Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

The true narrative was this: In the summer of 1816, the ex-empress Maria Louisa having visited the baths of Leghorn, two marble busts of her son were executed. One of those was purchased by Messrs Beaggini in London, in hopes of an opportunity of sending it to St Helena. A store-ship, the Baring, being about to sail there in January 1817, a foreign gunner on board, named Radavich, was intrusted with the bust, with instructions to give it to Count Bertrand, for Napoleon, leaving it to his generosity “to refund their expenses.” If, however, he wished to know the price, it was to be a hundred louis. The captain of the ship (a half-pay lieutenant) knew nothing of its being on board till shortly before, or immediately after, his arrival at St Helena; at that time Radavich was ill of apoplexy, followed by delirium, so that for several days it was impossible to speak to him on the subject. When Sir Thomas Reade was informed that it was on board, he immediately acquainted the governor with the circumstance. Sir Hudson Lowe, considering the clandestine manner in which it was brought, was at first inclined to retain it until he had communicated with Lord Bathurst. But, Sir T. Reade suggesting that as the bust was not _plaster_, it could not contain letters, advised its being forwarded at once, and the governor assented. Before, however, ordering it on shore, he himself went to Longwood, to ascertain Napoleon’s wish through Bertrand. Major Gorrequer accompanied him, and in his notes gives an account of the interview. The governor mentioned the arrival of the bust to Bertrand, and said that he would take upon himself the responsibility of landing it, if such was the wish of Napoleon. Bertrand’s answer was, “No doubt it will give him pleasure.” The _next_ day the bust was landed, taken to Longwood, and received by Napoleon with evident delight. By some means or other he had known of its arrival, and said to O’Meara on the 10th, “I have known it several days.” He then rushed into one of those explosions of wrath and oratory which were familiar to him. He said, “I intended, if it had not been given, to have made such a complaint as would have caused every Englishman’s hair to stand on end! I should have told a tale which would have made the mothers of England execrate him as a monster in human shape.”

And all this with the bust before his eyes. To heighten the effect, he would persist in pretending to believe that Sir Hudson Lowe had given orders for breaking up the bust, and on this fancy he declaimed anew against him, calling him “barbarous and atrocious.” “That countenance,” said he, turning to the bust, “would melt the heart of the most ferocious _wild beast_! The man who gave orders to break that image would _plunge a knife_ into the heart of the original, if it were in his power.” And all this fury for a fiction!—the palpable contradiction to the charge of cruelty standing on his table.

It is not even clear, after all, that there was _not_ an intrigue connected with this bust: Napoleon exhibited extreme anxiety to see Radavich. This the governor permitted, but on the condition of the officer in attendance being present, and it was declined. Lord Bathurst, in his despatch to St Helena, said, “The suspicious circumstances under which the bust arrived, were sufficient to make you pause before you determined to transmit it to the general. Had the package contained anything less interesting to him in his character as a father, the clandestine manner in which it was introduced on board of the vessel would have been a sufficient reason for withholding the delivery of it, at least for a much longer period.... I am not disposed to participate in his (the French ambassador’s) apprehensions that letters _were conveyed_ in it. No doubt, however, can be entertained that attempts are making at clandestine communications.”

To this we may add that, by some secret means, the French were acquainted with every transaction of Europe, and frequently before the public authorities.

Napoleon ordered £300 to be given to Radavich (who was merely the agent for the London house). O’Meara says, in his _Voice from St Helena_, that, “by some unworthy tricks, this poor man did not recover the money for nearly two years.” This is a proof of the slipshod statements which are to be found in the volume; the fact being, that, in March 1818, the former proprietors of the bust wrote to Bertrand, to complain of the conduct of Radavich, as having come to no settlement with them “for the payment he had received for the bust, and for the other articles intrusted to him; and that he had gone from England without rendering any account to _them_.” They solicited Bertrand to give them some remuneration.

Our limits warn us that we must conclude, leaving a crowd of interesting incidents behind. The work seems perfectly to clear Sir Hudson Lowe’s character, not merely from the charge of severity, but even from the imputation of petulance. No man could be placed in a situation of greater difficulty. He had to deal with a _coterie_ of the most unscrupulous kind; he had also especially to deal with a man irritated by the most signal downfall in European record, subtle beyond all example, unhesitating in evasion, formed of falsehood, and furious at necessary coercion. He had to meet also the clamours of French partisanship throughout Europe, and to bear the calumnies of faction even in England. He had to endure personal insult, and to counteract reckless intrigue. If he had been roused into violence of temper, no man could be more easily pardoned for its excess; but there is not a single _proof_ of this charge, and the whole tenor of his conduct seems to have been patient and equable, though strict and firm. He had one paramount duty to perform—the prevention of Napoleon’s escape, and he did that duty. All minor deficiencies, if they existed, might be merged in the perfect performance of a duty which involved the peace of the world.

The dismissal of O’Meara from his office in the island, followed by his dismissal from the navy, let loose a personal enemy of some ability, much plausibility, and the bitterest anger. His volume, _A Voice from St Helena_, embodied all the charges against Sir Hudson Lowe, and was prosecuted as a libel. But the prosecution having, in the opinion of the judges, been delayed for some months beyond the legal time, it failed, on that ground only. The governor of St Helena drew up a refutation of the volume, which still remains in the archives of Government. Why he did not appeal to the opinion of the country—a duty which no public man can decline without loss to his own character—cannot now be ascertained. He was probably weary of a life of contradiction, and had no desire to continue it in controversy.

