is because they have " a strong siding 
 champion. Conscience," to support them. Thus through 
 their weakness they come near enough to get hold of us, 
 while at the same time in their strength they are enough 
 higher than we to lift us upwards. 
 
 But Shakespeare's main peculiarity as a teacher of 
 
MORAL SPIRIT. 455 
 
 goodness lies in this, that he keeps our moral sympathies 
 in the right place without discovering his own. With the 
 one exception of Henry the Fifth, we cannot perceive, 
 from the delineation itself, whether he takes part with the 
 good character or the bad ; nevertheless he somehow so 
 puts the matter that we cannot help taking part with the 
 good. For I run no risk in saying there is not a single 
 instance in his plays where the feelings of any natural- 
 hearted reader fail to go along with those who are, at 
 least relatively, the best. And as he does not make nor 
 even let us see which side he is on, so of course we are 
 led to take the right side, not because he does, but simply 
 because it is the right side. Thus his moral lessons and 
 inspirations affect us as coming, not from him, but from 
 Nature herself ; and so the authority they carry is not 
 his, good as that may be, but hers, which is infinitely 
 better. Thus he is ever appealing directly to the tribunal 
 of our own inward moral forces, and at the same time 
 speaking health and light into that tribunal. There need 
 be, there can be, no higher proof of the perfect moral 
 sanity of his genius than this. And for right moral effect 
 it is just the best thing we can have, and is worth a thou- 
 sand times more than all the ethical arguing and voting 
 in the world. If it be a marvel how the poet can keep 
 his own hand so utterly unmoved by the passion he is 
 representing, it is surely not less admirable that he should 
 thus, without showing any compassion himself, move our 
 compassion in just the degree, and draw it to just the 
 place, which the laws of moral beauty and proportion 
 require. 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF SHAKESPEARE'S 
 WRITINGS. 
 
 It is not possible to fix with exactness the dates of the 
 different writings of Shakespeare. Students of the poet 
 have made careful study of the various sources of evi- 
 dence relative to the time of the production of each of 
 the works. Dates have been approximated, and it is be- 
 lieved that the generally accepted chronological order, 
 based upon internal evidence partly, but also upon dates 
 of different presentations and reference to certain plays 
 in other writings of the time, does give one an oppor- 
 tunity of studying the growth of the poet's genius in such 
 a way as to convince the student that Shakespeare, genius 
 though he was, still obeyed the laws of mind develop- 
 ment. His work was not an accident, but the result of 
 definite plan and subject to the same reign of law to 
 which the less gifted must be obedient. 
 
 List of Shakespeare's Works. 
 
 Poems. — "Venus and Adonis" (finished in present form, 1593). 
 " Rape of Lucrece" (finished by 1594). 
 "The Sonnets" may be dated from 1 595-1609. 
 
 Plays. — "Titus Andronicus" (probably the earliest work, 1588). 
 "Love's Labours Lost," 1589 or 1590. 
 " Henry VI." ( first, second, and third parts ; authorship 
 questioned), 1590 to 1592. 
 
LIST OF SHAKESPEARE S WORKS. 457 
 
 Plays. — " The Comedy of Errors," before 1591. 
 
 "The Two Gentlemen of Verona," from 1591 to 1593. 
 
 "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (probably about 1594). 
 
 "Romeo and Juliet," 1591 or 1596. 
 
 "Richard III." 1593 or 1594. 
 
 " Richard II." (probably a little later than '' Richard III."). 
 
 "King John," 1595 or 1596. 
 
 "The Merchant of Venice," 1596. 
 
 " The Taming of the Shrew," about 1597. 
 
 "Henry IV." (parts first and second), 1597 or 1598. 
 
 " The Merry Wives of Windsor," 1 598 or 1 599. 
 
 "Much Ado About Nothing," 1598. 
 
 " Henry V." 1599. 
 
 "As You Like It," 1599 or 1600. 
 
 "Twelfth Night," between Sept. 1598, and Feb. 1602. 
 
 "Julius Caesar," 1600 to 1601. 
 
 "All's Well That Ends Well," about 1601. 
 
 " Hamlet," 1602. 
 
 "Measure for Measure," 1603 or 1604. 
 
