(Of thee, my dear one! thee my daughter,) who I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand And pluck my magic garment from me—so; Lie there, my art.-Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. [He lays down his mantle. The direful spectacle of the wreck which touched The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have, with such provision in mine art, So safely ordered, that there is no soul No, not so much perdition as a hair, Betid to any creature in the vessel Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down, For now thou must know further. Mira. You have often Began to tell me what I am; but stopped And left me to a bootless inquisition; Concluding 'stay, not yet.' Pros. The hour's now come: The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; A time before we came into this cell? I do not think thou canst; for then thou wast not Mira. Certainly, sir, I can. Pros. By what? by any other house or person? Of anything the image tell me, that Hath kept with thy remembrance. Mira. 'Tis far off, And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me? Pros. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What see'st thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou remember'st aught ere thou cam'st here, Mira. But that I do not. Pro. Twelve years since, Miranda, twelve years since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and A prince of power. * * Mira. Oh, the heavens! What foul play had we that we came from thence? Or blessed was 't we did? Pro. Both, both, my girl; By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence, Mira. Oh, my heart bleeds To think of the teen* that I have turned you to, I Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther. And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed Without a parallel; those being all my study, And to my state grew stranger, being transported Mira. O, good sir, I do. Pro. I pray thee mark me. I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated A falsehood, in its contrary as great As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit, But what my power might else exact—like one Made such a sinner of his memory *Teen-grief, sorrow. He was indeed the duke. *** Hence, his ambition growingDost thou hear? Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. Pro. To have no screen between this part he played To give him annual tribute, do him homage; The dukedom, yet unbowed (alas! poor Milan!) Mira. O, the heavens! Pro. Now the condition. This King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit, Whereon The gates of Milan; and in the dead of darkness Me, and they crying self. Mira. Alack, for pity! I not remembering how I cried out then, Will cry it o'er again; it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to it. * Wherefore did they not that hour destroy us? Pro. Well demanded, wench, My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not— A mark so bloody on the business; but In few, they hurried us aboard a bark— Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared A rotten carcass of boat; not rigged, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively have quit it; there they hoist us, To cry to the sea that roared to us; to sigh To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, Did us but loving wrong. Mira. Alack! what trouble Was I then to you. Pro. O! a cherubim Thou wast that did preserve me! Thou didst smile, When I have decked the sea with drops full salt, TALK XXV. ON THE DRAMATIC POETS WHO LIVED IN SHAKSPEARE'S TIME: BEN JONSON; BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. THERE was no branch of literature which grew so suddenly, and blossomed so richly, as this of dramatic poetry. The names that appear as writers for the stage, between the dates of Shakspeare's birth and death, are almost legion. I do not think it would be worth my pains to tell you, or yours to remember, the names even of half these writers. They had merits, and won some success in their day; but we should hardly be better or wiser for knowing more than a small share of these works. I will only mention the names of some of the greatest writers and their most noted dramas, and give here and there an illustration of the quality of their poetry. Ben Jonson generally comes next Shakspeare in our thoughts of the drama. Rare Ben Jonson he is Born 1578. called in his epitaph in Westminster Abbey. I do Died 1637. not think he should rank next Shakspeare as a poet; and I think his plays neither so poetical nor so powerful as those of some others of his fellows. They were very well adapted to the time for which they were written, although the wit which may have been relished in that day, seems to me heavy and dull. The characters in his comedies are distinct and individual, although more like caricatures than real types. He is learned and painstaking in his tragedy, but he never moves me by any touch of sympathy or human interest in his characters or their actions; and I do not believe his plays are now interesting, or will ever again interest anyone, except the scholar who makes the study of literature his special pursuit. I think, therefore, that the position Jonson gained in his own time, and the reputation he has held ever since, he gained more by certain mental powers he possessed than by the pre-eminence of his poetry. He was a man who, by force of character and a power of criticism, held a strong influence over his age. We shall see in several later periods in literature certain men who, impressing themselves and their opinions vividly upon their fellows, get great supremacy over them. Ben Jonson was something such a power in his age as two centuries later Samuel Johnson was in his. It takes a great man to gain such a position, and, therefore, I do not underrate rare old Ben when I say that he owes as much to this power as to his ability as a poet. Certainly he had good taste and good judgment. He did much towards establishing rules for criticism and language. He is the author of an English grammar, among his other works, which is now a curiosity among text-books. Ben had known hard fortune when he came to London and began to write for the stage. He was first an actor, like almost all the other play-writers, but does not seem to have been brilliantly successful in this calling. One of his fellows says that "he left bricklaying and took to play-acting," as if he meant to hint that neither trade had gained by Jonson's change. There is an old story to the effect that Jonson sent his first comedy to the theater in which Shakspeare was already a prosperous and influential member. The comedy had been rejected, and the poor author |