Fane had already confided Langley’s history to Lady Lee, and he now
showed her the testimony of his innocence, and consulted her as to
the best course to be pursued.
They agreed it would be best to say nothing, either to Langley or
Orelia, of the matter, until Mr Payne should have apprised Mr Levitt
of his nephew’s innocence, and effected a reconciliation. Fane did
not in the least doubt that his uncle would be eager to extend
forgiveness; but a delay of a day or two would be trifling, and the
pleasure of a first meeting between the lovers would be greatly
enhanced by the removal, beforehand, of every obstacle to their
happiness.
Mr Payne, coming down from town to report his ill success in the
attempt to discover Seager, was agreeably surprised by Fane’s news.
He posted off without delay to show the document to his friend Mr
Levitt, and, a couple of days afterwards, wrote to tell Fane that the
news had produced the best effect on his uncle’s health, that he was
eager to embrace Langley, and that they would be down together in
person on the following day.
Fane was seated on a sofa near the fire (it was a cold morning)
whispering into Lady Lee’s willing yet averted ear, numerous reckless
and persuasive arguments for an immediate union. What were riches to
them while they were thus kept apart? He, for his part, would, he
said, dig cheerfully all day, could he be sure of finding her ready
to give zest to his pottage, cheerfulness to his fireside, when he
came home. Let Bagot take her income; and as for Julius, they would
take him and flee to some remote corner of Europe, there to abide
till the Colonel relented, or had drunk himself to death. Lady Lee
smiled at all this display of love, but shook her head. He, Durham,
must be patient, she said.
“Miss Payne,” called out Fane to Orelia, “be on my side.” Orelia was
sitting in a bay window designing a picture. She seldom came near
the fire, and never felt cold. “I am telling Hester that we ought to
break through the cobwebs that sunder us--scatter the filthy lucre
to the winds--snatch up Julius out of reach of the ogre Bagot, and
try if the wings of Eros cannot shield us against the hardest fate.”
“Hester has given up much for you already, Captain Fane,” said the
austere Orelia. “Your coming has upset the rarest plan; and now I am
left to walk the path alone.”
“What was the plan?” inquired Fane.
“We were going, Orelia and I,” said Lady Lee, with an irreverent
smile, “to daff the world aside--to devote ourselves to good
works--and we actually set out on our thorny path; but I see now,
that if we had continued as we begun, casting as we did so many
glances backward on the vanities of the past, we should, if justice
had been administered now as in the days of the patriarchs, have both
been made pillars of salt.”
“Speak for yourself, my dear,” returned Orelia, sharpening her pencil
and her tone. “I, at least, was quite resolute to persevere, and am
so still.”
“Perhaps an equally unworthy excuse, as that which Hester pleads for
changing her mind, may yet avail you,” suggested Fane.
“Never,” returned Orelia, with the greatest firmness.
“Do you think she really doesn’t care for Langley?” whispered Fane to
Lady Lee.
Lady Lee looked towards her friend with an affectionate smile. “She’s
an odd girl,” she said, “and ’tisn’t easy to ascertain her feelings
till they are strongly excited.”
“I’ll prove them, now,” said Fane, rising, and going to a portfolio
in the room, and taking thence a drawing. “Miss Payne,” he said, “you
are always ready to recognise skill in art. See, here is a sketch I
lately rescued from the oblivion of a bookseller’s shop; what do you
think of it?”
Orelia took it. No one knew better than she the peculiar touch
and bold outline. She gazed at it earnestly for a minute--looked
up wonderingly and inquiringly at Fane; but, meeting a peculiar
searching glance, she lowered her eyes, and coloured violently.
“If you like it, and would wish others of the same sort, I think I
could procure you some,” he said.
Orelia laid down the drawing--glanced aside--again looked at it--then
turned her eye uneasily to Lady Lee, who was smilingly watching
her. “How very heartless to trifle with me so,” thought Orelia,
“particularly of Hester; but I’ll show them they can’t move me. I
won’t be their sport.”
So she stoically resumed her employment, feeling very fidgety
nevertheless. In her agitation, she shaded a cloud in her sky with
sepia instead of the proper grey tint--dashed a brushful of water at
it--smudged her whole sky irretrievably, as if an eccentric-looking
thunderstorm were brewing--rubbed a hole in the paper in getting it
out, and threw down her brush with an expression of impatience.
“He’s a very promising artist the person who did this sketch,”
said the unfeeling Fane to Lady Lee. “I feel quite interested in
him.” Lady Lee shook her head while she smiled at him. She saw her
impetuous friend was getting quite excited. “Serve her right for her
hypocrisy,” whispered Fane. “I don’t pity her in the least. They must
be in Frewenham by this time,” he added, looking at his watch; “and,
allowing an hour for the interview between them and Langley, they
will be here to lunch.”
Orelia’s ears were on the stretch to catch any further information,
which, however, she would have died rather than ask for.
But the only further talk on the subject was when Fane asked Lady Lee
“if she didn’t think it would be a kind act to take this poor artist
by the hand, and give him an opening to make his way?”
“Poor artist! Take him by the hand, indeed!” thought Orelia, with a
glance of great scorn; and indeed she would hardly have been content
to vent her indignation in glances, had not Miss Fillett just then
entered, and changed the current of their discourse. Kitty’s manner
was excited, and her eyes were red.
“Ho, my lady,” cried she, “here’s Noble have come, and he wish to
see your ladyship.”
“Noble!” cried her ladyship; “did they not say he was with Colonel
Lee?”
“He was, my lady; but, ho! Colonel Lee”--here Fillett choked.
“Harry’ll tell you himself: come in, Noble, and speak to my lady.”
Noble, who was waiting at the door, entered, and made his bow.
“You come from the Colonel--you have a letter for me,” said Lady Lee,
holding out her hand for the expected missive.
“No, my lady,” said Noble.
“Speak up, Harry,” said Miss Fillett, with a sob.
“We started for France, me and the Colonel,” said Noble, clearing
his throat; “and as soon as ever he got ashore, he was took ill in
the same way as he was in London. The doctors said ’twas owing to
his not being able to keep nothing on his stomach on the passage
across--brandy nor nothing--for the water was very rough.”
“He is ill, then,” said Lady Lee; “not seriously, I trust.”
“My lady, he’s gone,” cried Fillett.
“Dead?” said Lady Lee.
“Dead,” said Noble. “He got quite wild when he was took to the hotel;
and after we got him to bed, he did himself a mischief, by jumping
out of window while he was out of his mind. When we picked him up he
couldn’t speak.”
“And he died so?” cried Lady Lee.
“Not immediate,” said Noble, speaking in a deep low voice, and
keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Lady Lee; “he got his speech again
for a little, and knowed me. ‘This is the finish, Noble,’ says he,
‘and I’m glad of it; I wouldn’t have consented to live.’ Them was his
last sensible words. He talked afterwards, to be sure, but not to
know what he was saying. He appeared to be in the belief that he was
back at the Heronry. He talked of the horses there, in particular of
old Coverly, who died of gripes better than six years ago.”
Lady Lee put her handkerchief to her eyes. She had a tear for poor
Bagot. Death sponged away the recollection of his animosity towards
her, and she remembered only the old familiar face and rough
good-nature. “The poor Colonel,” she said; “the poor, poor Colonel!
And his remains, Noble?”
“There was two gentlemen as was friends of his in the town; Sir John
Barrett was one of ’em. They was very sorry; they ordered everything,
and went to the funeral; and though it warn’t altogether in the style
I could wish--no hearse nor mourners--yet it was done respectable.”
Lady Lee wept silently, and Fane thought her tears became her. Both
of them probably remembered that the only obstacle to their union was
removed by Bagot’s death, but the taste of both was too fine to allow
such a thought to be expressed that day in any way. “Leave me now,
Noble,” she said; “I will hear more from you another time.”
Kitty--who, when Noble reached the catastrophe, had been seized
with an hysterical weeping that sounded like a succession of small
sneezes--opened the door for him, and followed him out. Noble walked
down stairs before her, not turning his head nor speaking.
“Harry,” said Kitty, with a sniff, when he reached the hall--“Harry!”
Noble turned, and surveyed her austerely.
“Ho, Harry,” said Kitty, “haven’t you got a word for a friend?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “for a friend I’ve got more than a word.”
“I thought we were friends, Noble,” said Miss Fillett, taking up the
corner of her apron, and examining it.
“There’s people in the world one can’t be friends with, however a
body may wish it,” replied Noble.
“And am I one of that sort, Harry?” said Kitty, with a sidelong look.
“Am I, Harry?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “yes, you be. Look here! I’d have cut off my arm
to do you any good” (striking it with the edge of his hand). “You
know that very well, but I can’t stand your ways--no, I can’t, and I
ain’t agoing to any more.”
“What ways do you mean?” said Miss Fillett innocently; “I’m sorry my
ways isn’t pleasant, Harry.”
“Pleasant!” said Harry; “they can be pleasant enough when you like;
but when you drive a man a’most crazy, and make him wish to cut his
fellow-creeturs’ throats, and his own afterwards, do you think that’s
pleasant?”
Kitty at this tossed up her head, and sniffed with an injured air.
“If I give you such thoughts as them, Mr Noble, of course ’tis better
to have nothink to say to me. I wasn’t aware my conversation made
people murderers.”
“Look here,” said Noble; “I don’t say I like you the worse for it.
No, cuss it! I like you the better--that’s the cussed part of it; but
what I mean is, that I ain’t going to be tormented and kept awake at
nights, and to lose my meals as well as my sleep, and to go a-hating
my fellow-creeturs, just upon account of your philanderings; and the
best way is not to care who you philander with, and to leave you to
keep company with them as can stand having the life worried out of
’em better than I can.”
