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Opposed to this band of tragic characters, with their distorted features, brazen fronts, combative attitudes, is a troop of sweet and timid figures, pre-eminently tender-hearted, the most graceful and loveworthy whom it has been given to man to depict. In Shakespeare you will meet them in Miranda, Juliet, Desdemona, Virgilia, Ophelia, Cordelia, Imogen; but they abound also in the others; and it is a characteristic of the race to have furnished them, as it is of the drama to have represented them. By a singular coincidence, the women are more of women, the men more of men, here than elsewhere. The two natures go each to its extreme: in the one to boldness, the spirit of enterprise and resistance, the warlike, imperious, and unpolished character; in the other to sweetness, devotion, patience, inextinguishable affection[486]—a thing unknown in distant lands, in France especially so: a woman in England gives herself without drawing back, and places her glory and duty in obedience, forgiveness, adoration, wishing and professing only to be melted and absorbed daily deeper and deeper in him whom she has freely and forever chosen.[487] It is this, an old German instinct, which these great painters of instinct diffuse here, one and all: Penthea, Dorothea, in Ford and Greene; Isabella and the Duchess of Malfi, in Webster; Bianca, Ordella, Arethusa, Juliana, Euphrasia, Amoret, and others, in Beaumont and Fletcher: there are a score of them who, under the severest tests and the strongest temptations, display this wonderful power of self-abandonment and devotion.[488] The soul, in this race, is at once primitive and serious. Women keep their purity longer than elsewhere. They lose respect less quickly; weigh worth and characters less suddenly: they are less apt to think evil, and to take the measure of their husbands. To this day, a great lady, accustomed to company, blushes in the presence of an unknown man, and feels bashful like a little girl: the blue eyes are dropped, and a child-like shame flies to her rosy cheeks. Englishwomen have not the smartness, the boldness of ideas, the assurance of bearing, the precocity, which with the French make of a young girl, in six months, a woman of intrigue and the queen of a drawing-room.[489] Domestic life and obedience are more easy to them. More pliant and more sedentary, they are at the same time more concentrated and introspective, more disposed to follow the noble dream called duty, which is hardly generated in mankind but by silence of the senses. They are not tempted by the voluptuous sweetness which in southern countries is breathed out in the climate, in the sky, in the general spectacle of things; which dissolves every obstacle, which causes privation to be looked upon as a snare and virtue as a theory. They can rest content with dull sensations, dispense with excitement, endure weariness; and in this monotony of a regulated existence, fall back upon themselves, obey a pure idea, employ all the strength of their hearts in maintaining their moral dignity. Thus supported by innocence and conscience, they introduce into love a profound and upright sentiment, abjure coquetry, vanity, and flirtation: they do not lie nor simper. When they love, they are not tasting a forbidden fruit, but are binding themselves for their whole life. Thus understood, love becomes almost a holy thing; the spectator no longer wishes to be spiteful or to jest; women do not think of their own happiness, but of that of the loved ones; they aim not at pleasure, but at devotion. Euphrasia, relating her history to Philaster, says:

"My father oft would speak

Your worth and virtue; and, as I did grow

More and more apprehensive, I did thirst

To see the man so prais'd; but yet all this

Was but a maiden longing, to be lost

As soon as found; till sitting in my window,

Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,

I thought (but it was you), enter our gates.

My blood flew out, and back again as fast,

As I had puff'd it forth and suck'd it in

Like breath: Then was I call'd away in haste

To entertain you. Never was a man,

Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, rais'd

So high in thoughts as I: You left a kiss

Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep

From you forever. I did hear you talk,

Far above singing! After you were gone,

I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd

What stirr'd it so: Alas! I found it love;

Yet far from lust; for could I but have liv'd

In presence of you, I had had my end."[490]

She had disguised herself as a page,[491] followed him, was his servant; what greater happiness for a woman than to serve on her knees the man she loves? She let him scold her, threaten her with death, wound her.

"Blest be that hand!

