this etext is a typo-corrected version of shakespeare's hamlet, project gutenberg file 1ws2610.txt. ******************************************************************* this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (#100) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/100 ******************************************************************* ******************************************************************* this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (#100) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/100 ******************************************************************* daddy takes us skating by howard r. garis 1914 chapter i a cold night "oh, how red your nose is!" cried little mabel blake, one day, as her brother hal came running out of the school yard, where he had been playing with some other boys. mabel was waiting for him to walk home with her as he had promised. "so's your's red, too, mab!" harry said. "it's as red--as red as some of the crabs we boiled at our seashore cottage this summer." "is my nose red?" asked mab of some of her girl friends. "it surely is!" replied jennie bruce. "all our noses are red!" she went on. "it's the cold that makes 'em so. it's very cold to-day, and soon it will be winter, with lots of snow and ice! oh! i just love winter!" "come on, hal!" called mab. "let's hurry home before it gets any colder!" "let's run!" suggested hal. "when you run you get warm, and you don't mind the cold." "what makes us get warm when we run?" his sister inquired, as she took hold of his hand and raced along beside him. "i don't know," hal answered, "but we'll ask daddy when we get home. he can tell us everything." "huh! not everything!" cried sammie jones, one of the nice boys with whom hal played, "your father doesn't know everything." "yes he does, too!" exclaimed hal. doesn't he, mab?" "yep!" answered the little girl, shaking her head from side to side so fast that you could hardly tell which were her curls and which was her hair ribbon. "huh! does your father know what makes a steam engine go?" asked sammie. "sure he does!" said hal. "and he told us about it once, too; didn't he, mab?" "yes, he did," the little girl answered. "i know, too. it's hot water in the boiler that makes it go. the hot water swells up, and turns into steam, and the steam pushes on the wheels, and that makes the engine go." "and our daddy knows what makes an automobile go, too," went on hal. "he knows everything." "huh! well, i guess mine does then, too!" spoke sammie. i'm going to ask him what--what--makes it lightning!" "and then will you tell us?" asked mab, for she and hal wanted to know about everything they saw. "yes, i'll tell you," promised sammie. "and we'll ask daddy blake what makes us warm inside when we run," went on hal, "and then we'll tell you that, sammie." the children ran home from school, and, thought it was cold, for it was almost winter now, they did not mind it. their noses got more and more red, it is true, but they knew when they were in the house, near the warm fire, the red would all fade out. hal and mab said good-bye to sammie, as he turned down his street, and then the little blake boy and girl, hand in hand, ran on to their house. as they reached it they saw their mamma and their aunt lolly out in the front yard, bringing in pots of flowers and vines. "quick, children!" called mamma blake, "you are just in time! here, hal, you and mab put down your books" and help us to carry in the flowers. take only the small pots, and don't drop them, or get any dirt on your clothes." "oh, i'm sure something will happen if you let the children carry any of the flowers!" cried aunt lolly, who was a dear, fussy little old lady. "they'll drop them on their toes, or spill the dirt on the floor--or something." "oh, i guess not," laughed mamma blake. "anyhow we need help to get all the plants in before dark. there is going to be a very heavy frost, and everything will freeze hard to-night. it will be very cold!" "is that why you are bringing in the plants, mamma?" asked mab. "yes, so they will not freeze and die," mrs. blake answered. "flowers freeze very easily." the children were glad to help their mother and aunt lolly. roly-poly, the fat little white poodle dog, tried to help, too, but he upset more plants than he carried in, though he did manage to drag one pot to the steps. besides, roly-poly was always running off to look for a clothespin, or something like that, to bury under the earth, making believe, i suppose, that it was a bone. "the ground will soon be frozen too hard for you to dig in it with your paws, roly-poly," said mamma blake, when it was nearly dark, and all the plants had been brought into the warm kitchen. "come, now children," she called. "wash your hands, and supper will soon be ready. then daddy will be here, and he will shake down the furnace fire, and make it hot, for it is going to be a very cold night." a little later, when supper was almost ready, a step was heard in the front hall. "oh, here comes daddy now!" cried mab, making a rush for the door. "let's ask him what makes the cold," exclaimed hal, "and why we get warm inside when we run." hal was very curious. "ah, here we are!" cried mr. blake, with a jolly laugh, as he came in rubbing his ears. he caught hal up in one arm, and mab in the other. "oh, how cold your cheeks are, daddy!" cried mab as she kissed him. "yes, it is going to be a frosty