“I’m glad you’ve spoke out, Noble,” said Kitty, who spied relenting
in his look, and who kept up the injured air. “I didn’t know I was
such a rogue and a villain as I’m made out to be by you. If I’d
wished to slay or hang somebody, you couldn’t have spoke worse of me.”
“Well,” said Noble, “I didn’t mean to vex you, though you’ve vexed me
many a time. I was only saying why it was I warn’t going to be fooled
any longer. Come, I’ll shake hands with you.”
“Ho, what! take the hand of a young person that wishes people to cut
other people’s throats! I wonder at you,” said Miss Fillett, allowing
him to get only the tip of her little finger into his hand.
“Come,” said the unhappy victim of female arts, “say you won’t
torment me any more with talking and smiling at fellows, and I’ll be
as fond of you as ever. Look here; here’s some French gloves that I
smuggled over, and was going to put into your bandbox without your
knowing who they’d come from. Let me try ’em on, Kitty.”
Miss Fillett glanced aside at the packet displayed in his hand. “What
lovely colours!” thought Kitty; “that lilac _is_ genteel, and so is
the straw colour. He never could have chose ’em himself.” But she
still feigned displeasure, and Mr Noble’s desire for reconciliation
was becoming proportionably ardent, when the pair were disturbed by
a carriage driving up to the door, and made off to terminate the
interview in the kitchen.
The carriage in question contained those whom Fane expected--viz., Mr
Payne, Mr Levitt, and Langley. The latter helped out his uncle (who
appeared to be in much better health) with a care and affection that
showed they were entirely reconciled. At the first meeting Mr Levitt
had attempted to maintain his cynical demeanour, and was highly
disgusted with himself, afterwards, to remember how signally he had
failed. “Till I witnessed that meeting,” said Mr Payne afterwards to
Fane, “I had no idea how much your uncle loved that boy.”
Fane was looking out of the window, and saw them approach. “Here they
are,” he said--“your papa, Miss Payne, and my uncle; and I see my
cousin Langley is with them. Have you ever heard me speak of him? I
think you’ll like him.”
“Do you, indeed!” said Orelia stiffly; for she had by no means
recovered her temper since the drawings had been produced by Fane,
and was not disposed to be particularly amiable to her new guests.
Mr Payne entered first and kissed Orelia.
“I bring an old and a young friend of mine, my dear. This is Mr
Levitt, and--where’s Langley? Come along, Langley.”
Langley stept forward and took the young lady’s hand.
“Onslow!” cried Orelia.
“Yes,” said the ex-dragoon, in a low voice, and with his well-known
smile, “Onslow and Langley Levitt.”
“You didn’t know, sir,” said Fane to his uncle, “of the fatted
calf we had ready for your prodigal nephew. He and Orelia are old
friends--I think I may add, something more than old friends.”
“You don’t say so!” said Mr Levitt, pressing forward and taking both
Orelia’s hands in his. “My dear,” he said, watching Langley’s and her
agitation, “I believe you are going to put the finishing stroke to
my happiness, and I shall like you better even than I expected.”
“Why, God bless me!” cried Mr Payne, “I never heard a word of this.
The monkey has been extremely sly.”
Orelia, now a little paler than usual, was regarding her lover with
steady eyes.
“I shall never call you anything but Onslow,” she said; and she kept
her word.
* * * * *
Mr Levitt was in every respect satisfied with the choice of his
nephews, as indeed he had good reason to be. What did the man expect,
I wonder! He was almost as impatient as the young men to put all
future disappointment out of the power of fate by immediate marriage;
and as the ladies did not offer a very spirited resistance, he had
his way.
Accordingly the courtship was short, and principally remarkable for
a revolution that took place in the opinions of Lady Lee. Formerly,
she had been accustomed, in the moments of dignified cynicism which
occasionally visited her, to be very unsparing in her contempt for
the ordinary forms of love-making; kissing, in particular, she
considered to be a practice even beneath contempt, from its extreme
silliness--fit, she would say, only for children--an opinion she had
occasionally communicated to Sir Joseph when his fondness became
troublesome.
This, however, with many graver theories, had been upset since she
fell in love with Fane. The first time he kissed her it evaporated
in an uncommon flutter of not unpleasant emotion, which puzzled her
ladyship the more because she perfectly remembered that a kiss from
Sir Joseph had never caused her to feel any greater agitation than if
she had flattened her nose against a pane of glass.
However, to do justice to her consistency, she didn’t abandon the
theory at the first defeat; but, taking counsel with herself, and
fortifying her mind anew with reasoning on the subject, the next time
he offered to be so childish, she repelled the attempt with a great
deal of dignity. Fane, who had a theory of his own on such matters
(whether the result of intuition or experience, I can’t say), and
knew what he was about perfectly, very wisely let her alone for a
time. Her ladyship grew quite fidgety; and though Fane had never been
more brilliant, she paid very little attention to what he said, and,
when he only shook hands with her at parting, felt half inclined to
quarrel with him. After this, Fane never met with any resistance;
on the contrary, not content with one of these silly proceedings
at meeting and parting, her ladyship would sometimes manœuvre,
artfully enough, for an extra or surplus salute. Such is the singular
superiority of practice over theory.
Very shocking and humiliating to the philosopher and student of human
nature is the fact, that these two intellectual beings, with their
high imaginations and their cultivated tastes, should sometimes,
during their courtship, demean themselves with no greater regard for
their dignity than a redfaced dairymaid and her sweetheart Robin. But
it is true, nevertheless; and if Fane discovered a fresh charm in his
goddess, it was in the naïve pleasure with which she condescended
(at least he thought it condescension) to express her fondness. And
Langley, for the same reason, was doubly delighted with the warmth
which the outwardly majestic Orelia did not scruple to display
towards the man to whom she had given her heart. This is all I shall
say on this part of the subject, as courtship is of the class of
performances which afford much more satisfaction to the _dramatis
personæ_ than the audience.
They were married, these two pairs, in the church which Hester’s
father had formerly served; and afterwards Fane and she set off for
the Heronry, where they were quite alone (for Rosa and the Curate
had, before their coming, gone to take possession of the vicarage in
Mr Levitt’s gift which Fane had formerly offered to Josiah, and which
he did not again refuse), while Langley and Orelia stayed at the
cottage.
CHAPTER THE LAST
It is a vile practice that of winding up a story with a marriage,
as if the sole object of all that inkshed was to put a couple of
characters to bed; and I wonder the rigid propriety of our novel
writers and readers doesn’t revolt at it. Besides, considering the
matter on artistic grounds, it is not satisfactory to check, by the
chilling word _Finis_, the ardour of the reader, just excited to a
high pitch at the spectacle of the hero and heroine sinking into each
other’s arms. It is like quitting the opera, as the curtain falls on
a splendid group, tinted with rose light, while the whole strength
of the company sings a chorus; and going splashing home through the
rain to a bachelor’s lodging, where the maid has let the fire out
and forgot the matches, and you have to stumble to bed punchless and
oysterless in the dark.
A year passed, after the marriages aforesaid, and a party, including
many of our principal characters, was assembled in the little church
of Lanscote to celebrate another wedding.
Josiah was the officiating clergyman; he had come partly for that
purpose, partly to perform another ceremony. The persons to be joined
together in holy matrimony, on this occasion, were Rosa and Bruce.
The principal agent in effecting this had been the old antiquary
Mr Titcherly. That lover of inscriptions had now become himself
the subject of a tombstone; and having, as aforesaid, great regard
for Bruce, and having no kindred of his own to bequeath to, had
in his will, after making ample provision for the future editions
of his great work on the antiquities of Doddington, left the rest
of his property, amounting to about £4000, to Rosa, on condition
she married Bruce; and this, together with the solicitations of
his wife, who had been gained over to the other party by Bruce’s
enthusiastic description of Rosa’s excellencies, had melted the heart
of that splendid old fellow the dean of Trumpington. That reverend
personage was now present at the wedding, together with his wife,
and Dr Macvino, who had dined the night before at the Heronry, and
pronounced the port excellent.
Fane gave away the little magnificent bride, half hidden in an ample
rich veil of white lace sent by Orelia, which cost nobody knows how
much. Bruce was in his dragoon uniform. His mustache had flourished
much in the last year, and Rosa thought him handsomer than Apollo.
Langley was there, and Mr Oates appeared as groom’s man, and the two
Clumbers as bridesmaids.
The ceremony was over, the bridegroom duly shaken by the hand, the
bride, all blush and bloom and smile, duly kissed. The Curate,
leaving the altar, took up his position beside the antique font,
and the group following him, and ranging themselves round, lost
the gorgeous hues which the one painted window above the altar of
Lanscote Church had shed on them during the marriage ceremony; and,
as the Curate began the baptismal service, they stood in the cheerful
light of the morning sun.
The principal personage of this second ceremony had been held, during
the first one, in the arms of Miss Fillett in the background. Kitty,
who looked rather staid and matronly, in consequence of having been
married to Mr Noble a few weeks before, and who had hitherto, in this
new capacity, acquitted herself entirely to Harry’s satisfaction,
dandled the infant in the most approved fashion. “Have done, Master
Julius,” said Kitty, giving that young gentleman a good shake as
he attempted to rush up the pulpit-stairs. “Can’t you behave for a
minute, not even when they are a-baptising of your little sister?”
The preliminary part of the service being read, the infant was handed
to Josiah. He took it gently in his arms, and looked down on its
small face, where he saw the rudiments of Hester’s features. The
service was for a moment at a standstill, and a tear was seen to drop
on the child’s cheek as he bent over it--the first holy water that
touched its face that morning. “Good fellow, old Josey,” thought
Fane, as he noticed it. “Poor dear Josiah!” mentally ejaculated
Hester, with a truer though secret knowledge of the source of his
emotion.
The dean of Trumpington hemmed impatiently--he wanted his breakfast;
and the sympathetic Doctor Macvino, going behind Josiah, jogged his
arm. The Curate started from his reverie, and looked around. “Name
this child,” he said, proceeding with the ritual.