But the task, though long delayed, has finally been performed, as it appears to us, with perfect manliness, clearness, and conviction, by its present author. Mr Forsyth’s style is admirably fitted for his subject—fair, forcible, and argumentative. By his work he has done credit to himself, and cleared the character of a brave, an honest, and a high-minded English soldier and gentleman. We know no ampler panegyric on the uses or the successes of authorship.

Sir Hudson Lowe was appointed to the colonelcy of the first vacant regiment (the 93d) on his return—was subsequently in command of the troops in Ceylon—and at length, yielding to the effects of toil and time, died in 1844, in his 75th year.

NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.[16]

A copy of almost any ancient author, with its margins studded with antique manuscript jottings, is a treasure to the scholar who possesses it, and a sore temptation to all his antiquarian friends. What, then, must be the pricelessness of an early folio, thus annotated, of Shakespeare, the Emperor of all the Literatures? Would not a lover of the poet be almost inclined to sell his whole library in order to purchase that single book? And when secured, with what zest would he not set himself to decipher the crabbed hieroglyphics on the margins of the intoxicating windfall! The various readings, recommended by the charm of novelty, and yet apparently as old, and _perhaps_ as genuine as the printed text, would gradually become its rivals. Alterations, occasionally felicitous, would throw an air of respectability over their less insinuating associates. Sole possession would enhance the importance of the discovery. Solitary enjoyment would deepen the relish of the entertainment. The situation is one not at all favourable to the exercise of a sound critical judgment. Imagination goes to work, and colours the facts according to its own wishes; and faith and hope, “hovering o’er,” at length drive away all misgivings as to the authenticity of the emendations. That fine old handwriting, which is as conscientious as it is curious, is itself a guarantee that the corrections are not spurious—are not merely conjectural. The manuscript corrector must have had good grounds for what he did. He may have been Shakespeare’s bosom friend, his boon companion, his chosen confidant, and perhaps the assistant in his labours; or, if not that, at any rate the friend of some one who had known the great dramatist well—was acquainted with his innermost thoughts—and as intimate with his works, and with all that he intended to express, as if he himself had written them. At all events, the corrector must have had access to sources of information respecting the text of the plays, the results of which have perished to all the world—_except me_, the happy holder of this unique and inestimable volume.

Such, we conceive, would be the state of mind and the train of reasoning into which a man would naturally be thrown by the acquisition of such an agitating prize as we have supposed. Under the excitement of his feelings, the authority of the corrector of the work would, in all likelihood, supersede the authority of its composer; the penman would carry the day against the printer; and the possessor of the book would do his best to press the “new readings” into the ears and down the throats of a somewhat uncritical but not altogether passive or unsuspicious public.

The case which we have described is to be understood as a general and ideal one; but something of this kind seems to have befallen Mr Collier, whom accident lately placed in possession of a copy of the folio of Shakespeare, 1632, plentifully garnished with manuscript notes and emendations. In these trying circumstances he has acted very much in the way which might have been anticipated. It is true that he announces his good fortune in a strain of moderated enthusiasm. “In the spring of 1849,” says he, “I happened to be in the shop of the late Mr Rodd, of Great Newport Street, at a time when a package of books arrived from the country.” Among them was a very indifferent copy of the folio of Shakespeare, 1632, which Mr Collier, concluding hastily that it would complete an imperfect copy of the same edition which he had purchased from the same bookseller some time before, bought for thirty shillings. The purchase did not answer its purpose. The two leaves that were wanted to complete the other folio “were unfit for my purpose, not merely by being too short” (how very particular these book-fanciers are), “but otherwise damaged and defaced. Thus disappointed, I threw it by, and did not see it again until I made a selection of books I would take with me on quitting London. On consulting it afterwards,” continues Mr Collier, “it struck me that Thomas Perkins, whose name, with the addition of ‘his Booke,’ was upon the cover, might be the old actor who had performed in Marlowe’s _Jew of Malta_ on its revival shortly before 1633.” That would have been an important fact, as helping to connect the MS. corrections closely with the Shakesperian era. But here Mr Collier was doomed to disappointment. On further inquiry he found that the actor’s name was Richard Perkins: “still,” says he, with a faith too buoyant to be submerged by such a trifle, “Thomas Perkins might have been a descendant of Richard,” from whom, of course, he probably inherited a large portion of the emendations. “This circumstance,” says Mr Collier, “and others, induced me to examine the volume more particularly: I then discovered, to my surprise, that there was hardly a page which did not present, in a handwriting of the time, some emendations in the pointing or in the text, while on most of them they were frequent, and on many numerous. Of course I now submitted the folio to a most careful scrutiny; and as it occupied a considerable time to complete the inspection, how much more must it have consumed to make the alterations? The ink was of various shades, differing sometimes on the same page, and I was once disposed to think that two distinct hands had been employed upon them. This notion I have since abandoned, and I am now decidedly of opinion that the same writing prevails from beginning to end, but that the amendments must have been introduced from time to time during perhaps the course of several years.”