It meant me well. Again, for pity's sake!"[492]

Do what he will, nothing but words of tenderness and adoration can proceed from this heart, these wan lips. Moreover, she takes upon herself a crime of which he is accused, contradicts him when he asserts his guilt, is ready to die in his place. Still more, she is of use to him with the Princess Arethusa, whom he loves; she justifies her rival, brings about their marriage, and asks no other thanks but that she may serve them both. And strange to say, the princess is not jealous.

"Euphrasia. Never, Sir, will I Marry; it is a thing within my vow: But if I may have leave to serve the princess, To see the virtues of her lord and her, I shall have hope to live. Arethusa.... Come, live with me; Live free as I do. She that loves my lord, Curst be the wife that hates her!"[493]

What notion of love have they in this country? Whence happens it that all selfishness, all vanity, all rancor, every little feeling, either personal or base, flees at its approach? How comes it that the soul is given up wholly, without hesitation, without reserve, and only dreams thenceforth of prostrating and annihilating itself, as in the presence of a god? Biancha, thinking Cesario ruined, offers herself to him as his wife; and learning that he is not so, gives him up straightway, without a murmur:

"Biancha. So dearly I respected both your fame And quality, that I would first have perish'd In my sick thoughts, than e'er have given consent To have undone your fortunes, by inviting A marriage with so mean a one as I am: I should have died sure, and no creature known The sickness that had kill'd me... Now since I know There is no difference 'twixt your birth and mine, Not much 'twixt our estates (if any be, The advantage is on my side) I come willingly To tender you the first-fruits of my heart, And am content t' accept you for my husband. Now when you are at the lowest.... Cesario. Why, Biancha, Report has cozen'd thee; I am not fallen From my expected honors or possessions, Tho' from the hope of birth-right. B. Are you not? Then I am lost again! I have a suit too; You'll grant it, if you be a good man.... Pray do not talk of aught what I have said t'ye.... ... Pity me; But never love me more!... I'll pray for you, That you may have a virtuous wife, a fair one; And when I'm dead... C. Fy, fy! B. Think on me sometimes, With mercy for this trespass! C. Let us kiss At parting, as at coming! B. This I have As a free dower to a virgin's grave, All goodness dwell with you!"[494]

Isabella, Brachiano's duchess, is defrayed, insulted by her faithless husband; to shield him from the vengeance of her family, she takes upon herself the blame of the rupture, purposely plays the shrew, and leaving him at peace with his courtesan, dies embracing his picture. Arethusa allows herself to be wounded by Philaster, stays the people who would hold back the murderer's arm, declares that he has done nothing, that it is not he, prays for him, loves him in spite of all, even to the end, as though all his acts were sacred, as if he had power of life and death over her. Ordella devotes herself, that the king, her husband, may have children;[495] she offers herself for a sacrifice, simply, without grand words, with her whole heart:

"Ordella. Let it be what it may then, what it dare, I have a mind will hazard it. Thierry. But, hark you; What may that woman merit, makes this blessing? O. Only her duty, sir. T. 'Tis terrible! O. 'Tis so much the more noble. T. 'Tis full of fearful shadows! O. So is sleep, sir, Or anything that's merely ours, and mortal; We were begotten gods else: but those fears, Feeling but once the fires of noble thoughts, Fly, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing. T. Suppose it death! O. I do. T. And endless parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason! For in the silent grave, no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard, Nor nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust and endless darkness: and dare you, woman, Desire this place? O. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest: Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, And kings from height of all their painted glories Fall, like spent exhalations, to this centre.... T. Then you can suffer? O. As willingly as say it. T. Martell, a wonder! Here is a woman that dares die.—Yet, tell me, Are you a wife? O. I am, sir. T. And have children?— She sighs and weeps! O. Oh, none, sir. T. Dare you venture For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear, To part with these sweet hopes? O. With all but Heaven."[496]

Is not this prodigious? Can you understand how one human being can thus be separated from herself, forget and lose herself in another? They do so lose themselves, as in an abyss. When they love in vain and without hope, neither reason nor life resist; they languish, grow mad, die like Ophelia. Aspasia, forlorn,

"Walks discontented, with her watry eyes

Bent on the earth. The unfrequented woods

Are her delight; and when she sees a bank

Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell

Her servants what a pretty place it were

To bury lovers in; and make her maids

Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse.