“Rosa Orelia,” answered the bride, who officiated as one godmother,
while Trephina Clumber was proxy for Orelia (who was detained at home
by private business of her own.)
The christening was finished without further delay. Then the assembly
passed forth from the old ivy-covered porch, and, amid the admiration
and applause of the inhabitants of Lanscote, entered their carriages
to drive back to the Heronry.
The breakfast was pronounced by Dr Macvino, by no means an
incompetent judge, a magnificent affair. Speeches were made
afterwards--one jocosely cynical, and sprinkled with puns, by Mr
Levitt; one gay, fluent, and agreeable, from Captain O’Reilly, a
fresh-coloured man, with white teeth, who had succeeded Tindal in
command of the detachment, and who had practised popular oratory
at various contested elections; one rich and oily, delivered _ore
rotundo_, by Dr Macvino, with some others.
The newly-married pair had driven off; the guests had dispersed; even
the Curate had, in despite of the urgent entreaties of Hester and
Durham, inexorably departed. Fane and his wife were alone together in
the library.
“I told you yesterday, Hester,” he said, leaning over the back of her
chair, “of the opening into public life now offered me. My answer
must be written to-night.”
Hester looked uneasy. “You will refuse it, Durham, won’t you?”
“I think not, Hester.”
“I thought we had been very happy this year past. I knew I had, and
I flattered myself you had; but you are weary of me;” and, as she
spoke, the first sad tears since her marriage came into her eyes.
“I swear to you,” he said, removing the tears in the readiest way
that occurred to him--“I swear to you that I would rather live the
past year over again than the best ten others of my existence. But
what right have I to continue this life of pleasant uselessness, when
I may exert myself?”
“Uselessness!” said his wife; “do you call being my companion and
instructor uselessness?”
“You have a new companion now in that young Christian of yours, whom
I hear squalling,” said Fane; “she will prevent you from missing
me. As to the instruction part, I have learnt as much as I could
teach for the life of me. If I have widened your mind, you have no
less refined mine; and, could I but rid myself of a certain uneasy
conviction that we are both of us accountable beings, I would
contentedly let the world slide for ever as softly and easily as now.
But is this unproductive interchange of sentiment, however elevated
and refined, fit to be the sole occupation of a man who can be up and
doing?”
Hester sighed. “You force me,” said she, “to look at a truth I would
willingly shut my eyes to. One other year would not tire you, Durham;
put it off for one--only one.”
“But the opportunity would be gone,” said Fane. “Come, make up your
mind to it, and you will acknowledge next year that, in watching
my career, applauding my success, if I meet with it, soothing
my disappointments when they find me, you have new and worthier
occupation.”
Hester disputed no farther; he wrote the letter of acceptance; and
next year she acknowledged that she was growing more ambitious for
him than he was for himself.
The Curate did not remain long in the living to which Mr Levitt had
presented him. An incident that occurred in the second year of his
incumbency gave him a disgust at the place. A female parishioner,
of tolerably mature years, made a dead set at Josiah. She had
experiences to impart; she took share in his parochial matters;
she even studied botany; and the unsuspecting Josiah was the only
person who didn’t penetrate her designs on his heart. When the fair
one found these would certainly fail, she brought an action for
breach of promise; and the evidence being about as strong as that
in the celebrated case of Bardell _versus_ Pickwick, the jury, as
Englishmen and fathers, of course found for the plaintiff, with £200
damages. About that time Dean Bruce, in consideration of the family
connection, managed to get Josiah elected canon of the cathedral;
and in course of time he became a prebend. He has a good house and
capital garden; his study is one of the pleasantest rooms to be found
anywhere, with a cloistered air about it, the pointed window all hung
with ivy, looking on the great window of the cathedral, and on one
of the buttressed towers. He has an ancient married housekeeper, who
looks faithfully after his comforts; he entertains his friends nobly
when they come to see him (his small but choice cellar was laid in by
Dr Macvino); the great library of the cathedral is within a few paces
of his door, where he is treated by the librarian with more deference
than the bishop himself; and when he needs change he goes down to the
Heronry. Time softens the acuteness of his disappointment in love,
and the recollection of it now brings a not unpleasant sadness.
Poor old Josey!--after all, perhaps the most loveable and respectable
of our _dramatis personæ_--more so, at least, than our heroes, whose
more discursive natures included some corners which they would
probably have been unwilling that even their wives should pry into;
whereas Josiah’s heart might have been turned page by page; and,
while much might have been found to interest, there would have been
little to correct, and nothing to blot. But somehow or other, women
do not seem always to give such unobtrusive merits the highest place
in their affections. Orelia and Lady Lee were, as we have seen, among
the number; and many young ladies will, we doubt not, understand and
sympathise with their errors of judgment.
A day or two after Rosa’s marriage, Hester got a letter from Orelia.
“Mine is a girl too,” she said, “and I’ve set my heart on her
marrying Julius when they are of a proper age. You must promise to
forward the project, Hester.” And as young persons invariably allow
their parents to choose for them on these points, and never presume
to form any counter predilections of their own, there is, of course,
every prospect that Orelia’s desire will be gratified.
Major Tindal did not easily forgive Orelia’s marriage, nor forget
his own discomfiture. He remains a sporting, hard-riding bachelor;
and when one of his acquaintances marries, he affects to pity him.
“Poor devil!” he says, “I’ll write and condole with him.”
Mr Seager, coming out of jail at the end of two years, found himself
without money, friends, or character. He could not, of course, resume
his old position; but Seager was not proud, and fitted himself with
admirable facility to a new one. He started in the thimble-rig line,
that being a profession requiring little other capital than dexterity
and a knowledge of human nature under its more credulous and
pigeonable aspect. He augments the income derived from this source
by that which he earns as a racing prophet. He advertises that he,
Seager, is the only man who can foretell the winners of all the great
events; asserts that he has hitherto been infallible; and professes
his readiness to let correspondents enjoy a lucrative peep into the
future, on their enclosing a specified number of postage stamps. From
such shifts as these he ekes out a living.
Bagot could not have lived so; and is better as he is, sleeping under
his foreign turf. In the grave he preserves a kind of incognito,
and when called upon to answer for his deeds, may certainly plead
a misnomer; for the French stone-mason who carved his unpretending
tombstone, taking the name of the deceased from dictation, Gallicised
it, and inscribed on the monument “_Ci-gît Monsieur le Colonel
Bagote-Lys_.”
Another marriage had been celebrated in Lanscote Church a short time
before Rosa’s. Jennifer Greene had brought her arts and experience
to bear with more effect on Squire Dubbley than on the Curate. The
thoroughly subjugated Squire, after being compelled to see all the
females of his establishment, under fifty years of age, replaced by
the most withered frumps to be found in those parts, had yielded to
his fate. His adviser, Mr Randy, had been previously disposed of.
Jennifer had no sooner established her ascendancy, than she
proceeded to exert it in the expulsion of Mr Randy. Thus alone in
power, she was not long in convincing the Squire that she was quite
necessary to his existence, and his sole defence against a horde of
plunderers. The Squire, moreover, was impressed by the good looks
of the housekeeper, to which the Curate had been so insensible;
and the grand attack, which had only harassed Josiah, had laid the
unprotected Squire at her feet.
Lady Lee, I am loth to lose you! Not with this page will your form
pass rustling out of sight. But, reader, her independent life has
ceased--her thoughts are now centred in the career of another--and
a chronicle of her deeds and aspirations would be a mere repetition
of, to you, humdrum happiness. Her restlessness, and discontent, and
languor are no more; she has lost even the memory of these since the
event which, like this last sentence of my last chapter, has put a
period to LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.
NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.
NO. III.--CONCLUSION.
Before finishing the business of the old MS. corrector, we may be
permitted to dispose of a case, very small, indeed, but somewhat
personal to ourselves, and arising out of these discussions. In
_Notes and Queries_, p. 169 (August 20, 1853), the following remark
occurs: “The critic in _Blackwood_ disclaims consulting _Notes
and Queries_; and it is, no doubt, a convenient disclaimer.” Good
_Notes and Queries_, we simply _regretted_ that it was not in our
power to consult your pages when writing our first article on the
New Readings. We wished to have been able to confirm, or rather
to complete, a reference to you which Mr Singer had made in his
_Vindication of Shakespeare_. But unfortunately your volumes were
not at hand; for you need scarcely be told that we provincials
cannot always readily command the wisdom which emanates from your
enlightened circle. But why was it “a _convenient_ disclaimer?”
Good old ladies, you surely cannot think that we would purloin your
_small savings_; we would sooner rob the nest of a titmouse. No, no;
believe us, we have no heart for that. We did, however, at first,
fear that we had inadvertently picked a small morsel--perhaps its
little all--out of the mouth of a sparrow; and our heart smote us for
the unintentional unkindness. We were prepared to make any amends in
our power to the defrauded little chirper. We have been at some pains
to discover in what we may have wronged any of your mild fraternity,
provocative of the polite insinuation implied in your epithet
“convenient,” and we find that we are as innocent as Uncle Toby with
his fly. We have not hurt, even undesignedly, a single hair upon your
buzzing head.
We had no doubt, at first, that our offence must have been the
expression of some little hint about Shakespeare in which we had been
anticipated by _Notes and Queries_. And accordingly, insignificant as
the point might be--still knowing what a small nibble is a perfect
fortune to that minute fry--we were prepared to acknowledge publicly
their priority of claim to anything we might have said, and to
stomach their not very handsome appellative as we best might. But
how stands the case?--thus. Some time near the beginning of August,
ICON asks _Notes and Queries_--“Has any one suggested, ‘Most busy,
when least I do?’--(Tempest, iii. i.) _The ‘it’ seems surplusage._”
(The complete line, we should mention, is--“Most busy, least when I
do _it_.”) That is a very plain question, and _Notes and Queries_
answers it, at first, correctly enough--“Yes,” says he, “this reading
was proposed in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ for August;” that is, some
time before the query was put. _Notes and Queries_ then goes on to
say--“_But_ ICON will also find _the same reading with an anterior
title of nearly three years_, together with some good reasons for
its adoption, in _Notes and Queries_, vol. ii. p. 338.” Here, then,
we had no doubt that we had been anticipated, and were quite ready
to make restitution; for _Notes and Queries’_ answer seems decisive.