But although Mr Collier speaks thus calmly of his prize, we are nevertheless convinced, by the rapidity of his conversion from the old readings to the new, that he, like the rest of us, is liable to be carried a little off his feet by any sudden stroke of prosperity, and is keenly alive (as most people are) to the superior merits of anything that happens to be his own. It is our nature to admire what we alone have been privileged to possess or to discover. Hence Mr Collier has stepped at one plunge from possession into cordial approbation and unhesitating adoption of most of the corrections set forth on the margins of his folio. Formerly the stanchest defender of the old Shakesperian text, he is now the advocate of changes in it, to an extent which calls for very grave consideration on the part of those who regard the language of the poet as a sacred inheritance, not to be disturbed by innovations, without the strongest evidence, the most conclusive reasons, and the most clamant necessity being adduced in their support.

We are far from blaming Mr Collier for having published his volume of “Notes and Emendations.” Although it might be advantageously reduced in bulk by the omission of many details occupied with the settlement of matters which have been long ago settled, still it is in some respects a valuable contribution to the literature of Shakespeare. We have no faith whatever in the authenticity of the new readings; a few of them, however—a very few—seem to us to be irresistibly established by their own self-evidence; while the whole of them are invested with a certain degree of interest as the interpretations of an indefatigable, though thick-headed—of a blundering, yet early and perhaps almost contemporary, scholiast. As a matter of curiosity, and as indicative of the state of English criticism in the 17th century, the new readings are acceptable; and the thanks of the literary portion of the community are due to Mr Collier for having favoured them with this publication. But here the obligation stops. To insert the new readings into the text, and to publish them as the genuine words of Shakespeare (which we understand Mr Collier has either done or threatens to do), is a proceeding which cannot be too solemnly denounced. This is to poison our language in its very “wells of English undefiled.” It is to obliterate the distinctions which characterise the various eras of our vernacular tongue; for however near to the time of Shakespeare our newly discovered scholiast may have lived, there was doubtless some interval between them—an interval during which our language was undergoing considerable changes. It is to lose hold of old modes of thought, as well as of old forms of expression;—it is to confound the different styles of our literature;—it is to vitiate with anachronisms the chronology of our speech;—it is to profane the memory of Shakespeare.

When we look for evidence in favour of the authenticity of these (so-called) “Emendations,” we look for it in vain. The state of the case may perhaps be understood, by attending to the following particulars. Of Shakespeare’s handwriting, so far as is known, there is not now extant so much as “the scrape of a pen,” with the exception of the autograph of his name. Of his plays, thirteen were published in an authentic form during his life, and four in spurious or “pirated” editions. These are called the quartos. After his death, one of his plays was published, by itself, for the first time—“Othello.” In 1623, seven years after his death, the first folio appeared. It contains the eighteen plays just referred to, with the addition of eighteen, now published for the first time. This folio 1623 was printed (if we are to believe its editors, and there is no reason to doubt their word) _from Shakespeare’s own manuscripts_, and from the quarto editions, revised and corrected to some extent, either by his own hand or under his authority. So that the folio 1623 is the highest authority that can be appealed to in the settlement of his text. It ranks even before the quartos, except in cases of obvious misprint, or other self-evident oversights. To it, in so far as _external_ evidence is concerned, all other proofs must yield. _Internal_ evidence may occasionally solicit the alteration of its text; but such emendations must, in every case, be merely conjectural. It is the basis of every genuine edition, and must continue so, until Shakespeare’s own manuscripts be brought to light.

Out of these circumstances an important consideration arises. It is this, that we are not entitled, on any account, to alter the text of the folio 1623, even in cases where manifest improvements might be made, so long as the old reading makes sense. If any reasonable meaning can be extracted from the received lection, we are bound to retain it, because we have every reason to believe that it is what Shakespeare wrote; and it is our object to possess his words and his meaning, not as we may suppose they _ought_ to have been, but as they actually _were_. Where no sense at all can be obtained from a passage, a slight, perhaps a considerable, alteration is allowable; because any man’s intelligibility is to be preferred to even Shakespeare’s unintelligibility. But we are never to flatter ourselves, with any strong degree of assurance, that the correction has restored to us the exact language of the poet.

This consideration had, in former years, its due weight with Mr Collier. No one was a keener advocate than he for preserving the original text inviolate. He now views the matter in a different light. He is tolerant of new readings, even in cases where sense can be elicited from the received text. Further, he frequently gives the preference to new readings, as we hope to show, even in cases where the old reading is far the more forcible and intelligible of the two. And on what ground does he countenance them? Setting aside at present the question of their internal evidence, we reply, that he countenances them on the ground that the folio 1623 is of doubtful authenticity. He denies that it was prepared from Shakespeare’s own papers. This is the foundation of his case. He maintains that the copy which the printer used had been (probably) dictated by some underling of the theatre, to some scribe whose ear (probably) often deceived him in taking up the right word, and who consequently put down a wrong one, which was subsequently set up in type by the printer. He is further of opinion that a text of Shakespeare, purer than any that ever got into print, was preserved _orally_ in the theatre, and that the corrector of his folio, who was decidedly of a theatrical turn, and perhaps himself a manager, picked up his new readings from the mouths of the players themselves. But he has entirely failed to prove these improbable assertions. His theory in regard to the printing of the folio 1623 is contradicted by the distinct announcement of its editors, who say of their great master that “his mind and hand went together, and what he thought he uttered with that easiness that we have scarce received _from him_ a blot _in his papers_.” This declaration, that the materials from which they worked were derived directly from Shakespeare himself, seems to establish conclusively the authenticity of the folio 1623; and that point being made good, all external evidence in favour of the new readings must of necessity fail.

