Chapter THE LAST (1)

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.”