But stop a little; just give him time to get his ideas into disorder,
and we shall see what will turn up. He goes on to say--“In the
original suggestion in _Notes and Queries_, there is no presumption
of surplusage; the word ‘it’ is understood in relation to labours.”
So that this is the position of _Notes and Queries_: he is asked--Has
the word “it” ever been left out of a certain line in Shakespeare?
Yes, answers he, it was left out in a reading proposed in our volumes
_three years ago_, and _identical_ with one _lately_ published in
_Blackwood_--the only difference, he adds, _sotto voce_, between the
two readings being, that in ours the word “it” is _not_ left out,
while in _Blackwood’s_ it _is_!
So that, after all, our whole offence consists in _not_ having been
anticipated in this reading by _Notes and Queries_. But we cannot
help that. Why should he punish us for his own want of sagacity?
We appeal to an impartial public to take up the cause of injured
innocence against this oppressor, throughout whose pages we observe
a good deal of nibbling at the text of Shakespeare. The teeth-marks
of the little vermin are just perceptible on the bark of that
gigantic trunk; and the traces which they leave behind are precisely
such as a mouse might make upon a cheese the size of Ben Lomond. But
_we_ have not, like Shakespeare, the hide of a tree or a rhinoceros;
nor are we, like him, a mountain three thousand feet high. The small
incisor has consequently grazed our outer cuticle, and we should like
to know what can have provoked our puny assailant to question,--not
our competency to review the old MS. corrector, for this too he does,
and this he is at perfect liberty to do; his doing it is a matter
with which we have no concern--but to impeach our disposition to deal
_fairly_ and _honestly_ towards himself and all others interested in
the new readings. This, we say, he is not at liberty to do without
very good cause being shown. Most gladly, to get rid of the little
nibbler, would we have given up to him this reading, and any other
pittances of the kind, to increase his small stock in trade. But he
cannot make out any title to the reading. He tries, indeed, hard
to believe that it is actually his--he coaxes it to come to him,
he whistles to it, but no--the reading knows its own master, and
will not go near him; whereupon he gets angry, and bites _us_. He
charges us with finding it _convenient_ to ignore his wisdom--that
is, with being ignorant of something in his pages, which, however,
he confesses is not to be found within any of their four corners.
But even supposing that all which _Notes and Queries_ implies we are
guilty of could be made out--only conceive its being _convenient_
for a man not to know--that is, to _pretend_ ignorance--of something
which may have been written on Shakespeare, or on any other subject,
by these commentators on “Here we go, up, up, up,” &c.! There is
a complication of absurdity in the idea which it is not easy to
unravel, and which defies all power of face. For one of themselves
to have said that it might be _convenient_ for a man to know and
profit by their small sayings and doings, would have been ludicrous
enough; but how any man should find a convenience--that is to say, an
advantage--in _not_ knowing, or rather in pretending not to know, how
this innocent people are employing themselves--this is a conception
which, in point of _naïveté_, appears to us to be unequalled by
anything out of Æsop’s Fables. How would it do for them to call
themselves “_Gnats and Queries_?” We recommend _that_ new reading to
their consideration.
We are not sure, however, that this small community is so very
innocent after all. Connected with this very reading, “Most busy,”
&c., they have been guilty of as much _mala fides_ as can be
concentrated upon a point so exceedingly minute. To propose a new
reading without having the remotest conception of its meaning, is to
deserve no very great credit as a critic; yet this is what _Gnats
and Queries_ has done. He (or one of his many pin-heads symbolised
by A. E. B.), saw (_Gnats and Queries_, vol. ii. p. 338) that the
construction of the line was, “Most busy, when least I do it”--or,
as he explains it, “Most busy, when least employed.” But how does
he explain _that_, again?--he actually makes the word “busy” apply
to Ferdinand’s _thoughts_. He says, “Is it not those delicious
_thoughts_ (of Miranda) ‘most busy’ in the _pauses_ of (Ferdinand’s)
labour, making those pauses still more refreshing and renovating?”
So it seems that the thoughts of Miranda refresh, not Ferdinand’s
_labours_, but his _idleness_; and that he is “most busy” in thinking
upon her, not when he is hardest at work, but when he is sitting
with his hands across. As if that circumstance would have been any
motive for him to go to work: it would have been the very contrary.
It would have kept him from his labour. If this be not the most
senseless reversal of Shakespeare’s plain meaning ever proposed
by any mole-eyed interpreter, we promise to eat Mr Collier’s old
MS. corrector without salt. Yet A. E. B. claims to himself credit
for having, to some extent, anticipated our new reading; to the
extent, that is, of seeing that the word _when_ should be placed (in
construing) before the word _least_. But what does that signify, when
he had not the remotest inkling of the meaning? More than that.
The true and only meaning of the line was thoroughly explained in
_Blackwood’s Magazine_ for August last, p. 186. A. E. B. has seen
that explanation--yet he still not only takes credit for the new
reading, but he makes no apology for his antecedent senselessness. We
call that _mala fides_. And further, he aggravates the criminality
of his dulness by referring to a passage in Cicero (quoted in _Gnats
and Queries_, vol. iii. p. 229), which has no bearing whatever on the
reading, and can only serve to throw the reader off the true scent.
Altogether, for so small a matter, this is as complicated a case of
stupidity, and of something worse, as ever came under the notice of
the public. We may just add, what we only recently discovered, that
Mr Collier had inserted the original text of the line, “Most busy,
least when I do it,” in his edition of Shakespeare published some ten
years ago; but then he deserves just as little credit for this as
A. E. B. does; because his note, as might very easily be shown, and
as will be apparent to any one who reads it along with _Blackwood’s
Magazine_, p. 186, is directly at variance with his text.
But we have kept the old Corrector too long waiting. Begging pardon,
we shall now attend to _his_ interests, taking him mildly in
hand,--at least at first.
* * * * *
TITUS ANDRONICUS.--_Act I. Scene 2._--To change “set abroad” into
_set abroach_ may be permissible; but it is not necessary. In the
following line (_Act II. Scene 1_) the alteration is most decidedly
for the worse:--
“The woods are ruthless, _dreadful_, deaf, and dull.”
“Dreadful” is altered by the MS. corrector to _dreadless_--a very
unpoetical, indeed senseless substitution.
We cannot accept the corrector’s rhyming phraseology in _Act II.
Scene 2_. No man has any business to rewrite Shakespeare after this
fashion. The liberty which this scourer of the old text here takes
with the play is just another of the numerous proofs that his design
was, not to restore their language, but merely to popularise it.
_Dine_, however, for “drive,” in the line,
“The hounds
Should _drive_ upon thy new transformed limbs,”
(_Act II. Scene 3_)
is a very sensible emendation, and one which we are disposed to
recommend for the text, “drive” being very probably a misprint.
Possibly also “breeder” (_Act IV. Scene 2_) may be a misprint for
_burthen_, which the corrector proposes, and to which we have no very
great objection. The best part of the change of the words, “Not far
one Muliteus” into “not far hence Muli lives,” is due to Steevens:
the MS. corrector’s contribution being very unimportant.
_Act IV. Scene 4._--The flow of the following line, as printed in the
common editions, is much more easy and idiomatic,
“My lords, you know, _as do_ the rightful gods,”
than the corrector’s substitution--
“My lords, you know, the rightful gods _no less_.”
Nothing further of any mark or likelihood presents itself in
the corrections of this play. The emendations are generally
insignificant; but in one instance, and perhaps two, they may deserve
some approbation.
* * * * *
ROMEO AND JULIET.--_Act I. Scene 1._--We never can accept _puffed_ in
lieu of “purged” in the lines--
“Love is a smoke, made with the fume of sighs,
Being _purg’d_, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes.”
_Urged_, as proposed by Johnson, is infinitely better than _puffed_;
but no change is required.
In the following lines, the MS. corrector’s amendment seems to us to
be no improvement either upon the common or the original text. The
text of the quarto 1597 is this (Romeo is speaking of Rosaline)--
“She’ll not be hit
With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit,
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,
From love’s weak childish bow she lives _uncharm’d_,”
that is, _disenchanted_. The ordinary reading is “unharm’d” for
“uncharmed,” and it affords a very excellent and obvious sense. The
MS. corrector proposes _encharmed_--_i. e._ enchanted. But if any
one is dissatisfied with “unharmed,” we think he will do more wisely
to fall back on the primitive reading, rather than espouse the MS.
corrector’s emendation. It seems more natural to say that a person is
_disenchanted_ from the power of love by the shield of chastity, than
to say that she is _enchanted_ therefrom by means of that protection.
The following remark by Mr Collier puzzles us excessively. _Scene 4_,
in the fine description of Queen Mab, this line occurs--
“Sometime she gallops o’er a _courtier’s_ nose.”
But “courtiers” have been already mentioned. “To avoid this
repetition,” says Mr Collier, “Pope read ‘_lawyer’s_ nose;’ but while
shunning one defect he introduced another, for though the double
mention of ‘courtiers’ is thus avoided, it occasions the double
mention of lawyers. In what way, then, does the old corrector take
upon himself to decide the question? He treats the second ‘courtiers’
as a misprint for a word which, when carelessly written, is not very
dissimilar--
‘Some time she gallops o’er a _counsellor’s_ nose,
And then he dreams of smelling out a suit.’