But perhaps these new readings are supported by their internal evidence—perhaps they bring along with them such an amount of force and propriety as carries conviction on the very face of it, and entitles them to a decided preference in comparison with the old? Mr Collier would fain think so. On their evident superiority, both in sense and in style, he rests the main strength of his case. Speaking of his volume, he says, “I ought not to hesitate in avowing my conviction, that _we are bound_ to admit _by far the greater body_ of the substitutions it contains, as _the restored language_ of Shakespeare. As he was especially the poet of common life, so he was emphatically the poet of common sense; and to _the verdict of common sense_ I am willing to submit all the more material alterations recommended on the authority before me. If they will not bear that test, I for one am willing _to relinquish_ them.”

Our principal object in the following pages is to show that “by far the greater body of the substitutions” will not stand this test; and that many of them present such a perverse depravation of the true text, that if the design of the corrector had been to damage the literary character of Shakespeare, he could not have accomplished his purpose more effectually than by representing these new readings as his. At the same time, we shall endeavour to bring forward everything in Mr Collier’s volume which tells in the manuscript-corrector’s favour. This will probably cause the corrector’s notes and emendations to be more highly thought of than they deserve; because, while it will be no difficult matter to lay before the reader _all_, or nearly all, his judicious amendments, our space will not permit us to present to him one-twentieth part of his astounding aberrations. Selecting, then, as many of the more important alterations as our limits will allow, and weighing what their internal evidence is worth, we shall go over the plays _seriatim_, commencing with “The Tempest.”

THE TEMPEST.—The new readings in this play are generally unimportant, and, in our judgment, not one of them ought to be admitted into the text. In no case would anything be gained, and in some cases a good deal would be lost, by adopting the proposed changes. In the following passage the original text is certainly unsatisfactory, but the new reading is at least equally so. Antonio, the usurping Duke of Milan, has become so habituated to the possession of his unlawful power, and has been so little checked in the exercise of it, that he at length believes himself to be the real duke. This idea is thus expressed. Prospero, the rightful duke, says of him—

“He being thus _lorded_,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact,—like
one
Who having, _unto truth_, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory
To credit his own lie,—he did believe
He was indeed the duke.”

For “lorded,” Mr Collier’s emendator would read “loaded”—a correction which Mr Collier himself admits to be “questionable,” and which we throw overboard at once. For “unto truth” he proposes “to untruth”—

“like one
Who having, _to untruth_, by telling of it,” &c.

But here, if one flaw is mended, another and a worse one is made. By reading “to untruth” we obtain, indeed, a proper antecedent to “it,” which otherwise must be looked for, awkwardly enough, in the subsequent word “lie.” But as a set-off against this improvement, we would ask, how can a man be said to make his memory a sinner _to untruth_? This would mean, if it meant anything, that the man’s memory was true; and this is precisely what Prospero says Antonio’s memory was not. We must leave, therefore, the text as it stands, regarding it as one of those passages in which Shakespeare has expressed himself with less than his usual care and felicity.

The substitution of “all” for “are” in the lines,

“They all have met again,
And _are_ upon the Mediterranean float”—

Or, as the MS. corrector reads it,

“They _all_ upon the Mediterranean float”—

strikes us as peculiarly un-Shakesperian. But this instance of the corrector’s injudicious meddling is a small matter. The following passage deserves more careful consideration, for we are convinced that the text of the first and second folios, which has been universally rejected since the days of Theobald, is, after all, the right reading. _Act III. Scene 1_ opens with the soliloquy of Ferdinand, who declares that the irksome tasks to which he has been set by Prospero are sweetly alleviated by the consciousness that he has secured the interest and sympathy of Miranda. He says—

“There be some sports are painful; but their labour
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone: and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious; but
The mistress, which I serve, quickens what’s dead,
And makes my labours pleasures. Oh, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,
And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up
Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,
_Most busy-less, when I do it_.”

The last line, as it here stands, is Theobald’s reading; and it has been adopted almost unanimously by subsequent editors—by the compilers of the _variorum_ Shakespeare—by Mr Knight—and most recently by Mr Halliwell, in his magnificent folio. Mr Singer, in his edition of 1826, and Mr Collier’s emendator, are, so far as we can learn, the only dissentients. The former proposes, “most busiest when I do it;” and the latter, “most busy,—blest when I do it;” which reading we agree with Mr Singer in thinking “the very worst and most improbable of all that have been suggested;”—will he excuse us for adding—except perhaps, his own? Theobald’s text is certainly greatly to be preferred to either of these alterations. Had the MS. corrector’s emendation been a compound epithet, “busy-blest” (that is, blest with my business, because it is associated with thoughts of Miranda), something, though perhaps not much, might possibly have been said in its behalf. But Mr Collier regards the correction as consisting of two distinct words; and, therefore, he must excuse us for saying that it is one in which sense and grammar are equally set at defiance. We now take up the original reading, which has been universally discarded, but which, as we hope clearly to show, calls for no alteration; and an attention to which, at an earlier stage in the revision of Shakespeare’s text, might have prevented a large expenditure of very unnecessary criticism. The original text of the line under consideration is this—

“Most busy, least when I do it.”