She carries with her an infectious grief,

That strikes all her beholders; she will sing

The mournful'st things that ever ear hath heard,

And sigh and sing again; and when the rest

Of our young ladies, in their wanton blood,

Tell mirthful tales in course, that fill the room

With laughter, she will with so sad a look

Bring forth a story of the silent death

Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief

Will put in such a phrase, that, ere she end,

She'll send them weeping one by one away."[497]

Like a spectre about a tomb, she wanders forever about the remains of her destroyed love, languishes, grows pale, swoons, ends by causing herself to be killed. Sadder still are those who, from duty or submission, allow themselves to be married while their heart belongs to another. They are not resigned, do not recover, like Pauline in "Polyeucte." They are crushed to death. Penthea, in Ford's "Broken Heart," is as upright, but not so strong, as Pauline; she is the English wife, not the Roman, stoical and calm.[498] She despairs sweetly, silently, and pines to death. In her innermost heart she holds herself married to him to whom she has pledged her soul: it is the marriage of the heart which in her eyes is alone genuine; the other is only disguised adultery. In marrying Bassanes she has sinned against Orgilus; moral infidelity is worse than legal infidelity, and thenceforth she is fallen in her own eyes. She says to her brother:

"Pray, kill me....

Kill me, pray; nay, will ye

Ithocles. How does thy lord esteem thee? P. Such an one As only you have made me; a faith-breaker, A spotted whore; forgive me, I am one— In act, not in desires, the gods must witness.... For she's that wife to Orgilus, and lives In known adultery with Bassanes, Is, at the best, a whore. Wilt kill me now?... The handmaid to the wages Of country toil, drinks the untroubled streams With leaping kids, and with the bleating lambs, And so allays her thirst secure; whiles I Quench my hot sighs with fleetings of my tears."[499]

With tragic greatness, from the height of her incurable grief, she throws her gaze on life:

"My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes

Remaining to run down; the sands are spent;

For by an inward messenger I feel

The summons of departure short and certain.... Glories

Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,

And shadows soon decaying; on the stage

Of my mortality, my youth hath acted

Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length

By varied pleasures, sweeten'd in the mixture,

But tragical in issue... That remedy

Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead,

And some untrod-on corner in the earth."[500]

There is no revolt, no bitterness; she affectionately assists her brother who has caused her unhappiness; she tries to enable him to win the woman he loves; feminine kindness and sweetness overflow in her in the depths of her despair. Love here is not despotic, passionate, as in southern climes. It is only deep and sad; the source of life is dried up, that is all; she lives no longer, because she cannot; all go by degrees—health, reason, soul; in the end she becomes mad, and behold her dishevelled, with wide staring eyes, with words that can hardly find utterance. For ten days she has not slept, and will not eat any more; and the same fatal thought continually afflicts her heart, amidst vague dreams of maternal tenderness and happiness brought to nought, which come and go in her mind like phantoms:

"Sure, if we were all sirens, we would sing pitifully,

And 'twere a comely music, when in parts

One sung another's knell; the turtle sighs

When he hath lost his mate; and yet some say

He must be dead first: 'tis a fine deceit

To pass away in a dream! indeed, I've slept

With mine eyes open, a great while. No falsehood

Equals a broken faith; there's not a hair

Sticks on my head, but, like a leaden plummet,

It sinks me to the grave: I must creep thither;

The journey is not long....

Since I was first a wife, I might have been

Mother to many pretty prattling babes;

They would have smiled when I smiled; and, for certain,

I should have cried when they cried:—truly, brother,

My father would have pick'd me out a husband,

And then my little ones had been no bastards;

But 'tis too late for me to marry now,

I'm past child-bearing; Tis not my fault....

Spare your hand;

Believe me, I'll not hurt it....

Complain not though I wring it hard: I'll kiss it,

Oh, 'tis a fine soft palm!—hark, in thine ear;

Like whom do I look, prithee?—nay, no whispering,

Goodness! we had been happy; too much happiness

Will make folk proud, they say....