That _counsellors_,” continues Mr Collier, “and their interest
in suits at court, should be thus ridiculed, cannot be thought
unnatural.” But are not _counsellors_ lawyers? and is not this
precisely the same blunder as that which Mr Collier condemns Pope
for having fallen into? Surely Queen Mab must have been galloping
to some purpose over Mr Collier’s nob, when he forgot himself thus
marvellously. It seems that there must be a repetition, and therefore
it is better to let it fall on the word “courtiers” than on the word
“lawyers,” or its synonym, _counsellors_,--for “courtiers” is the
original text.
_Act II. Scene 2._--We are so wedded to the exquisite lines about
“the winged messenger of heaven,”
“When he bestrides the _lazy-pacing_ clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air,”
that it is with the utmost unwillingness we consent even to the
smallest change in their expression. But it seems that “lazy-puffing”
(an evident misprint) is the reading of the old editions; and this
goes far to prove that _lazy-passing_ (the MS. correction) is the
genuine word--the long ſſ having been mistaken by the compositor for
ff. Although as a matter of taste, perhaps of association, we prefer
“lazy-pacing,” still _lazy-passing_ is very good, and we have little
doubt that it is the authentic reading. We agree also with Mr Collier
in thinking that “_unbusied_ youth” for “unbruised youth” (_Act II.
Scene 3_) comes, as he says, “within the class of extremely plausible
emendations.” “_Weak_ dealing” (_Scene 4_), in the mouth of the
nurse, may very well be a _malapropism_ for “_wicked_ dealing,” and
therefore the text ought not to be disturbed. The MS. corrector is,
perhaps, right in his alteration of the line about Juliet’s cheeks
(_Scene 5_), where the nurse says--
“They’ll be in scarlet _straight at any_ news.”
For “straight at any,” he reads, “_straightway at my_.” But the
point would require further consideration before the change can be
recommended, with certainty, for the text.
_Act III. Scene 2._--In this scene there occurs one of the most
disputed passages in the whole of Shakespeare, and one on which
conjectural emendation and critical explanation have expended all
the resources both of their ingenuity and their stupidity, without
reaching any very memorable result, except in one instance, which
we are about to mention with hearty commendation. The difficulty
presents itself in the lines where Juliet says--
“Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That _Runaway’s_ eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms untalked of and unseen.”
Who is “_Runaway_”? He is a printer’s (not devil but) blunder,
says the old corrector; we should read _enemies_. Those may read
_enemies_ who choose. _We_ certainly shall not--no, not even at
the bidding of Queen Victoria herself. We shall not turn ourselves
into a goose to please the ghost of an old amateur play-corrector,
though he should keep _rapping_ at us till his knuckles are worn out.
Read _Rumourers_, says Mr Singer. No, Mr Singer, we will not read
_Rumourers_. Read this thing, and read that thing, say other wise
authorities: no, gentlemen, we shall not read anything except what
Shakespeare wrote, and we _know for certain_ that the word which he
wrote was “Runaway’s,” just as it stands in the books; for we learnt
this from a _medium_;--yes, and the medium was the Rev. Mr Halpin,
who, in the “Shakespeare Society’s Papers,” vol. ii., has proved to
our entire satisfaction that the text calls for, and indeed admits
of, no alteration. There could not be a happier-chosen or more
expressive word than “Runaway’s,” as here employed.
Mr Halpin rather fritters away his argument, and is not very
forcible; but, coupled with one’s own reflections, he is altogether
convincing. The salient points of the argument may be presented
shortly as follows: _First_, “Runaway” holds the text: he has the
title which accrues from actual possession. _Secondly_, there cannot
be a doubt that _Runaway_ is the general and classical _sobriquet_
for “Cupid.” _Thirdly_, Cupid was a most important personage in
all _epithalamia_. _Fourthly_, important character though he was,
he could not be altogether depended on for secresy; and therefore,
_fifthly_, it was highly desirable, for various considerations (at
least so thought Juliet), that the night should be so dark that even
Cupid should not be able to see very far beyond the point of his own
nose; in order, _sixthly_, that he might not be able to tell tales,
or “talk” of what he had “seen.”
That is the first or main portion of the argument. It proceeds on
the supposition that Cupid _has eyes_. In that case, says Juliet, it
will be highly proper that he should “wink;” and as there can be no
certainty that the little rascal will do so, unless he _cannot see_,
it is further highly desirable that the night should be as black
as the brows of John Nox himself. The second and merely auxiliary
part of the argument proceeds on the supposition that Cupid has _no
eyes_--“Or,” says Juliet, a little farther on--“_or_ if Love (_i.
e._ Cupid) be blind;” why, then, so much the better; “it best agrees
with night;” in other words, a blind Cupid is fully a safer master of
ceremonies than is, all things considered, one that can see.
Finally, supposing the Cupid here referred to, to be not a blind
but a seeing one, will any person inform us what can be the meaning
of the “winking Cupids” spoken of in _Cymbeline_, II. 4, unless
“winking” was, at times, a very important duty on the part of this
functionary? Unless this was part of his office, the words referred
to have no meaning whatever. It seems to have been considered by our
poets, and also by the world at large, as highly becoming--indeed,
as absolutely necessary--that a _seeing_ Cupid should possess a
marvellous alacrity in “winking,” brought about either by his
own sense of the essential fitnesses of things, or by what some
moralists have termed the feeling of propriety, or by the darkness
of the circumambient night. The latter was the interposing medium
to which Juliet chiefly trusted. Who can now doubt that _Cupid_
is “Runaway,” and that “Runaway” was Shakespeare’s word? We have
omitted to say anything in explanation of the classical nickname. One
word may suffice. The urchin was constantly _running away_ from the
apron-strings of his mother Venus, and getting himself into scrapes.
_Act III. Scene 5._--The MS. alteration of “brow” into _bow_ is by no
means a manifest improvement in the lines where Romeo says--
“I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,
’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow.”
Why should “Cynthia’s _brow_” be not as unexceptionable an expression
as the “morning’s _eye_”? To take the words, “These are news indeed!”
from Juliet, and to give them to Lady Capulet, is to spoil the
consistency of the dialogue. This alteration proves that the old
corrector has been no very attentive student of his great master.
Lady Capulet says to her daughter Juliet--
“But now I’ll tell thee _joyful tidings_, girl.”
She then informs her that the gallant Count Paris is to make her a
joyful bride “early next Thursday morn.” Juliet protests against the
match, and winds up by exclaiming, “These _are_ news indeed!”--the
most natural and appropriate observation which could be made in the
circumstances. Yet Mr Collier calls the MS. correction which assigns
these words to Lady Capulet a “judicious arrangement.”
_Act IV. Scene 2._--_Becoming love_ for “_becomed_ love,” is a
specimen of the corrector’s system of modernising the text.
_Act V. Scene 1._--“If I may trust,” says Romeo,
“If I may trust the _flattering truth_ of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.”
The MS. corrector reads--
“If I may trust the flattering _death_ of sleep,”
which Mr Collier defends on the ground of what follows in Romeo’s
speech:--
“I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead,
(Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think,)
And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips
That I revived--and was an emperor.”
But if the “death,” of which the corrector supposes Romeo to speak,
has any reference to the death of which he has dreamt, what a
ludicrous and unmeaning epithet the word “flattering” is! Flattering
death! Why flattering? It is the most senseless adjunct that could
be employed in the place. It was his _revival from death_ by the
kisses of Juliet that formed the “flattering” part of his dream. This
emendation, therefore, must be dismissed as a most signal failure.
Mr Singer’s suggestion, though not necessary, is better. He reads,
“the flattering _soother_ sleep.” But the text ought to be allowed
to stand as it is. “The flattering truth of sleep” merely means--the
pleasing truth promised to me in dreams.
_Scene 3._--We conclude our observation on this play with the remark,
that there is no necessity whatever for changing “outrage” into
_outcry_ in the line where the Prince says--
“Seal up the mouth of _outrage_ for a while.”
All who are present have been driven nearly distracted by the
tragedies they are called upon to witness, and therefore the meaning
undoubtedly is--“seal up the mouth of _distraction_ for a while,”
“Till we can clear these ambiguities.”
* * * * *
TIMON OF ATHENS.--_Act I. Scene 1._--The commentators have been very
generally at fault in their dealings with the following line. The
cynical Apemantus says--
“Heavens, that I were a lord!
_Timon._--What wouldst thou do then, Apemantus?
_Apemantus._--Even as Apemantus does now--hate a lord with
my heart.
_Timon._--What, thyself?
_Apemantus._--Ay.
_Timon._--Wherefore?
_Apemantus._--_That I had no angry wit to be a lord._”
Warburton proposed, “that I had _so hungry a wit to be a lord_.”
Monk Mason suggested, “that I had _an angry wish_ to be a lord.” The
MS. corrector, combining these two readings, gives us, “_that I had
so hungry a wish_ to be a lord.” Dr Johnson says, “The meaning _may
be_--I should hate myself for _patiently enduring to be a lord_.
This is ill enough expressed. Perhaps some happy change may set it
right. I have tried and can do nothing, yet I cannot heartily concur
with Dr Warburton.” Warburton’s emendation is substantially the same
as the MS. corrector’s--and therefore we have Dr Johnson’s verdict
against its admissibility. His own interpretation is unquestionably
right, although he gave it with great hesitation. No change whatever
is required. The passage is perfectly plain if we take “to be” as
standing for “in being.” “That I had no angry wit _in being_ a
lord.” It is the pleasure and pride of my life to cherish a savage
disposition; but in consenting to be a lord I should show that I had
in a great measure foregone this moroseness of nature--and therefore
“I should hate myself, because I could have had no angry wit, no
splenetic humour upon me, when I consented to be a lord.”