This is the reading of the second folio. The first folio has “lest;” but, of course, _least_ and _lest_ are the same word in the arbitrary spelling of that early period. We maintain that this lection makes as excellent and undeniable sense as could be desired.

“Most busy, least when I do it;”

—that is, “when I do it (or work) _least_, then am I _most_ busy, _most_ oppressed by toil.” More fully stated, the obvious meaning is “this labour of mine is so preciously sweetened, so agreeably refreshed by thoughts of Miranda’s kindness, that I really feel _most_ busy, most burthened, most fatigued, when I am _least_ occupied with my task; because, then I am not so sensible of being the object of her sympathy and approval.” Shakespeare intends that Ferdinand should express the ardour of his attachment to Miranda in a strong hyperbole; accordingly, he makes him say, “I am most busy, when I am least busy;” because the spirit of Miranda does not cheer and inspire my idleness, in the way in which it cheers and inspires my labour. Theobald’s line expresses, although in an imperfect manner, this same hyperbole conversely. “I am least busy, when I am most busy; because, when I am working hardest, the spirit of Miranda is present to refresh and alleviate my toils.” But Shakespeare’s mode of expressing the exaggeration is both stronger and finer than Theobald’s, which in point of language is exceedingly lame and defective. Our only doubt, in restoring the old reading, is in regard to the word “it.” Perhaps it would be as well away, and we might read more perspicuously

“_Most_ busy,—_least_ when I do.”

The measure being already redundant, the word could be spared. But its absence or presence makes little or no difference, and, with it, or without it, we hope to see this restoration of the original text, which, of course, requires no authority except its own to establish it, embodied in all future editions of our great national dramatist.

The only new reading in this play which we have some hesitation in condemning, is the following. The witch Sycorax is spoken of (_Act V. Scene 1._) as one

“That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,
And deal in her command _without_ her power.”

This is the ordinary text. The MS. corrector proposes “_with all_ power;” and, at first sight, this correction looks like an improvement; for how could the witch deal in the moon’s command, if she had not got the moon’s power? On second thoughts, however, we believe that Mr Knight, who defends the common reading, is right. By “power,” we are here to understand _legitimate_ authority; and of this Sycorax has none. By means of her spells and counternatural incantations she could make ebbs and flows, and thus wielded to some extent the lunar influences; but she had none of that rightful and natural dominion over the tides of the ocean which belongs only to the moon. Our verdict, therefore, is in favour of the old reading. We pass from “The Tempest” with the remark that the other new readings proposed by Mr Collier’s emendator have here and elsewhere been conclusively set aside, in our estimation, by the observations of Mr Knight and Mr Singer; and we again protest against any adulteration of the text of this play by the introduction even of a single word which the MS. corrector has suggested.

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.—Nothing connected with Shakespeare is small, and therefore we make no apology for calling the reader’s attention to what some people might consider a very small matter—the difference between _for_ and _but_ in the following lines. _Act I. Scene 1._—Valentine and Proteus, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” are saying good-bye to each other, the former being on the eve of setting out on his travels. Valentine, the traveller, says to his friend—

—“on some love-book pray for my success.

_Proteus._ Upon some book I love, I’ll pray for thee.

_Valentine._ That’s on some shallow story of deep love,
How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont.

_Proteus._ That’s a deep story of a deeper love,
For he was more than over shoes in love.

_Valentine._ ’Tis true; _for_ you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swam the Hellespont.”

In place of “for” in the last line but one, the corrector proposes “but,” and Mr Collier approves, remarking that _but_ “seems more consistent with the course of the dialogue.” If, however, we attend to the sequence of thought in this passage, it will be apparent that the change not only fails to render the dialogue more consistent, but that it altogether destroys its consistency, converting very good sense into downright nonsense; smartness into drivel. When Proteus says that Leander who crossed the Hellespont was more than over shoes in love, Valentine catches him up, “’tis true: no doubt of it: he must have been more than over shoes in love; _for_ you, who never swam the Hellespont at all, are actually over boots in love.” The reasoning here seems very plain. If Proteus, without swimming the Hellespont, was over _boots_ in love, surely the very least that could be said of Leander, who did swim it, must be that he was more than over _shoes_ in love. “Your remark, friend Proteus, though very true, is not very recondite. It is decidedly common-place, and such as I should scarcely have expected to hear from a person of your wit and penetration. Pray favour us with something a little more original and profound.” All this banter, and we venture to think it rather happy, is implied in Valentine’s words—

“’Tis true; _For_ you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swam the Hellespont.”

But change this “for” into “but,” and the whole point of the dialogue is gone. Let this new reading be adopted, and future commentators will be justified in declaring that Shakespeare’s words were sometimes without meaning. This single and apparently insignificant instance in which the corrector has palpably misconceived his author, compels us to distrust his capacity, and ought to go far to shake the general credit of his emendations.

To alter “blasting in the bud,” into “blasted in the bud,” is merely an instance of excessive bad taste on the part of the MS. corrector. We see nothing worthy of approval or animadversion until we come to two lines which are quoted from _Act III. Scene 2_—

“But say, this _weed_ her love from Valentine,
It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio”—

where it may be a question whether “wean” (the corrector’s suggestion), might not be judiciously substituted for “weed.” If rapid extirpation was intended to be expressed, “weed” is the word; otherwise we are disposed to prefer “wean,” as better fitted to denote the contemplated alienation of Julia’s affections from Proteus.