There is no peace left for a ravish'd wife,

Widow'd by lawless marriage; to all memory

Penthea's, poor Penthea's name is strumpeted....

Forgive me; Oh! I faint."[501]

She dies, imploring that some gentle voice may sing her a plaintive air, a farewell ditty, a sweet funeral song. I know nothing in the drama more pure and touching.

When we find a constitution of soul so new, and capable of such great effects, it behooves us to look at the bodies. Man's extreme actions come not from his will, but his nature.[502] In order to understand the great tensions of the whole machine, we must look upon the whole—I mean man's temperament, the manner in which his blood flows, his nerves quiver, his muscles act, the moral interprets the physical, and human qualities have their root in the animal species. Consider then the species in this case—namely, the race; for the sisters of Shakespeare's Ophelia and Virgilia, Goethe's Clara and Margaret, Otway's Belvidera, Richardson's Pamela, constitute a race by themselves, soft and fair, with blue eyes, lily whiteness, blushing, of timid delicacy, serious sweetness, framed to yield, bend, cling. Their poets feel it clearly when they bring them on the stage; they surround them with the poetry which becomes them, the murmur of streams, the pendant willow-tresses, the frail and humid flowers of the country, so like themselves:

"The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor

The azure harebell, like thy veins; no, nor

The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,

Out-sweeten'd not thy breath."[503]

They make them sweet, like the south wind, which with its gentle breath causes the violets to bend their heads, abashed at the slightest reproach, already half bowed down by a tender and dreamy melancholy.[504] Philaster, speaking of Euphrasia, whom he takes to be a page, and who has disguised herself in order to be near him, says:

"Hunting the buck,

I found him sitting by a fountain-side,

Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,

And paid the nymph again as much in tears.

A garland lay him by, made by himself,

Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,

Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness

Delighted me: But ever when he turn'd

His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep,

As if he meant to make 'em grow again.

Seeing such pretty helpless innocence

Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story.

He told me, that his parents gentle dy'd,

Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,

Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,

Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,

Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.

Then he took up his garland, and did shew

What every flower, as country people hold,

Did signify; and how all, order'd thus,

Express'd his grief: And, to my thoughts, did read

The prettiest lecture of his country art

That could be wish'd.... I gladly entertain'd him,

Who was as glad to follow; and have got

The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy

That ever master kept."[505]

The idyl is self-produced among these human flowers: the dramatic action is stopped before the angelic sweetness of their tenderness and modesty. Sometimes even the idyl is born complete and pure, and the whole theatre is occupied by a sentimental and poetical kind of opera. There are two or three such plays in Shakespeare; in rude Jonson, "The Sad Shepherd"; in Fletcher, "The Faithful Shepherdess." Ridiculous titles nowadays, for they remind us of the interminable platitudes of d'Urfé, or the affected conceits of Florian; charming titles, if we note the sincere and overflowing poetry which they contain. Amoret, the faithful shepherdess, lives in an imaginary country, full of old gods, yet English, like the dewy verdant landscapes in which Rubens sets his nymphs dancing:

"Thro' yon same bending plain

That flings his arms down to the main,

And thro' these thick woods, have I run,

Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun

Since the lusty spring began."...

"For to that holy wood is consecrate

A virtuous well, about whose flow'ry banks

The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds,

By the pale moon-shine, dipping oftentimes

Their stolen children, so to make them free

From dying flesh, and dull mortality...[506] "See the dew-drops, how they kiss Ev'ry little flower that is; Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a rope of christal beads. See the heavy clouds low falling, And bright Hesperus down calling The dead Night from underground."[507]

These are the plants and the aspects of the ever fresh English country, now enveloped in a pale diaphanous mist, now glistening under the absorbing sun, teeming with grasses so full of sap, so delicate, that in the midst of their most brilliant splendor and their most luxuriant life, we feel that to-morrow will wither them. There, on a summer night, the young men and girls, after their custom,[508] go to gather flowers and plight their troth. Amoret and Perigot are together; Amoret,

"Fairer far

Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star

That guides the wand'ring seaman thro' the deep,"

modest like a virgin, and tender as a wife, says to Perigot:

"I do believe thee: 'Tis as hard for me

To think thee false, and harder, than for thee

To hold me foul."[509]

Strongly as she is tried, her heart, once given, never draws back. Perigot, deceived, driven to despair, persuaded that she is unchaste, strikes her with his sword, and casts her bleeding to the ground. The "sullen shepherd" throws her into a well; but the god lets fall "a drop from his watery locks" into the wound; the chaste flesh closes at the touch of the divine water, and the maiden, recovering, goes once more in search of him she loves:

"Speak, if thou be here,

My Perigot! Thy Amoret, thy dear,

Calls on thy loved name.... 'Tis thy friend,

Thy Amoret; come hither, to give end

To these consumings. Look up, gentle boy,

I have forgot those pains and dear annoy

I suffer'd for thy sake, and am content

To be thy love again. Why hast thou rent

Those curled locks, where I have often hung

Ribbons, and damask-roses, and have flung

Waters distill'd to make thee fresh and gay,

Sweeter than nosegays on a bridal day?

Why dost thou cross thine arms, and hang thy face

Down to thy bosom, letting fall apace,

From those two little Heav'ns, upon the ground,

Show'rs of more price, more orient, and more round,

Than those that hang upon the moon's pale brow?

Cease these complainings, shepherd! I am now

The same I ever was, as kind and free,

And can forgive before you ask of me:

Indeed, I can and will."[510]

Who could resist her sweet and sad smile? Still deceived, Perigot wounds her again; she falls, but without anger.

"So this work hath end!

Farewell, and live! be constant to thy friend

That loves thee next."[511]

A nymph cures her, and at last Perigot, disabused, comes and throws himself on his knees before her. She stretches out her arms; in spite of all that he had done, she was not changed:

"I am thy love,

Thy Amoret, for evermore thy love!

Strike once more on my naked breast, I'll prove

As constant still. Oh, could'st thou love me yet,

How soon could I my former griefs forget!"[512]

Such are the touching and poetical figures which these poets introduce in their dramas, or in connection with their dramas, amidst murders, assassinations, the clash of swords, the howl of slaughter, striving against the raging men who adore or torment them, like them carried to excess, transported by their tenderness as the others by their violence; it is a complete exposition, as well as a perfect opposition of the feminine instinct ending in excessive self-abandonment, and of masculine harshness ending in murderous inflexibility. Thus built up and thus provided, the drama of the age was enabled to bring out the inner depths of man, and to set in motion the most powerful human emotions; to bring upon the stage Hamlet and Lear, Ophelia and Cordelia, the death of Desdemona and the butcheries of Macbeth.

[393]"The very age and body of the time, his form and pressure."—Shakespeare.

[394]Ben Jonson, "Every Man in his Humour"; "Cynthia's Revels."

[395]"The Defence of Poesie," ed. 1629, p. 562.

[396]"Winter's Tale, Cymbeline, Julius Cæsar."

[397]Strype, in his "Annals of the Reformation" (1571), says: "Many now were wholly departed from the communion of the church, and came no more to hear divine service in their parish churches, nor received the holy sacrament, according to the laws of the realm." Richard Baxter, in his "Life," published in 1696, says: "We lived in a country that had but little preaching at all.... In the village where I lived the Reader read the Common Prayer briefly; and the rest of the day, even till dark night almost, except Eating time, was spent in Dancing under a Maypole ana a great tree, not far from my father's door, where all the Town did meet together. And though one of my father's own Tenants was the piper, he could not restrain him nor break the sport. So that we could not read the Scripture in our family without the great disturbance of the Taber and Pipe and noise in the street."

[398]Ben Jonson, "Every Man in his Humour."

[399]"The Chronicle" of John Hardyng (1436), ed. H. Ellis, 1812, Preface.

[400]Act IV. sc. 2 and 4. See also the character of Calypso in Massinger; Putana in Ford; Protalyce in Beaumont and Fletcher.

[401]Middleton, "Dutch Courtezan."

