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are a counsellor: you can command these ele- With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel, ments to silence, and work the peace of the present, Who had no doubt some noble creature in her, we will not hand a rope more; use your authority : Dash'd all to pieces. O! the cry did knock if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perishd and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mis- Had I been any god of power, I would chance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er hearts !-Out of our way, I say.

(Erit. It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and Gon. I have great comfort from this fellow : The fraughting souls within her. methinks, he hath no drowning mark upon him; Pro.

Be collected : his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart, fate, to his hanging! make the rope of his destiny There's no harm done. our cable, for our own doth little advantage! If he Mira.

O, woe the day! be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable.


No harm. [Exeunt. I have done nothing but in care of thee, Re-enter Boatswain.

(Of thee, my dear one! thee, my daughter !) who

Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Boats. Down with the top-mast: yare; lower, Of whence I am; nor that I am more better lower. Bring her to try with main-course.-[A Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, cry within.]-A plague upon this howling! they are And thy no greater father. louder than the weather, or our office.


More to know
Re-enter SEBASTIAN, Antonio, and Gonzalo.

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

'Tis time Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er, I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand, and drown? Have you a mind to sink ?

And pluck my magic garment from me.-So: Seb. A pox o’your throat, you bawling, blasphe

(Lays down his mantle. mous, incharitable dog !

Lie there my art.-Wipe thou thine eyes; have Boats. Work you, then.

comfort. Ant. Hang, cur, hang! you whoreson, insolent

The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd noise-maker, we are less afraid to be drowned than

The very virtue of compassion in thee, thou art.

I have with such provision in mine art Gon. I'll warrant him for drowning; though the So safely order'd, that there is no soulship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky No, not so much perdition as an hair, as an unstanched wench.

Betid to any creature in the vessel Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. courses : off to sea again; lay her off.

Sit down;

For thou must now know further.
Enter Mariners, wet.


You have often Mar. All lost! to prayers, to prayers ! all lost! Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd,

Ereunt. And left me to a bootless inquisition, Boats. What! must our mouths be cold?

Concluding, “Stay, not yet.” Gon. The king and prince at prayers! let us


The hour's now come, assist them,

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; For our case is as theirs.

Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember Seb. I am out of patience.

A time before we came unto this cell ? Ant. We are merely cheated of our lives by I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not drunkards.

Out three years old. This wide-chapp'd rascal,—would, thou might'st lie Mira.

Certainly, sir, I can. drowning,

Pro. By what? by any other house, or person? The washing of ten tides !

Of any thing the image tell me, that Gon.

He'll be hanged yet. Hath kept with thy remembrance. Though every drop of water swear against it,


'Tis far off'; And gape at wid'st to glut him.

And rather like a dream, than an assurance (A confused noise within.]-Mercy on us!—We That my remembrance warrants. Had I not split, we split !-Farewell, my wife and children!- Four or five women once, that tended me? Farewell, brother !-We split, we split, we split !- Pro. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how Ant. Let's all sink with the king. (Exit.

is it, Seb. Let's take leave of him.


. That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of In the dark backward and abysm of time? sea for an acre of barren ground; long heath, brown If thou remember'st aught, ere thou cam'st here, furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I How thou cam'st here, thou may'st. would fain die a dry death.

[Erit. Mira.

But that I do pot.

Pro. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year SCENE II.—The Island: before the Cell of

since, PROSPERO.

Thy father was the duke of Milan, and

A prince of power.

Mira. Sir, are not you my father ?
Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you have Pro. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. She said—thou wast my daughter; and thy father
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, Was duke of Milan, and his only heir
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, And princess no worse issued.
Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffer'd


O, the heavens!

Please you,



What foul play had we, that we came from thence ?
Or blessed was't, we did ?

Both, both, my girl :
By faul play, as thou say'st, were we heav'd thence;
But blessedly holp hither.