In _Act IV. Scene 2_, a whole new line is introduced; and as there is no evidence to prove that the corrector did not write this line himself, we must protest against its insertion in the genuine writings of Shakespeare. The interpolation is in italics. Eglamour says to the distressed Silvia, who is requesting him to be her escort—

“Madam, I pity much your grievances,
_And the most true affections that you bear_,
Which since I know they virtuously are placed,
I give consent to go along with you.”

Johnson explains _grievances_ as sorrows, _sorrowful affections_—an explanation which renders the interpolated line quite unnecessary. Shakespeare understood the art of _ne quid nimis_, and frequently leaves something to be supplied by the imagination of his reader or hearer. Besides, it would have been indelicate in Eglamour to have alluded more particularly to the “loves” of Silvia and Valentine.

If the MS. corrector had ever seen _Scene IV._ effectively acted, he must have perceived how completely one good point would have been destroyed by his unwise insertion of the word “cur.” Launce, servant to Proteus, has been sent by his master with a little dog as a present to Silvia. Launce has lost the lap-dog, and has endeavoured to make compensation by offering to Silvia his own hulking mongrel in its place. These particulars are thus recounted:—

“_Launce._—Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.

_Proteus._—And what says she to my little jewel?

_Launce._—Marry, she says your dog was a cur; and tells you currish
thanks is good enough for such a present.

_Proteus._—But she received my present?

_Launce._—No, indeed, she did not. Here I have brought him back again.

_Proteus._—What! didst thou offer her _this_ from me?

_Launce._—Ay, sir, the other squirrel was stolen from me by the
hangman’s boys in the market-place; and then I offered her mine own,
who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the
greater.”

The question is, whether the word “this” is better by itself, or whether it should be coupled with the word “cur,” as the MS. emendator proposes. Our notion is, that the single pronoun is greatly the more expressive. “Did you offer her _this_” (of course pointing to the brute with an expression of indignation and abhorrence, which disdained to call him anything but _this_) “THIS!!! from me? The lady must think me mad.” In regard to the other corrections, we perceive no such force or propriety in any of them as might incline us to disturb, for their sake, the received text of “The Two Gentlemen of Verona.”

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.—In _Act II. Scene 1_, the commentators have all been gravelled by the word “an-heires,” as it stands in all the early editions in the following passage—

“_Host._—My hand, bully, thou shalt have egress and regress; said I
well, and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight—will you go,
_anheires_?”

In place of this unintelligible word, various substitutes have been proposed. The MS. corrector would read “Will you go _on here_?” This is very poor, and sounds to our ears very unlike the host’s ordinary slang; and we have no hesitation in agreeing with Mr Dyce,[17] who gives the preference over all the other readings to that of Sir John Hanmer, the editor of the Oxford edition: “Will you go on, _mynheers_?”—will you go on, my masters? The word is proved to have been used in England in the time of Shakespeare.

In _Act II. Scene 3_, this same host, who deals somewhat largely in the unknown tongue, again says—

“I will bring thee where Mistress Page is, at a farm-house feasting,
and thou shalt woo her. _Cried game_, said I well?”

This obsolete slang has puzzled the commentators sorely. Mr Dyce suggests “cried I aim,” which means, it appears, “Did I give you encouragement?”—(_vide_ Singer, p. 7.) We confess ourselves incompetent to form an opinion, except to this extent, that Mr Collier’s corrector, who proposes “curds and cream,” seems to us to have made the worst shot of any that have been fired.[18]

In _Act IV. Scene I_, we rather think that the MS. corrector is right in changing “let” into “get,” in the following passage: “How now,” says Mrs Page to Sir Hugh Evans the schoolmaster; “How now, Sir Hugh?—no school to-day?” “No,” answers Sir Hugh; “Master Slender is _let_ (read _get_) the boys leave to play.” In Sir Hugh’s somewhat Celtic dialect, he _is get_ the boys a holiday.

In the following passage, _Act IV. Scene 5_, the received text is this—

“_Simple._—I would I could have spoken with the woman herself. I had
other things to have spoke with her, too, from him.

_Falstaff._—What are they?—let us know.

_Host._—Ay, come; quick.

_Simple._—I may not _conceal_ them, sir.

_Falstaff._—_Conceal_ them, or thou diest.”

Good Dr Farmer thought that, in both instances, we should read “reveal”—not perceiving that the humour of the dialogue (such as it is) consists in _reading_ “conceal,” and in _understanding_ “reveal.” But the MS. emendator, with an innocence beyond even Dr Farmer’s, would alter the passage thus—

“_Falstaff._—What are they?—let us know.

_Host._—Ay, come quick.

_Falstaff._—_You_ may not conceal them, sir.

_Host._—Conceal them, _and_ thou diest.”

And Mr Collier approves of this variation, as “making the dialogue run quite consistently.”

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.—In the Duke’s speech, at the opening of the play, a formidable difficulty presents itself. Addressing Escalus, of whose statesmanlike qualities he has the highest opinion, the Duke says, as all the editions give it—

“Of government the properties to unfold,
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,
Since I am put to know that your own science
Exceeds in that the lists of all advice
My strength can give you. Then no more remains
But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,
And let them work.”