 "Troilus and Cressida," probably planned early; a version 
 
 acted in 1603, the whole play revised 1607. 
 "Othello," 1604. 
 " King Lear," 1605. 
 "Macbeth," 1606. 
 "Antony and Cleopatra," 1607. 
 " Coriolanus," 1608. 
 "Timon of Athens," 1607. 
 " Pericles," 1608. 
 
 (It is believed that large parts of both "Timon" and 
 " Pericles " were not written by Shakespeare.) 
 
 " Cymbeline," 1609 to 1610. 
 
 " The Tempest," 1610. 
 
 "The Winter's Tale," 1610 or 161 1. 
 
 "Two Noble Kinsmen" (partly by Shakespeare), 1612. 
 
 " Henry VIII." 1612 or 1613. 
 
458 LIST OF Shakespeare's works. 
 
 The works of Shakespeare consist of two long poems, 
 Fenus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucfece, several 
 shorter poems, a collection of one hundred and fifty-four 
 sonnets, and thirty-seven five-act plays. Mr. Dowden 
 has arranged the plays in interesting chronological groups. 
 See his Primer on Shakspere, pp. 47 and following. 
 The following classification is less minute : 
 
 Classification of Plays. 
 
 Comedies. — "Love's Labours Lost." 
 " Comedy of Errors." 
 " Two Gentlemen of Verona." 
 " A Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 " Merchant of Venice." 
 " Taming of the Shrew." 
 " Merry Wives of Windsor." 
 " Much Ado About Nothing." 
 " As You Like It." 
 " Twelfth Night." 
 " All's Well That Ends Well." 
 " Measure for Measure." 
 " Tempest." 
 "The Winter's Tale." 
 
 Histories. 
 
 English Series. — " King John." 
 
 "Richard IL" 
 
 " Henry IV." (two parts). 
 
 " Henry V." 
 
 " Henry VI." (three parts). 
 
 "Richard III." 
 
 "Henry VIII." 
 Roman Series. — " Coriolanus." 
 
 " Julius Caesar." 
 
 "Antony and Cleopatra." 
 
SOURCES OF SHAKESPEARE S PLAYS. 
 
 459 
 
 Tragedies. 
 
 " Titus Andronicus." 
 
 " Romeo and Juliet." 
 
 " Hamlet." 
 
 " Troilus and Cressida." 
 
 " Othello." 
 
 " King Lear." 
 
 " Macbeth." 
 
 " Timon of Athens." 
 
 " Pericles." 
 
 " Cymbeline." ^ 
 
 Sources of Shakespeare's Plays. 
 
 Titus Andronicus," unknown ; perhaps an older play retouched, 
 
 called " Titus and Vespasian." 
 " Love's Labours Lost," unknown. 
 
 " Henry VL" Chronicles of Holinshed, Hall, and Stowe. 
 " Comedy of Errors," the Menaechmi of Plautus, with one or two 
 
 scenes from his " Amphitryon." 
 " Two Gentlemen of Verona " ; the story of Felismena, in the 
 
 " Diana " of George Montemayor, a Portuguese poet, is very 
 
 similar. 
 "A Midsummer Night's Dream"; "Life of Theseus" in North's 
 
 " Plutarch," Chaucer's " Knight's Tale," " Wife of Bath's 
 
 Tale," and " Legend of Good Women," and perhaps 
 
 Golding's " Ovid." 
 " Romeo and Juliet," two English versions of a French version of a 
 
 novel by Bandello ; "Romeus and Juliet," a long poem by 
 
 Arthur Brooke, published in 1562 ; and Paynter's " Palace of 
 
 Pleasure," a translation of a French novel by Boisteau. 
 " Richard HI.," Holinshed, and perhaps an earlier play. 
 ' Richard H." Holinshed. 
 " King John," an earlier play, " The Troublesome Raigne of John, 
 
 King of England." 
 
 * Mr. Dowden puts Pericles, Cymbeline, Tempest, and Winter^s Tale in a 
 special group of romances. 
 
460 SOURCES OF Shakespeare's plays. 
 
 " Merchant of Venice," doubtful ; probably the revision of an older 
 play, now lost, which was founded upon the " Pecorone " by 
 the Italian, iSir Giovanni. 
 