0! my heart bleeds To think o'the teen that I have turn'd you to, Which is from my remembrauce.

further. Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, callid Antonio,I pray thee, mark me, that a brother should Be so perfidious !-he whom, next thyself, Of all the world I lov'd, and to him put The manage of my state; as, at that time, Through all the signiories it was the first, (And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity,) and, for the liberal arts, Without a parallel: those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother, And to my state grew stranger, being transported, And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle--Dost thou attend me? Mira.

Sir, most heedfully. Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, whom t'advance, and whom To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang'd

Dr else new form'd them: having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state
To what tune pleas'd his ear; that now he was
The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck'd my verdure out on't.—Thou attend'st

Mira. O good sir! I do.

I pray thee, mark me.
I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness, and the bettering of my mind
With that, which but by being so retir'd
O'er-priz'd all popular rate, in my false brother
Awak'd an evil nature: and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood, in its contrary as great
As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact,-like one,
Who having, unto truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie,--he did believe
He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution,
And executing th’ outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative :-hence his ambition
Growing, -Dost thou hear?

Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Pro. To have no screen between this part he

And him he play'd it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man!—my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable; confederates
(So dry he was for sway) with the king of Naples,
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow'd, (alas, poor Milan!)
To most ignoble stooping.

O the heavens!
Pro. Mark his condition, and th' event; then

To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Now the condition.
This king of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, harkens my brother's suit;
Which was, that he in lieu o' the premises, –
Of homage, and I know not how much tribute,-
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,
With all the honours, on my brother: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight,
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me, and thy crying self.

Alack, for pity!
I, not rememb’ring how I cried out then,
Will cry it o'er again : it is a hint,
That wrings mine eyes to't.

Hear a little further, And then I'll bring thee to the present business Which now's upon us; without the which this

Were most impertinent.

Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?

Well demanded, wench:
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst

So dear the love my people bore me, nor set
A mark so bloody on the business; but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepar'd
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong:

Alack! what trouble
Was I then to you!

0! a cherubin
Thou wast, that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,
Infused with a fortitude from heaven,
When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt,
Under my burden groan'd; which rais'd in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.

How came we ashore ?
Pro. By Providence divine,
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity, (who being then appointed
Master of this design,) did give us; with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much: so, of his gentle-

Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me,
From my own library, with volumes that
I prize above


dukedom. Mira.

Would I might
But ever see that man!

Now I arise,
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arriv'd; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princes can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.
Mira. Heavens thank you for't! And now, I
pray you, sir,

tell me,


If this might be a brother.

I should sin



HE late Dr. Arnold, a most original and sagacious inquirer into every subject

connected with man's duties and history, having occasion, in one of his
historical lectures, to enforce his general critical doctrine that the perusal
of any considerable work of an author, in each particular walk of his talent,
is quite sufficient to inform the reader of the strength and character of his
genius, and the pervading tone and taste of his mind; has illustrated his
argument by an example, which, as it singularly happens, is one of
the very few to which his rule will not apply. “Though (says he) wo
should not value Shakespeare sufficiently without being acquainted with
all his great plays, yet even in his case a knowledge of any one of his best

tragedies, and any one of his best comedies, would give us a notion faithful in kind, although requiring to be augmented in degree.”—(Introductory Lecture on Modern History.)

True as this rule may be, as regards the mass of authors of every age, and even most of those of the very highest rank, it is surely erroneous in reference to Shakespeare, even in the guarded and qualified form in which it is applied to him; and this exception of the great English Poet from so general a law of mind, which has governed the loftiest and most powerful minds, is among the most striking and unequivocal evidences of his superiority. Neither Macbeth nor Hamlet, alone, could give any competent idea of the character of mind and cast of thought, or of the habitual views of life, of the author of Othello; while Lear, with all its wonderful combination of intellect and passion, would as little lead us to imagine that the same author had written such a tragedy as Romeo AND JULIET. This play of the TEMPEST, especially, is one of those works for which no other production of the anthor's prolific fancy could have prepared his readers. It is wholly of a different cast of temper, and mood of disposition, from those so conspicuous in his gayer comedies ; while even the ethical dignity and poetic splendour of the Merchant of VENICE, could not well lead the critic to anticipate the solemn grandeur, the unrivalled harmony and grace, the bold originality, and the grave beauty of the Tempest.