night, and freeze," he said. "and if it freezes enough i will tell you a secret i have been keeping for some time." "oh daddy! another secret!" cried mab. "tell us what it is, please!" "wait until we see if it freezes hard enough to-night," replied her papa. chapter ii the ice in the bottle hal and mab were so excited at hearing their father speak about a new secret, that they could hardly eat their supper. there were so many questions they wanted to ask. but they managed to clear their plates, and then, when mr. blake had on his slippers, and had put plenty of coal on the furnace, hal climbed up on one knee, and mab on the other. "now, daddy, please tell us the secret," begged the little girl. "and tell us what makes water freeze, and how it gets cold, and what makes us warm when we run," added hal. "sammie jones is going to ask his father what makes it lightning in a thunder storm." "my goodness me sakes alive, and some peanut candy!" cried daddy blake with a laugh. "what a lot of questions!" "but the secret first, please," begged mab. "well, let me see if it is going to be cold enough for me to tell you," said mr. blake. "it must be freezing cold, or the secret will be of no use." daddy blake went to the door, outside of which hung an instrument called a thermometer. i guess you have seen them often enough. a thermometer is a glass tube, fastened to a piece of wood or perhaps tin, and inside is a thin, shiny column. this column is mercury, or quicksilver. some thermometers have, instead of mercury, alcohol, colored red, so it can easily be seen. you see mercury, or alcohol, will not freeze, except in much colder weather than you ever have where you live, unless you live at the north pole. up there it gets so cold that sometimes alcohol will became as thick as molasses, and then it is not of any use in a thermometer. but mercury will not freeze, even at the north pole. the word thermometer means something by which heat can be measured. "thermos" is a greek word, meaning heat, and "meter" means to measure. though of course a thermometer will measure cold as well as heat. "is it cold enough?" asked hal, as daddy blake came back from looking at the thermometer. "not quite," his father answered. "but the mercury is going down the tube." "what makes it go down?" asked mab. "well, let me think a minute, and i'll see if i can make it simple enough so you can understand," said daddy blake. those of you who have read the other "daddy" books know how many things mr. blake told his children, and what good times hal and mab had with him. he was always taking them somewhere, and often one or the other of the children would call out: "oh, daddy is going to take us walking!" sometimes perhaps it might not be for a walk. it might be for a trip in the steam cars. but, wherever it was, hal and mab were always ready to go with their father. in the first book i told you how daddy blake took hal and mab camping. they went to live in the woods in a white tent and had lots of fun. once they were frightened in the night, but it was only because roly-poly, their poodle dog-but there, i'm not going to spoil it by telling you, when you might want to read the book for yourself. in the second volume, called "daddy takes us fishing," i made up a story about how hal and mab went to the seashore cottage, and learned to catch different kinds of fish; even the queer, pinching crabs, that turned red when you boiled them. once mab fell overboard, and the children nearly drifted out to sea, but they got safely back. after that they went to the big animal show. and in the book "daddy takes us to the circus," i told you how hal and mab were accidentally taken away in one of the circus wagons, and how they traveled all night. and the next day they rode on the elephant's back, and also on a camel's and they went in the big parade. oh! it was just wonderful the adventures they had! hal and mab lived with their papa and mamma, and aunt lolly, in a fine house in the city. but they often went to the country and to other places where they had good times. in the family was also uncle pennywait. that wasn't his real name, but the children called him that because he so often said: "wait a minute and i'll give you a penny." hal and mab used to buy lollypops with the pennies their uncle gave them. and then--oh, yes, i mustn't forget roly-poly, the funny, fat, poodle dog who was always hiding things in holes in the ground, thinking they were bones, i guess. sometimes he would even hide aunt lolly's spectacles and she would have the hardest work finding them. oh, such hard work! "well, daddy," asked mab, after mr. blake had sat silent for some time, "have you thought of a way to tell us what makes the shiny stuff in the--in the--in the--oh! i can't say that big word!" she finished with a sigh. "the mercury in the thermometer!" laughed daddy blake. "you want to know what makes it go down? well, it's the cold. you see cold makes anything get smaller and shrink, and heat makes things swell up, and get larger. that's why the steam from hot water swells up and makes the engine go, and pull the cars. "and in hot weather the mercury swells, puffs itself out and creeps up inside the little glass tube. in winter the mercury gets cold, and shrinks down, just as it is doing to-night." "but will it get cold enough so you can tell us the secret?" hal wanted to know, most anxiously. "perhaps," said his father. "we will try it and see. i