_Scene 2._--Dr Delius (of whom favourable mention has been made in
our second article) deals very sensibly with the following case.
“At Timon’s table,” says he, “Apemantus declares himself to be a
water-drinker, because water, unlike strong drink, never leads a man
into crime. He says--
‘Here’s that which is too weak to be a _sinner_;
Honest water, which never left a man in the mire.’
The old corrector, hankering after rhymes, changes ‘sinner’ into
_fire_. But had Apemantus indulged in such an unutterable platitude
at Timon’s banquet, as the remark that _water was not fire_, the
rest of the guests would most assuredly have turned him to the door.
What shall we say when we find Mr Collier seriously believing that
Shakespeare’s word was _fire_!”[14] Well done, Doctor!
_Act II. Scene 2._--A construction very similar to the one we lately
met with (_to be_, for _in being_) occurs in the following lines,
which certainly require no amendment. Flavius, Timon’s steward,
complaining of his master’s extravagance, says that he
“Takes no account
How things go from him, _nor resumes_ no care
Of what is to continue. Never mind
Was, _to be_ so unwise, to be so kind.”
The corrector reads--
“Takes no account
How things go from him, _no reserve_; no care
Of what is to continue. Never mind
Was _surely_ so unwise, to be so kind.”
“To take no reserve” is surely more awkward and ungrammatical than
the language which Shakespeare employs. And as for the substitution
_surely_, it is very far from being required. The construction
is--never did a mind exist, being so unwise, in order to be so kind.
These two lines as amended by the
old corrector--
“He did reprove his anger, ere ’twas spent,
As if he did but move an argument,”
seem to be an improvement upon
“He did _behave_ his anger, ere ’twas spent,
As if he did but prove an argument.”
The old copies read “behoove.” But it would not be safe to alter
the received text without further deliberation. We cannot accept Mr
Singer’s _behood_.
_Act IV. Scene 2._--Flavius, when his master is ruined, moralises
thus,
“O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us!
Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,
Since riches point to misery and contempt?
Who’d be so mock’d with glory? or to live
But in a dream of friendship?
To have his pomp, and all what state compounds,
But only painted, like his varnished friends.”
If the expression of these verses be somewhat elliptical, they are
quite intelligible, and the MS. corrector certainly does not improve
them. He writes the four last lines thus--
“Who’d be so mocked with glory, _as_ to live
But in a dream of friendship, and _revive_
To have his pomp and all state _comprehends_,
But only painted like his varnished friends.”
What is the meaning of “to be so mocked with _glory_ as to live but
in a dream of _friendship_?” A man may be so mocked with glory as
to live only in a dream of _glory_. But a dream of friendship is
nonsense--or, rather, the change of “or” into _as_, makes nonsense of
the passage. The other changes are not so irrational, but they are
quite unnecessary, and cannot, in any respect, be recommended for the
text.
_Scene 3._--To change “a bawd” into _abhorred_, as the MS. corrector
has done, proves that he was unable to construe the English language.
We shall merely refer our readers to Dr Johnson’s note on the place,
which explains it thoroughly.
In this same scene Timon rebukes Apemantus in these terms--
“Thou art a slave, whom fortune’s tender arm
With favour never clasp’d; but bred a dog.
Had’st thou, like us, from our first swath, proceeded
The sweet degrees that this brief world affords
To such as may the passive _drugs_ of it
Freely command, thou would’st have plung’d thyself
In general riot.”
Mr Collier writes, “‘The passive drugs’ of the world _surely_ cannot
be right. Timon is supposing the rich and luxurious to be, as it
were, sucking freely at the ‘passive _dugs_’ of the world, and an
emendation in manuscript which merely strikes out the superfluous
letter supports this view of the passage, and renders needless Monk
Mason’s _somewhat wild_ conjecture in favour of _drudges_.” Reader,
look out the word “drug” in Johnson’s Dictionary--a work which
does not deal much in _wild_ conjectures, and which, whatever its
disparagers may say, is still the best authority going for the use
and meaning of the English language--and you will find that one of
the meanings of “drug” is _drudge_. There cannot be a doubt that
_drugge_ is the old way of spelling _drudge_, and just as little
can there be a doubt that “drugs” in the passage before us means
_drudges_. To “command” the _dugs_ of the world, would indeed be a
wild way of speaking.
_Scene 4._--In the following lines, where it is said that it is not
right to take vengeance on the living for the crimes of the dead,
Shakespeare writes,
“All have not offended;
For those that were, it is _not square_ to take
On those that are, revenge.”
For “not square” the new reading is “is’t not severe.” This smacks
very decidedly of more modern times--and is a marked instance of our
corrector’s attempt to popularise his author. “Not square” of course
means not just.
* * * * *
JULIUS CÆSAR.--_Act I. Scene 2._--In his comments on the corrections
of this play Mr Collier makes an unfortunate commencement. He says,
“The two following lines have _always_ been printed thus--
‘When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,
That her wide _walks_ encompass’d but one man?’
This reading has _never_, we believe, been doubted.” No man can be
expected to have examined all the editions of Shakespeare. But surely
Mr Collier _might_ have been acquainted with Theobald’s (1773), and
the common _variorum_ (1785), in both of which “walls” is printed
in the text, without a word of comment, as requiring none. Or if
he had not examined these editions, surely his remark was somewhat
precipitate that “walks” had been _always_ printed in the text, and
had _never_ been doubted. _We_ have never seen an edition containing
“walks”--but we shall not venture to assert that no such edition
exists. This, however, is certain, that the change of “walks” into
“walls” is news at least a hundred years old, and is a correction
which every child would make the instant the passage was laid before
him.
We quote the following from Mr Collier for the sake of the remark
with which it concludes. “The MS. corrector,” he says, “requires us
to make another change which seems even less necessary, but, at the
same time, is judicious:
‘Brutus had rather be a villager,
Than to repute himself a son of Rome,
Under _these_ hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us.’
Under _such_ hard conditions, sounds better, followed as it is by
‘this time,’ but this is perhaps a matter of discretion, and we
have _no means of knowing_ whether the writer of the notes might
not _here_ be indulging his taste.” This implies--and there are
many such insinuations throughout Mr Collier’s book--that we have
the means _of knowing_ that the corrector did not exercise merely
his own discretion, in the majority of his emendations, but had
undoubted authority for his cutting and carving on the text. But what
means have we of knowing this? None at all. Sometimes the corrector
restores the readings of the old quartos and of the folio 1623; but
that is no proof that his other corrections have any guarantee beyond
his own caprice. There is no external evidence in their favour, and
their manifest inferiority to the received text, in almost every
instance of importance, shows that their internal evidence is just as
defective. Indeed, as we shall by and by see, we have the means of
knowing that, in almost every case, the old corrector was “exercising
merely his own discretion,” or rather indiscretion. We admit that in
a few minor instances the changes are slightly for the better, as,
for instance, the alteration of “make” into _mark_ in these lines
(_Act II. Scene 1_)--
“This shall _mark_
Our purpose necessary, and not envious.”
But wherever our corrector attempts an emendation of any magnitude,
he, for the most part--indeed, we may say always--signally fails,
as has been already abundantly shown; and he fails, because in nine
hundred and ninety-nine apparently doubtful cases out of every
thousand, the text stands in no need of any alteration.
_Act III. Scene 1._--How vilely vulgarised is Cæsar’s answer to
Artemidorus by the corrector’s way of putting it. Artemidorus,
pressing forward to deliver his warning to Cæsar, says,
“Mine’s a suit
That touches Cæsar nearer.”
Cæsar’s dignified answer is,
“What touches us ourself, shall be last served.”
The words put into his mouth by the MS. corrector are,
“That touches us? ourself shall be last served.”
The _taste_ of this new reading will not find many approvers, we
should think, when it is placed in juxtaposition with the old.
Perhaps the corrector is right in giving the words, “Are we all
ready,” to Casca, instead of Cæsar, to whom they are usually
assigned; but Ritson had long ago pointed out the propriety of the
change. We can accept _crouchings_ in place of couchings. “_Law_ of
children” for “_love_ of children,” has been already recommended by
Dr Johnson.
_Act IV. Scene 3._--For “new-added,” Mr Singer suggests _new-aided_,
which is certainly much better than the MS. correction _new-hearted_;
but no change is necessary.
_Act V. Scene 1._--The old reading, “_sword_ of traitors,” is
infinitely better than the new, “_word_ of traitors.” “Forward”
for “former” is another instance of the corrector’s attempts to
_modernise_ the text. The same may be said of _term_ for “time.” We
admit, however, that “_those_ high powers” reads better than “_some_
high powers.”
At the close of the play, Antony says of Brutus,
“This was the noblest Roman of them all,
All the conspirators, save only he,
Did that they did in envy of great Cæsar;
He, only, in a _general_ honest thought,
_And_ common good to all, made one of them.”
We are told to read,
“He only in a _generous_ honest thought
_Of_ common good to all.”
This, however, is not Shakespeare speaking his own language,
but Shakespeare popularised. “A _general_ honest thought” is a
_comprehensive_ honest thought; and we may be absolutely certain that
“general” is the poet’s word. If the MS. corrector could be brought
to life and examined, we are convinced he would admit that he was
merely _adapting_ Shakespeare to his own notions of the taste and
capacities of a popular assembly.
* * * * *
MACBETH.--_Act I. Scene 1._--When Ross enters suddenly, with tidings
of the victory gained by Macbeth and Banquo over the Norwegians,
Lenox exclaims,
“What a haste looks through his eyes! so should he look
That _seems to speak_ things strange.”