The two last lines of this passage have been a grievous stumbling-block to the commentators. The _variorum_ men, with Johnson at their head, have made nothing of it. Mr Singer reads—

“Then no more remains
But _there to_ your sufficiency as your worth is able,
And let them work;”

which seems quite as dark and perplexing as the original text. Mr Collier’s man, cutting the knot with desperate hook, which slashes away a good many words, gives us—

“Then no more remains,
But _add_ to your sufficiency your worth,
And let them work.”

These words are sufficiently intelligible; but this is not to rectify Shakespeare’s text—it is to re-write it; and this no man can be permitted to do. As a private speculation of our own, we venture to propose the following, altering merely one word of the authentic version—

“Then no more remains,
But that (to your sufficiency as your worth is able)
_You_ let them work.”

The Duke has remarked that he is not competent to give Escalus any advice on matters of public policy, as he is much better versed in such affairs than himself. He then goes on to say, “No more remains, but that (seeing your worth is able—that is, is equal—to your sufficiency or acquired knowledge) you should let the two, your worth, and your sufficiency, work together for the good of your country.” Or it might be allowable to introduce “equal” into the text, thereby making the sense still plainer—

“Then no more remains
But that (to your sufficiency as your worth is _equal_)
You let them work.”

But if any auxiliar authority could be found for the use of the word “able” as here employed (a point about which we are doubtful, though not desperate), we should prefer to retain it in the text. By making the words _to_ and _as_ change places, we obtain a still more perspicuous reading—

“Then no more remains,
But that (_as_ your sufficiency _to_ your worth is equal)
_You_ let them work.”

Mr Collier remarks (p. 42), “Near the end of Mrs Overdone’s speech, ‘is’ is required before the words ‘to be chopped off.’ It is deficient in _all_ printed copies, and is inserted in manuscript in the corrected folio 1632.” We can inform Mr Collier that the word “is” stands, in this place, in the _variorum_ edition of 1785.

_Act I. Scene 4._—The Duke, who has abdicated for a time in favour of Angelo, says, in allusion to the abuses which Angelo is expected to correct—

“I have on Angelo imposed my office,
Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,
And yet, my nature never in the sight,
To _do it_ slander.”

The corrector of Mr Collier’s folio suggests to _draw on_ slander; and as a gloss or explanation of an antiquated or awkward expression, this variation may be accepted; but it certainly has no title to be admitted into the text as the authentic language of Shakespeare. The change of “story” into “scorn” (_Scene 5_), is perhaps admissible. Alluding to a false species of repentance, the friar, in _Act II. Scene 3_, says that such insufficient

“Sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven,
Showing we would not _spare_ heaven, as we love it,
But as we stand in fear.”

On the margin of Mr Collier’s folio, “serve” is written, and “spare” is scored out. We greatly prefer the old reading, in spite of Mr Collier’s assertion that it is corrupt, and “seems little better than nonsense.” To _spare_ heaven is not nonsense; it means to refrain from sin. To _serve_ heaven means something more; it means to practise holiness. The difference is but slight, but it is quite sufficient to establish the language of Shakespeare as greatly superior to that of his anonymous corrector, because the point here in question is much rather abstinence from vice than the positive practice of virtue.

In _Act II. Scene 4_, the following somewhat obscure expression occurs: “in the loss of question”—what does it mean? “It means,” says Mr Singer (p. 11), “in the looseness of conversation.” That is a most satisfactory explanation. Yet if Mr Collier and his emendator had their own way, we should be deprived of this genuine Shakesperian phrase, and be put off with the unmeaning words “in the _force_ of question.”

In _Act III. Scene 1_, the alteration of “blessed” into “boasted,” in the speech in which the Duke so finely moralises on the vanity of human life, cannot be too decidedly condemned—

“Thou” (oh Life) “hast nor youth nor age,
But as it were an after-dinner’s sleep,
Dreaming on both, for all thy _blessed_ youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld.”

Some people may not be able to understand how the period of youth can, in one and the same breath, be called _blessed_, and yet miserable as old age. They look on that as a contradiction. Such people ought never to read poetry. At any rate, they ought first to learn that the poet is privileged, nay, is often bound to declare as actual that which is only potential or ideal. Thus, he may say that _blessed_ youth is a _miserable_ season of existence, meaning thereby that misery overspreads even that time of life which _ought to be_, and which _ideally_ is, the happiest in the pilgrimage of man. The manuscript corrector has but an obtuse perception of these niceties, and hence he substitutes _boasted_ for _blessed_—converting Shakespeare’s language into mere verbiage.

COMEDY OF ERRORS—_Act I. Scene_ 1.—The alteration of the word “nature” into “fortune” in the following lines, is an undoubted departure from the genuine language of Shakespeare, and a perversion of his sense. Ægeon, whose life has been forfeited by his accidental arrival at Ephesus, says—

“Yet that the world may witness that my end
Was wrought by _nature_, not by vile offence,
I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.”