[402]Commission given by Henry VIII to the Earl of Hertford, 1544: "You are there to put all to fire and sword; to burn Edinburgh town, and to raze and deface it, when you have sacked it, and gotten what you can out of it.... Do what you can out of hand, and without long tarrying, to beat down and overthrow the castle, sack Holyrood-House, and as many towns and villages about Edinburgh as ye conveniently can; sack Leith, and burn and subvert it, and all the rest, putting man, woman, and child to fire and sword, without exception, when any resistance shall be made against you; and this done, pass over to the Fife land, and extend like extremities and destructions in all towns and villages whereunto ye may reach conveniently, not forgetting amongst all the rest, so to spoil and turn upside down the cardinal's town of St. Andrew's, as the upper stone may be the nether, and not one stick stand by another, sparing no creature alive within the same, specially such as either in friendship or blood be allied to the cardinal. This journey shall succeed most to his majesty's honour."

[403]Laneham, "A Goodly Relief."

[404]February 13, 1587. Nathan Drake, "Shakspeare and his Times," II. p. 165. See also the same work for all these details.

[405]Essex, when struck by the queen, put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

[406]A page in the "Mariage de Figaro," a comedy by Beaumarchais.—Tr.

[407]The great Chancellor Burleigh often wept, so harshly was he used by Elizabeth.

[408]Compare, to understand this character, the parts assigned to James Harlowe by Richardson, old Osborne by Thackeray, Sir Giles Overreach by Massinger, and Manly by Wycherley.

[409]Hentzner's "Travels"; Benvenuto Cellini. See passim, the costumes printed in Venice and Germany: "Belicosissimi." Froude, I. pp. 19, 52.

[410]This is not so true of the English now, if it was in the sixteenth century, as it is of Continental nations. The French lycées are far more military in character than English schools.—Tr.

[411]Froude's "History of England," vols. I. II. III.

[412]"When his heart was torn out he uttered a deep groan."—"Execution of Parry;" Strype, III. 251.

[413]Holinshed, "Chronicles of England," III. p. 793.

[414]Holinshed, "Chronicles of England," III, p. 797.

[415]Under Henry IV and Henry V.

[416]Froude, I. 15.

[417]In 1547.

[418]In 1596.

[419]Shakespeare, "Measure for Measure," Act III. I. See also "The Tempest, Hamlet, Macbeth."

[420] "We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep."—"Tempest," IV. I.

[421]Beaumont and Fletcher, "Thierry and Theodoret," Act IV. I.

[422]Αιεηονήθη δ’ ὲν παισὶ καὶ περὶ παλαΐστραν καὶ μουσικὴν, ὲξ ὼν ὰμφοτέοων ὲστέφανώθη... Φιλαθηναιότατος καὶ θεοφιλής.—Scholiast.

[423]Except Beaumont and Fletcher.

[424]Hartley Coleridge, in his "Introduction to the Dramatic Works of Massinger and Ford," says of Massinger's father: "We are not certified of the situation which he held in the noble house-hold (Earl of Pembroke), but we may be sure that it was neither menial nor mean. Service in those days was not derogatory to gentle birth."—Tr.

[425]See, amongst others, "The Woman Killed with Kindness," by Heywood. Mrs. Frankfort, so upright of heart, accepts Wendoll at his first offer. Sir Francis Acton, at the sight of her whom he wishes to dishonor, and whom he hates, falls "into an ecstasy," and dreams of nothing save marriage. Compare the sudden transport of Juliet, Romeo, Macbeth, Miranda, etc.; the counsel of Prospero to Fernando, when he leaves him alone for a moment with Miranda.

[426]Compare "La Vie de Bohême" and "Les Nuits d'Hiver," by Murger; "Confession d'un Enfant du Siècle," by A. de Musset.

[427]The hero of one of Alfred de Musset's poems.—Tr.

[428]Burnt in 1589.

[429]I have used Marlowe's Works, ed. Dyce, 3 vols. 1850. Append, I. vol. 3.—Tr.

[430]See especially "Titus Andronicus," attributed to Shakespeare: there are parricides, mothers whom they cause to eat their children, a young girl who appears on the stage violated, with her tongue and hands cut off.

[431]The chief character in Schiller's "Robbers," a virtuous brigand and redresser of wrongs.—Tr.