The MIDSUMMER-Night's Dream, as different from its author's other gayer and more purely poetical works, as the Tempest is from his graver delineations of deeper thought and stronger passion, is that among his dramas which, from its fairy machinery and the predominance of the imaginative over the real, most naturally presents itself as the counterpart of the TEMPEST. Yet it is as essentially different as if it had been the work of some other contemporary poet; being, indeed, rather a contrast than a resembling counterpart. More abounding in single passages of matchless and varied sweetness or brilliancy, it is less perfect as a whole, and differs still more com it in its pervading tone of feeling, and the impression it leaves on the mind. The one is joyous in emper, laxuriant in fancy, and dazzling throughout from its sudden and brilliant contrasts. The other is also filled with high and true poetry, but it is poetry pervaded and controlled by a contemplative philosophy; and it is the calm, solemn light of that philosophy that harmonizes, and mellows down, the richest fancies and boldest inventions into one grave and even severe tone of colour. The two dramas are to each other as the full and strong burst of life, and the balmy fragrance of spring, with its joyous and exhilarating influence, and bright confusion of beauties, compared with the autumnal magnificence of our Indian summer, with its calmness and repose, its yellow radiance," and all its pensive yet soothing associations and influences. There are several respects in which the Tempest thus stands alone, as distinguishable in character from any other of its author's varied creations. Without being his work of greatest power, not equalling several of the other dramas in depth of passion, or in the exhibition of the working of the affections ; surpassed by others in brilliancy of poetic fancy or exquisite delicacies of expression, it is nevertheless among the most perfect (perhaps in fact the most perfect) of all, as a work of art, of the most unbroken unity of effect and sustained majesty of intellect. It is too—if we can speak of degrees of originality in the productions of this most creative of all poets—the most purely original of his conceptions, deriving nothing of any consequence from any other source for the plot, and without any prototype in literature of the more important personages, or any model for the thoughts and language, beyond the materials presented by actual and living human nature, to be raised and idealized into the wild and wondrous" forms of Ariel and Caliban, of the majestic Prospero, and, above all, of his peerless daughter. Miranda is a character blending the truth of nature with tho most exquisite refinement of poetic fancy, unrivalled, even in Shakespeare's own long and beautiful series of portraitures of feminino excellence, and paralleled only by the Eve of Milton, who, I cannot but think, was indirectly indebted for some of her most fascinating attributes to the solitary daughter of Prospero.




For still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason
For raising this sea-storm?

Know thus far forth.-
By accident most strange, bountiful fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions.
Thou art inclin’d to sleep; 'tis a good dulness,
And give it wily:- I know thou canst not choose.—

[MIRANDA sleeps. Come away, servant, come! I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel : come!

Enter ARIEL. Ari. All hail, great master; grave sir, hail. I To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl'd clouds: to thy strong bidding task Ariel, and all his quality. Pro.

Hast thou, spirit, Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?

Ari. To every article.
I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I am'd amazement: sometimes, I'd divide,

And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I fame distinctly,
Then meet, and join. Jove's lightnings, the pre-
O'the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not: the fire, and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake.

My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason ?

Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd
Some tricks of desperation. All, but mariners,
Plung’d in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel,
Then all a-fire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring (then like reeds, not hair)
Was the first man that leap'd; cried, “Hell is

empty, And all the devils are here." Pro.

Why, that's my spirit' But was not this nigh shore? Ari.

Close by, my master. Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe ? Ari.

Not a hair perishid: On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou bad'st me, In troops I have dispers’d them 'bout the isle.


AOT I. SCENE 3.-Hast thou forgot the foul witch, SYCORAX?

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