A hypercritical objection has been taken to the words, “seems to
speak,” inasmuch as Ross has not yet spoken. Dr Johnson, deserted
for a moment by his usual good sense, would read, “that _teems_
to speak.” “He looks like one that is _big with_ something of
importance”--a phrase savouring much more of the great lexicographer
than of the great poet. The MS. corrector proposes, “that _comes_ to
speak.” This is very flat and prosaic. Mr Singer says that “_seems_
is to be received in its usual sense of _appears_.” This is worse and
worse. Malone long ago informed us that “to speak” stood for “_about_
to speak,” and this is undoubtedly right. “To speak” is not the
present, but the future infinitive. “So should he look that seems _on
the point of speaking_ things strange.” No change is required.
_Scene 4._--The king, on meeting Macbeth after his victory over the
rebels, thus expresses his obligations to him,
“Would thou had’st less deserved,
That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been _mine_.”
We believe the meaning of this to be, “that the _larger share_, both
of thanks and payment, might have come from _my_ side. As it is, I
still owe you more than you can ever owe me.” To change “mine” into
_more_ is quite uncalled for.
_Scene 5._--The MS. corrector proposes _blankness_ for “blanket,” in
the lines where Lady Macbeth, revolving the murder of Duncan, says,
“Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell!
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
Nor heaven peep through the _blanket_ of the night,
To cry, Hold! hold!”
The darkness prayed for is the _thickest_ that can be procured, and
therefore the word “blanket” is highly appropriate. It has a stifling
effect on the imagination, which the general term _blankness_ has not.
_Scene 7._--The next alteration proposed seems to us to be a case of
great doubt and difficulty--one in which a good deal may be said on
both sides of the question. Macbeth says to his lady, who is pressing
him strongly to commit the murder,
“Pr’ythee, peace,
I dare do all that may become a man,
Who dares do more is none.
_Lady M._--What _beast_ was’t, then,
That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man,
And to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man.”
The MS. corrector, changing one letter, converts “beast” into
_boast_, whereupon Mr Singer says, “Who could have imagined that
any one familiar with the poet, as Mr Collier tells us he has been
for the last fifty years, could for a moment entertain the absurd
change of ‘beast’ to _boast_ in this celebrated passage?” Here Mr
Singer expresses himself, as we think, a great deal too strongly. In
better taste is Mr John Foster’s defence of the received reading.
He says (we quote from Mr Dyce, p. 124), with great good sense and
propriety, “Here Mr Collier reasons, as it appears to us, without
sufficient reference to the context of the passage, and its place
in the scene. The expression immediately preceding, and eliciting
Lady Macbeth’s reproach, is that in which Macbeth declares that he
dares do all that may become _a man_, and that who dares more _is
none_. She instantly takes up that expression--If not an affair in
which _a man_ may engage, what _beast_ was it then in himself or
others that made him break this enterprise to her? The force of the
passage lies in that contrasted word, and its meaning is lost by the
proposed substitution.” We admit the force of this reasoning, and it,
together with the consideration that _beast_ is the word actually in
possession of the text, rather inclines us, though not without much
hesitation, to prefer the old reading. We strongly suspect that the
contrast of the _beast_ and the _man_ may have been an accident due
to the carelessness, or perhaps an alteration due to the ingenuity
of the printer. There is to our feelings a stronger expression of
contempt, a more natural, if not a fiercer taunt in _boast_ than in
“beast.” “What vain braggadocio fit--what swaggering humour was it,
then, that made you break this enterprise to me?” There is nothing in
Mr Dyce’s objection, that Macbeth had _not_ previously vaunted his
determination to murder Duncan. He certainly _had_ broken the project
to his wife both by letter and in conversation, and that pretty
strongly too, as is evident from her words, “Nor time nor place did
_then_ adhere,” that is, when he first broached the subject, “yet
you would make both”--that is, you would make both time and place
bend to the furtherance of your design, even when they were not
in themselves ripe and suitable. And even though Macbeth had not
announced his project in a boastful manner, it was quite natural that
the lady, disgusted by his vacillation, should, in her excited state,
upbraid him as an empty boaster, and a contemptible poltroon. Tried
by their intrinsic merits, we regard “boast” as rather the better
reading of the two; and if we advocate the retention of “beast,” it
is only on the ground that it, too, affords a very good meaning, and
is _de facto_ the text of the old folios.
_Act III. Scene 4._--The following passage has occasioned some
discussion among the commentators. Macbeth addresses the ghost of
Banquo,
“Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The armed rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble; or, be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword:
If trembling I _inhibit_, then protest me
The baby of a girl.”
This is the common reading, or at least was so until a comparatively
recent period. “_Inhabit_,” says Henley, “is the original reading,
and it needs no alteration. The obvious meaning is--should you
challenge me to encounter you in the desert, and I, through fear,
remain trembling in my castle, _then_ protest me,” &c. Horne Tooke
(_Diversions of Purley_, ii. p. 55) slightly varies this reading by
placing the comma after _then_, instead of after _inhabit_.
“Dare me to the desert with thy sword,
If trembling I inhabit then;”--
_i. e._, if _then_ I do not meet thee there; if trembling I stay at
home, or within doors, or under any roof, or within any _habitation_;
if, when you call me to the desert, I then _house_ me, or through
fear hide myself from thee in any dwelling--
“If trembling I do _house me then_, protest me,” &c.
Probably, then, the best reading is,
“If trembling I _inhabit then_, protest me,” &c.
At any rate, the MS. corrector’s prosaic substitution--“if trembling
I _exhibit_,” _i. e._, if I show any symptoms of trepidation, cannot
be listened to for a moment.
_Act IV. Scene 1._--The MS. corrector alters very properly
“Rebellious dead” of the old copies, into
“_Rebellion’s head_ rise never till the wood
Of Birnam rise.”
Theobald had got the length of changing “dead” into _head_, but the
alteration of “rebellious” into _rebellion’s_ is due to the old
corrector, and it is decidedly an improvement.
When Macbeth has resolved to seize Macduff’s castle, and put his wife
and children to the sword, he exclaims--
“This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool,
But no more _sights_!”
The MS. corrector proposes _flights_, and not without some show of
reason. Macbeth has just been informed that Macduff has fled to
England, and the escape has evidently discomposed him, as placing
beyond his reach his most deadly enemy. Accordingly, he is supposed
by the MS. corrector to exclaim, “No more flights! I must take care
that no more of that party escape me.” But, on the other hand,
Macbeth, a minute before, has been inveighing against the witches. He
says--
“Infected be the air whereon they ride,
And damned all that trust them!”
So that “But no more sights” may mean, I will have no more dealings
with these infernal hags. The word “But” seems to be out of place in
connection with “flights”--and therefore we pronounce in favour of
the old reading.
_Scene 3._--Malcolm, speaking of himself, says--
“In whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted,
That when they shall be _open’d_, black Macbeth
Shall seem as pure as snow.”
“Here,” says Mr Collier, “as has been said on many former occasions,
‘opened’ affords sense, but so inferior to that given by the
correction of the folio 1632, that we need not hesitate in concluding
that Shakespeare, carrying on the figure suggested by the word
‘grafted’ as applied to fruit, must have written--
‘That when they shall be _ripened_, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow.’”
But does not Mr Collier see that the metaphor is one which does not
turn upon _fruit_ at all, but that it turns upon _flowers_? And who
ever heard of flowers _ripening_? That the allusion is to flowers is
obvious from this, that Malcolm’s vices are said to surpass Macbeth’s
in their _colour_. “Compared with me, black Macbeth shall seem as
pure _as snow_.” What confusion of ideas can have put _fruit_ into
the dunderhead of the corrector, and what obliquity of judgment
should have led Mr Collier to affirm, that “opened” affords a sense
so inferior to _ripened_, it is very difficult to comprehend. In his
appendix, Mr Collier says, “an objection to _ripened_ instead of
‘opened,’ may be, that Malcolm is representing these ‘particulars of
vice’ in him as already at maturity.” Not at all; that would have
been no objection. His vices _were_ immature, but their immaturity
was that of flowers, and not that of fruits. So that Mr Collier is
equally at fault in his reasons _for_ and in his reasons _against_
the word “opened.” This is not pretty in a man who has some claims to
be regarded as one of the greatest Shakespearian scholars of the day.
The MS. corrector in no way redeems his character by suggesting a
decided alteration for the worse in the line where Macduff says to
Malcolm--
“You may
_Convey_ your pleasures in a spacious plenty.”
Read _enjoy_, says the corrector. We have no doubt that “convey” is
the right word--only we had better punctuate the line thus,
“Convey your pleasures in,--a spacious plenty;”
_i. e._ Gather them in,--an abundant harvest.
_Act V. Scene 2._--In the lines in which the unsettled condition
of Macbeth’s mind is alluded to, the corrector proposes a specious
though far from necessary amendment.
“But for certain,
He cannot buckle his distempered _cause_
Within the belt of rule.”
The MS. correction is _course_; _i. e._ course of action, which is
distempered by the shattered condition of his nerves. But “cause”
fits the place perfectly well, if taken for his affairs generally,
his whole system of procedure; and therefore we are of opinion that
the text ought not to be disturbed.
_Scene 3._ In the line where Macbeth says--
“This push
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now,”
we approve of the substitution of _chair_ for “cheer,” as proposed
long ago by Bishop Percy, and now seconded by the MS. corrector. But
we see no good reason for changing “stuff” into _grief_, in the line
“Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous _stuff_
Which weighs upon the heart.”
There seems to have been but little _grief_ on the part either of the
tyrant or his lady; and the repetition of “stuffed” and “stuff” is
very much after the manner of Shakespeare.
_Scene 4._ Malcolm says of Macbeth’s followers--
“For where there is advantage _to be given_,
Both more and less, have given him the revolt;”
that is, where any advantage is held out, or “to be given” to them,
both strong and weak desert Macbeth’s standard. The MS. corrector
proposes “advantage _to be gotten_; a better reading, which has been
often suggested, is “advantage _to be gained_,” and this we regard
as more suitable to modern notions; but we counsel no change in the
text, because the old reading was to a certainty the language of
Shakespeare.