[432] For in a field, whose superficies Is cover'd with a liquid purple veil, And sprinkled with the brains of slaughter'd men. My royal chair of state shall be advanc'd; And he that means to place himself therein, Must armed wade up to the chin in blood.... And I would strive to swim through pools of blood, Or make a bridge of murder'd carcasses, Whose arches should be fram'd with bones of Turks Ere I would lose the title of a king.—"Tamburlaine," part II. I. 3.

[433]The editor of Marlowe's Works, Pickering, 1826, says in his Introduction: "Both the matter and style of 'Tamburlaine,' however, differ materially from Marlowe's other compositions, and doubts have more than once been suggested as to whether the play was properly assigned to him. We think that Marlowe did not write it." Dyce is of a contrary opinion.—Tr.

[434]Marlowe's "The Jew of Malta," II. p. 275 et passim.

[435]Ibid. IV. p. 311.

[436]Ibid. III. p. 291.

[437]Ibid. IV. p. 313.

[438]Up to this time, in England, poisoners were cast into a boiling caldron.

[439]In the Museum of Ghent.

[440]See in the "Jew of Malta" the seduction of Ithamore, by Bellamira, a rough, but truly admirable picture.

[441]Nothing could be falser than the hesitation and arguments of Schiller's "William Tell"; for a contrast, see Goethe's "Goetz von Berlichingen." In 1377, Wycliff pleaded in St. Paul's before the bishop of London, and that raised a quarrel. The Duke of Lancaster, Wycliff's protector, "threatened to drag the bishop out of the church by the hair"; and next day the furious crowd sacked the duke's palace.

[442]Marlowe, "Edward the Second," I. p. 173.

[443]Ibid. p. 186.

[444]Ibid. p. 188.

[445]Marlowe, "Edward the Second," last scene, p. 288.

[446]Marlowe, "Doctor Faustus," I. p. 9 et passim.

[447]Marlowe, "Doctor Faustus," I. pp. 22, 29.

[448]Ibid. p. 43.

[449]Marlowe, "Doctor Faustus," I. p. 37.

[450]Ibid. p. 75.

[451]Ibid. p. 78.

[452]Marlowe "Doctor Faustus," I. p. 80.

[453]See the trial of Vittoria Corombona, of Virginia in Webster, of Coriolanus and Julius Cæsar in Shakespeare.

[454]Falstaff in Shakespeare; the queen in "London," by Greene and Decker; Rosalind in Shakespeare.

[455]In Webster's "Duchess of Malfi" there is an admirable accouchement scene.

[456]This is, in fact, the English view of the French mind, which is doubtless a refinement, many times refined, of the classical spirit. But M. Taine has seemingly not taken into account such products as the Medea on the one hand, and the works of Aristophanes and the Latin sensualists on the other.—Tr.

[457]See Hamlet, Coriolanus, Hotspur. The queen in "Hamlet" (V. 2) says: "He (Hamlet) is fat, and scant of breath."

[458]Middleton, "The Honest Whore," part I. IV. 1.

[459]Beaumont and Fletcher, "Valentinian, Thierry and Theodoret." See Massinger's "Picture," which resembles Musset's "Barberine." Its crudity, the extraordinary repulsive energy, will show the difference of the two ages.

[460]Massinger's Works, ed. H. Coleridge, 1859, "Duke of Milan," II. 1.

[461]Ibid. V. 2.

[462]Massinger, "The Fatal Dowry"; Webster and Ford, "A late Murther of the Sonne upon the Mother" (a play not extant); "'Tis pity she's a Whore." See also Ford's "Broken Heart," with its sublime scenes of agony and madness.

[463]Ford's Works, ed. H. Coleridge, 1859.

[464]Ibid. IV. 3.

[465]Ford's Works, ed. H. Coleridge, 1859, IV. 3.

[466]Ibid. IV. 3.

[467]Ibid. V. 5.

[468]Ibid. V. 6.

[469]Webster's Works, ed. Dyce, 1857, "Duchess of Malfi," I. 1.

[470]The characters of Bosola, Flaminio.