 " The Taming of the Shrew," probably a revision by Shakespeare of 
 an old play. 
 
 " Henry IV." Holinshed and an old play called " The Famous Vic- 
 tories of Henry the Fifth." 
 
 " The Merry Wives of Windsor," believed to be based upon certain 
 Italian novels. 
 
 " Henry V.," Holinshed and an old play, same as " Henry IV." 
 
 " Much Ado About Nothing," Ariosto and Bandello ; fourth canto 
 of second book of Spenser's " Faerie Queen." 
 
 " As You Like It," " Rosalynde," a novel by Thos. Lodge ; " Golden 
 Legacie," by Euphues. 
 
 " Twelfth Night," some Italian comedies ; probably Barnaby Riche's 
 " Apolonius and Silla." 
 
 " Julius Caesar," North's " Plutarch's Lives." 
 
 " All's Well That Ends Well," story of Giletta of Narbona in Payn- 
 ter's " Palace of Pleasure." 
 
 " Hamlet ": there may have been a previous play, but it is not known 
 what relation it bore to this play; the story was told by .Saxo 
 Grammaticus, a Danish historian, who died about 1204. 
 
 " Measure for Measure," George Whetstone's " Promus and Cassan- 
 dra," a play constructed upon a novel by Giraldi Cinthio, an 
 Italian. 
 
 " Troilus and Cressida," the mediaeval stories of Troy, such as Chau- 
 cer's " Troilus and Cressida." 
 
 " Othello," Giraldi Cinthio's " Hecatommithi." 
 
 "King Lear," an old play and the Chronicles of Holinshed; Sidney's 
 "Arcadia"; the "Faerie Queen" of Spenser contains the 
 story of Lear." 
 
 " Macbeth," Holinshed and probably an earlier play. 
 
 " Antony and Cleopatra," North's " Plutarch's Lives." 
 
 " Coriolanus," North's " Plutarch's Lives." 
 
 " Timon of Athens," Paynter's " Palace of Pleasure " and a passage 
 from the life of Antony in North's " Plutarch." Possibly 
 Shakespeare worked over an older play. 
 
BOOKS IN SHAKESPEARIAN STUDY. 46 1 
 
 Pericles," Twine's " Patterne of PainefuU Adventures," and Gow- 
 
 er's " Confessio Amantis." 
 ' Cymbeline," Holinshed ; a story in Boccaccio's " Decameron." 
 The Tempest": it was affected by "A Discovery of the Bermudas," 
 published in 1610. The scheme of Gonzalo is from Horio's 
 "Montaigne." 
 The Winter's Tale," a novel by Greene, " Pandosto," or the " His- 
 
 torie of Dorastus and Fawnia." 
 ■ Henry VIII." Holinshed, Hall, and Foxe's " Martyrs." 
 
 Books of Value in Shakespearian Study. 
 
 Variorum Shakespeare FuRNESS 
 
 Shakespeare's Lexicon ....... Schmidt 
 
 Concordance ........ Bartlett 
 
 Shakespeare's Dramatic Art ...... Ulrici 
 
 Shakespeare's Commentaries ..... Gervinus 
 
 System of Shakespeare's Dramas ..... Snider 
 
 Shakespeare and His Time ...... Morley 
 
 Shakespeare's Stratford Waite 
 
 Life of Shakespeare ........ Wilder 
 
 Home and Haunts of Shakespeare .... Williams 
 
 The Women of Shakespeare .... Louis Lewes 
 
 The Characteristics of Women .... Mrs. Jameson 
 
 Shakspere (in series of Literature Primers) . . . Dowden 
 Shakspere — His Mind and Art ..... Dowden 
 
 Shakespeare — His Life, Art and Characters . . . Hudson 
 Lectures on Shakespeare ...... Ten Brink 
 
 English History in Shakespeare's Plays .... Warner 
 
 Shakespeare's Studies and other Essays . . . Baynes 
 
 Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist ..... Moulton 
 
 Young People of Shakespeare .... Amelia E. Barr 
 
 Dramatic Art .......... Schlegel 
 
 The Ancient Classical Drama ..... MouLTON 
 
 William Shakspere Barrett Wendell 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: Feb. 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (724)779-2111 
 
 1