Mr Collier, slightly doubtful of the propriety of the new reading (_fortune_), says, “Possibly by ‘nature’ we might understand the natural course of events.” We say, _certainly_ this is what we _must_ understand by the word. I die by nature, says Ægeon, not by vile offence; or, as Warburton interprets it, “My death is according to the ordinary course of Providence, and not the effects of Divine vengeance overtaking my crimes.” But the word “fortune,” had Ægeon used it, would rather have implied that he regarded himself as an object of Divine displeasure; and therefore this word must not only not be adopted, but it must be specially avoided, if we would preserve the meaning of Shakespeare. In this case, the internal evidence is certainly in favour of the ordinary reading.

In a subsequent part of the same scene, the Duke, who is mercifully inclined towards Ægeon, advises him

“To seek thy _help_ by beneficial help.”

That is, he recommends him to borrow such a sum of money as may be sufficient to ransom his life. The MS. corrector reads not very intelligibly—

“To seek thy _hope_ by beneficial help.”

And Mr Collier, explaining the _obscurum per obscurius_, remarks that “Ægeon was to seek what he hoped to obtain (viz. money to purchase his life) by the ‘beneficial help’ of some persons in Ephesus.” The “beneficial help” was itself the money by which he was to “seek his help,” or save his life. “Beneficial help” means “pecuniary assistance,” and therefore we are at a loss to understand Mr Collier when he says that Ægeon was to seek money by the “beneficial help” or pecuniary assistance of certain persons in Ephesus. All that he required to do was to obtain this pecuniary assistance; obtaining that, he of course would obtain the money by which his life was to be redeemed. The received text of the line ought on no account to be disturbed. The repetition of the word “help” is peculiarly Shakesperian.

_Act II. Scene 1._—A very little consideration may convince any one that the following correction is untenable. The ordinary text is this: Dromio the slave having been well drubbed by his master, says—

“He told his mind upon mine ear; Beshrew his hand, I scarce could
understand it.

“_Luciana._—Spake he so _doubtfully_, thou couldst not feel his
meaning?

_Dromio._—Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his blows;
and withal so _doubtfully_ that I could scarce understand them.”

The manuscript corrector proposes “doubly” for “doubtfully,” in both instances; losing sight, as we think, of the plain meaning of words. To speak doubly is to speak deceitfully; to speak doubtfully is to speak obscurely or unintelligibly. But certainly Luciana had no intention of asking Dromio if his master had spoken to him deceitfully. Such a question would have been irrelevant and senseless. She asks, spake he so _obscurely_ that you could not understand his words?—and the slave answers, “By my troth, so obscurely that I could scarce understand (that is, stand under) them.” This is the only quibble.

In _Act II. Scene 2_, the expression “she _moves_ me for her theme,” that is, “she makes me the subject of her discourse,” occurs. This is changed by the MS. corrector into “she _means_ me for her theme;” that is, “she _means_ to make me the subject of her discourse.” But the “she” who is here referred to is actually, at that very moment, talking most vehemently about the person who utters these words; and therefore this emendation is certainly no restoration, but a corruption of the genuine language of Shakespeare.

_Act IV. Scene 2._—The bum-bailiff is thus maltreated. The words in italics are the MS. corrector’s wanton and damaging interpolations.

“_Adriana._—Where is thy master, Dromio, is he well?

_Dromio._—No: he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell;
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him, _fell_;
One whose hard heart is buttoned up with steel,
_Who has no touch of mercy, cannot feel_;
A fiend, a _fury_, pitiless, and rough;
A wolf, nay worse, a fellow all in buff.”

Here the only doubt is, whether the word “fury” (the MS., and also Theobald’s reading) is a judicious substitute for the word “fairy,” which the old copies present. We think that it is not, being satisfied with Johnson’s note, who observes—“There were fairies like hobgoblins, pitiless and rough, and described as malevolent and mischievous.”—Nowadays a fairy is an elegant creature dressed in green. So she was in Shakespeare’s time. But in Shakespeare’s time there was also another kind of fairy—a fellow clothed in a buff jerkin, made of such durable materials as to be well-nigh “everlasting;” and whose vocation it was, as it still is, to pay his addresses to those who may have imprudently allowed their debts to get into confusion. Let us not allow the old usages of language to drop into oblivion.

_Act IV. Scene 3._—“The vigor of his rage,” is obviously a much more vigorous expression than “the rigor of his rage,” which the MS. corrector proposes in its place.

_Act V. Scene 1._—“The following lines,” says Mr Collier, “as they are printed in the folio 1623, have been the source of considerable _cavil_,” meaning, we presume, _dispute_. The words are uttered by the Abbess, who has been parted from her sons for a great many years, and has but recently discovered them.

“Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burden are delivered.”

“That the above is corrupt,” continues Mr Collier, “there can be no question; and in the folio 1632, the printer attempted thus to amend the passage:—

‘Thirty-three years have I _been_ gone in travail
Of you my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burthens are delivered.’

“Malone gives it thus:—

‘Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail
Of you my sons; until this present hour
My heavy burthen _not_ delivered.’

“The MS. corrector,” continues Mr Collier, “of the folio 1632 makes the slightest possible change in the second line, and at once removes the difficulty: he puts it—

‘Thirty-three years have I been gone in travail
Of you my sons, and _at_ this present hour
My heavy burthens are delivered.’”

In his edition 1826, Mr Singer reads—

“Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burthen _ne’er_ delivered.”

We are of opinion that a better reading than any here given, and than any ever given, might be proposed. Thus—

“Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burthen _has_ delivered.”