The latinism of _farced_, _i. e._, stuffed out, for “forced,” has not
a shadow of probability in its favour. Macbeth says of the troops
opposed to him--
“Were they not _forced_ with those that should be ours,
We might have met them, dareful, beard to beard.”
“Forced,” says Mr Singer very properly, “is used in the sense of
_re-inforced_.” Neither can we accept _quailed_ for “cooled,” at the
recommendation of the MS. corrector, in these lines where Macbeth
says--
“The time has been my senses would have _cool’d_
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in’t.”
“My senses would have _cooled_”--that is, my nerves would have
thrilled with an _icy_ shudder. The received text is quite
satisfactory.
* * * * *
HAMLET.--_Act I. Scene 2._--In consistency with the verdict just
given, we must pronounce the following new reading, at any rate,
reasonable.
Horatio, describing the effect of the appearance of the ghost upon
Bernardo and Marcellus, tells Hamlet, as the quartos give it--
“They _distill’d_
Almost to jelly with the act of fear,
Stand dumb, and speak not to him.”
The folios read “bestilled.” The MS. correction is _bechill’d_. And
this we prefer to bestilled. It is quite in keeping with Macbeth’s
expression--
“My senses would have _cool’d_
To hear a night-shriek.”
Shakespeare probably knew that “jelly” was _gelu_, ice. But
“distilled,” the common reading, affords quite as good a meaning as
_bechilled_, and therefore, as this word has authority in its favour,
which _bechilled_ has not, we advise no alteration of the text.
_Scene 3._--We think that the old corrector was right, when he
changed “chief” into _choice_ in the lines where the style in which
Frenchmen dress is alluded to--
“And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chef in that.”
This is the reading of the old copies. The modern editions read more
intelligibly--
“Are most select and generous, chief in that.”
“Chief” for chiefly. But we prefer the MS. correction--
“Are of a most select and generous _choice_ in that,”
both as affording better sense, and as coming nearer the old text
than the received reading does.
In the same scene, Polonius says to his daughter--
“I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth,
Have you so _slander_ any moment’s leisure,
As to give words, or talk with the lord Hamlet.”
We believe that “slander” here means _abuse_, _misuse_, and therefore
we prefer the received text to _squander_, the reading of the MS.
corrector.
_Scene 5._--The ghost says--
“Thus was I sleeping, by a brother’s hand,
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once _despatch’d_.”
The margins read--
“Of life, of crown, of queen, at once _despoiled_,”
which may be more strictly grammatical than the other. But
“despatched” is more forcible, and indicates a more summary mode of
procedure. “Despatched,” says Mr Dyce, “expresses the _suddenness_ of
the bereavement.” The quartos read “deprived,” which is quite as good
as _despoiled_.
_Act II. Scene 2._--Hamlet says--
“For it cannot be
But I am pigeon-livered, and lack gall
To make _oppression_ better, or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave’s offal.”
The margins have the weakness to propose “to make _transgression_
bitter!” We are glad to perceive that the mild Mr Dyce “lacks not
gall to make _senseless criticism_ bitter.” He says, “This alteration
is nothing less _than villanous_. Could the MS. corrector be so
obtuse as not to perceive that ‘lack gall to make oppression bitter,’
means lack gall to make me feel the bitterness of oppression?” Mr
Singer proposes _aggression_, which is just one half as bad as
_transgression_. Why cannot the commentators leave well alone?
_Act III. Scene 3._--To change “prize” into _purse_ in the expression,
“the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law,”
simply shows a dogged determination on the part of the old corrector
to be more perversely idiotical than we can believe that his stars
doomed even _him_ to be. The king is speaking of his usurped crown
and dominion as his “wicked _prize_.” Mr Collier having put on livery
in the old corrector’s service, has, of course, nothing for it but to
assent. He says, “We need no great persuasion to make us believe that
we ought to read _purse_.” Do not suppose, Mr Collier, that we are
going to be gulled by that remark--you yourself, we are convinced,
never swallowed so bitter a pill as that new reading, in all your
born days.
_Act III. Scene 4._--The MS. correction, “I’ll _sconce_ me even
here,” says Polonius, is to be preferred to the ordinary reading,
“I’ll _silence_ me even here.” This reading was also proposed not
long ago by Mr Hunter.
_Act IV. Scene 3._--In the next, Mr Collier is not quite so sure
of his ground, and well may he distrust it. He says, “The next
emendation is well worthy of consideration, and _perhaps_ of
adoption. The king asks Hamlet where Polonius is at supper, and the
answer is this in the quartos--
“Not where he eats, but where he is eaten; a certain
convocation of _politic_ worms are even at him. Your worm
is the only emperor for diet,” &c.
The corrector treats us to “a convocation of _palated_ worms,”
which is a view of the subject we cannot at all stomach. If there
is any one word in all Shakespeare which we can be more certain of
than another as having been written by himself, the term “politic,”
as used in this place, is that word. The context, “convocation,”
proves this. A convocation is a kind of parliament, and does not
a parliament imply policy? “Politic” here means _polite, social,
and discriminating_. Mr Collier advances a very singular argument
in behalf of _palated_. “If the text had always stood ‘palated
worms,’ and if it had been proposed to change it to ‘politic worms,’
few readers would for an instant have consented to relinquish an
expression so peculiarly Shakespearian.” That is to say, if we
had the best possible reasons for thinking that Shakespeare wrote
“palated,” we should not be disposed to alter it. True: but in
that case we can assure Mr Collier that our forbearance would be
occasioned only by our respect for the authentic text, and not by
our opinion that “palated” is the better word of the two. _Palated_
is, in every respect, inferior to “politic”--so inferior, that
had _palated_ been the text, we should strongly have suspected a
misprint, and had “politic” stood on the margin we should certainly
have recommended it for favourable consideration, as we have done
several of the MS. corrections which have not nearly so strong claims
on our approval. The corrector must have been _very old_ (or very
young) when he set down this new reading.
* * * * *
KING LEAR.--_Act I. Scene 1._--Regan remarks that in comparison with
her father’s welfare--
“I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys
That the most _precious square_ of sense possesses.”
The MS. corrector reads “precious _sphere_,” which Mr Singer trumps
by playing out “_spacious_ sphere.” Both of these new readings are
good, considered as _modernisations_ of Shakespeare. But the old text
is not to be doubted: it is quite intelligible, and therefore ought
not to be disturbed. “Square” means compass, _area_.
In the following passage, too, we advocate the retention of the old
text, though the MS. correction is plausible--is one of the best we
have been favoured with. Cordelia entreats her father to
“Make known
It is no vicious blot, _murder_, or foulness--
No unchaste action, or dishonoured _step_,
That hath deprived me of your grace and favour.”
Mr Collier remarks: “Murder (spelt _murther_ in the folios) seems
here entirely out of place; Cordelia could never contemplate that
anybody would suspect her of murder; she is referring to ‘vicious
blots’ and ‘foulness’ in respect to virtue, and there cannot, we
apprehend, be a doubt that the old corrector has given us the real
language of Shakespeare when he puts the passage thus--
‘Make known
It is no vicious blot, _nor other_ foulness.’”
But the King of France has just before said--
“Sure her offence
Must be of such _unnatural_ degree
That _monsters it_;”
that is, that makes a monster of it--it can be nothing short of some
crime of the deepest dye--and therefore “murder” does not seem to be
so much out of place in the mouth of Cordelia. _Stoop_ for “step,” as
proposed by the corrector, is still less to be accepted. Had he never
heard of a _faux pas_?
_Act II. Scene 4._--The fool, declaring that he will not desert his
master, sings--
“But I will stay; the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly.
The knave turns fool that runs away,
The fool no knave, perdy.”
Dr Johnson proposed to correct the two last lines thus--
“The _fool_ turns _knave_ that runs away,
The _knave_ no _fool_, perdy.”
And the MS. corrector does the same. Mr Singer, however, declares
“that the words _knave_ and _fool_ are in their right places in
the old text.” We wish that he had explained his view; for, to our
apprehension, the new reading is the only one which makes sense.
One or two very small amendments here present themselves, which
on the score of taste are not altogether objectionable, but the
superiority of which is by no means so undoubted as to entitle them
to a place in the text. The following is one of them--probably the
best--_Act IV. Scene 1_, Edgar, in disguise, says--
“Yet better thus, and known to be contemned,
Than still contemned and flattered.”
The meaning is--’tis better to be thus contemned and known to
one’s-self to be contemned--than contemned, and at the same time so
flattered as not to know that you are contemned. The old corrector
proposes--
“_Yes_, better _thus unknown_ to be contemned,” &c.,
a reading (all but the _yes_) suggested long ago by Dr Johnson--but
one in no respect superior in merit to the common text. The common
reading “our mean (_i. e._ our mediocrity) secures us,” is greatly
to be preferred to the MS. correction “our _wants_ secure us.” We
confess, however, a predilection for the “lust-dieted man that
_braves_ your ordinance” (the ordinance of heaven), instead of the
common reading, “_slaves_ your ordinance,” although this is defended
by Dr Johnson against Warburton, who long ago proposed the word
(_braves_) which appears on the margins of the folio.
_Scene 6._--
“Behold yond’ simpering dame
Whose face between her forks presageth snow,
Who _minces_ virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure’s name.”
“Who _mimics_ virtue” say the margins, accommodating Shakespeare
to the tastes and understandings of a degenerate period. But, “who
minces virtue” is far finer: it means, who _affects_ a nicety of
virtue. We think that Dr Delius is wrong in preferring _mimics_.
Edgar, when he discovers that Goneril has a plot upon her husband’s
life, exclaims--
“Oh, _undistinguish’d space_ of woman’s will!
A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life,
And the exchange my brother!”
The corrector’s substitution--
“Oh, _unextinguished blaze_ of woman’s will!”