[471]See Stendhal, "Chronicles of Italy, The Cenci, The Duchess of Palliano," and all the biographies of the time; of the Borgias, of Bianca Capello, of Vittoria Corombona.

[472]Ferdinand, one of the brothers, says (II. 5): "I would have their bodies Burnt in a coal-pit with the ventage stopp'd, That their curs'd smoke might not ascend to heaven; Or dip the sheets they lie in in pitch or sulphur, Wrap them in't, and then light them as a match; Or else to boil their bastard to a cullis, And give't his lecherous father to renew The sin of his back."

[473]"Duchess of Malfi," IV. 1.

[474]Ibid. IV. 2.

[475]"Duchess of Malfi," IV. 2.

[476]"When," an exclamation of impatience, equivalent to "make haste," very common among the old English dramatists.—Tr.

[477]"Duchess of Malfi," IV. 2.

[478]Ibid. V. 5.

[479]Ibid. V. 4 and 5.

[480]"Vittoria Corombona," I. 2.

[481]Webster Dyce, 1857, "Vittoria Corombona," p. 20, 21.

[482]Ibid. III. 2, p. 23.

[483]"Vittoria Corombona," III. 2, p. 24.

[484]Compare Mme. Marneffe in Balzac's "La Cousine Bette."

[485]"Vittoria Corombona," V. last scene, pp. 49, 50.

[486]Hence the happiness and strength of the marriage tie. In France it is but an association of two comrades, tolerably alike and tolerably equal, which gives rise to endless disturbance and bickering.

[487]See the representation of this character throughout English and German literature. Stendhal, an acute observer, saturated with Italian and French morals and ideas, is astonished at this phenomenon. He understands nothing of this kind of devotion, "this slavery which English husbands have had the wit to impose on their wives under the name of duty." These are "the manners of a seraglio." See also "Corinne," by Mme de Staël.

[488]A perfect woman already: meek and patient.—Heywood.

[489]See, by way of contrast, all Molière's women, so French; even Agnes and little Louison.

[490]Beaumont and Fletcher, Works, ed. G. Colman, 3 vols. 1811, "Philaster", V.

[491]Like Kaled in Byron's "Lara."

[492]"Philaster," IV.

[493]Ibid. V.

[494]Beaumont and Fletcher, "The Fair Maid of the Inn," IV.

[495]Beaumont and Fletcher, "Thierry and Theodoret, The Maid's Tragedy, Philaster." See also the part of Lucina in "Valentinian."

[496]"Thierry and Theodoret," IV, 1.

[497]Beaumont and Fletcher, "The Maid's Tragedy," I.

[498]Pauline says, in Corneille's "Polyeucte" (III. 2): "Avant qu'abandonner mon âme à mes douleurs, Il me faut essayer la force de mes pleurs; En qualité de femme ou de fille, j'espère Qu'ils vaincront un époux, ou fléchiront un père. Que si sur l'un et l'autre ils manquent de pouvoir, Je ne prendrai conseil que de mon désespoir. Apprends-moi cependant ce qu'ils ont fait au temple."

We could not find a more reasonably and reasoning woman. So with Éliante, and Henrietta in Molière.

[499]Ford's "Broken Heart," III. 2.

[500]Ibid. 5.

[501]Ford's "Broken Heart," IV. 2.

[502]Schopenhauer, "Metaphysics of Love and Death." Swift also said that death and love are the two things in which man is fundamentally irrational. In fact, it is the species and the instinct which are displayed in them, not the will and the individual.

[503]"Cymbeline," IV. 2.

[504]The death of Ophelia, the obsequies of Imogen.

[505]"Philaster," I.

[506]Beaumont and Fletcher, "The Faithful Shepherdess," I.

[507]Ibid, II.

[508]See the description in Nathan Drake, "Shakspeare and his Times."

[509]Beaumont and Fletcher, "The Faithful Shepherdess," I.

[510]Ibid. IV.

[511]Ibid.

[512]Beaumont and Fletcher, "The Faithful Shepherdess," V. Compare, as an illustration of the contrast of races, the Italian pastorals, Tasso's "Aminta," Guarini's "Il Pastor fido," etc.