will fill a bottle with water, and we will set it out on the back porch to freeze. if it freezes by morning i will know that i can tell you the secret." "oh, do we have to wait until morning?" cried mab, in disappointed tones. "that won't be long," laughed her father. "you can hardly keep your eyes open now. i guess the sand man has been here. go to bed, and it will soon be morning. then, if there is ice in the bottle, i'll tell you the secret." daddy blake took a bottle, and filled it with water. he put the cork in tightly, and then twisted some wires over the top. "what are the wires for?" asked hal. "so the ice, that i think will freeze inside the bottle, will not push out the cork," explained daddy blake. "now off to bed with you!" you may be sure hal and mab did not want to go to bed, even if they were sleepy. they wanted to stay up and watch the water in the bottle freeze. but mamma blake soon had them tucked snugly under the covers. then daddy blake fixed the furnace fire for the night, as it was getting colder and colder. next he opened a package he had brought home with him. something inside jingled and clanked, and shone in the lamplight as brightly as silver. "what have you there?" asked aunt lolly. "that's the children's secret," answered daddy blake, as he wrapped the package up again. hal was up first in the morning, but mab soon followed him. "daddy, where is the bottle?" called hal. "may we get it?" asked mab. "oh, it is much too cold for you to go out until you are warmly dressed!" cried daddy. "i'll bring the bottle in so you can see it." he went out on the porch in his bath robe and slippers, and quickly brought in the bottle of water he had set out the night before. "oh, look!" cried hal. for the bottle was broken into several pieces, and standing up on the board on which it had been set, was a solid, clear piece of ice, just the shape of the glass bottle itself. "oh, somebody broke our bottle!" cried mab. "now we can't hear the secret!" chapter iii the new skates daddy blake laughed when mab said that. "yes, the bottle is broken," he said, "but it was the ice that broke it." "how could it?" hal wanted to know. "i told you last night," said daddy blake, when the children were at breakfast table a little later, "that heat made things get larger, and that cold made them get smaller. that was true, but sometimes, as you see now, freezing cold makes water get larger. that is when it is cold enough to make ice. "as long as there was only water in the bottle it was all right, the glass was not broken. but in the night it got colder and colder. all the warmth was drawn off into the cold air. then the water froze, and swelled up. the ice tried to push the cork out of the bottle, just as you would try to push up the lid of a box if you were shut up inside one." "i guess the wires over the cork wouldn't let the ice push it out," spoke hal. "that's it," daddy blake answered. "and so, as the ice could not lift out the cork, it swelled to the sides, instead of to the top, and pushing out as hard as it could, it broke the bottle. the glass fell away, and left a little statue of ice, just the shape of the bottle, standing in its place. "how wonderful!" cried mab, her blue eyes open wide. "yes, the freezing of ice is very wonderful," daddy blake said, as he passed hal his third slice of bread and jam. "if the cracks in a great rock became filled with water, and the water froze, the swelling of the ice would split the great, strong stone. "there is scarcely anything that can stand against the swelling of freezing ice. if you filled a big, hollow cannon ball with water, and let it freeze, the ice would burst the iron." "it burst our milk bottle once, i know," said aunt lolly. "yes," spoke daddy blake. "that is why, on cold mornings, the milkman raises the tin top on the bottle. that gives the frozen milk a chance to swell up out of the top, and saves the bottle from cracking." "one morning last winter," said mamma blake, "when we had milk bottles with the pasteboard tops, the milk froze and there was a round bit of frozen milk sticking up out of the bottle, with the round pasteboard cover on top, like a hat." "and that's what saved the bottle from breaking," said daddy blake, "if i had not wired down the cork of our bottle the water would have pushed itself up, after it was frozen, and would have stuck out of the bottle neck, like a round icicle." "but what about our secret?" asked hal. "is it cold enough for you to tell us about it?" "i think so," answered daddy blake, with a queer little twinkle in his eyes. "as long as the water in the bottle was frozen, the pond will soon be covered with ice," he said. "and we need ice to make use of the secret." "oh, i just wonder what it is?" cried mab, clapping her hands. "i think i can guess," spoke hal. daddy blake went out in the hall, and came back with two paper bundles. he placed one at mab's place, and gave the other to hal. "i want something, so i can cut the string!" hal cried, and he laid his package down on the floor, while he searched through his pockets for his knife. just then roly-poly came into the breakfast room, barking. he saw hal's package on the floor, and, thinking, i suppose, that it must be meant for him to play with, the little poodle dog at once began to drag it away. though, as the ground was frozen, i don't know how he was going to bury it, if that was what he intended to do. "hi there, roly!" cried hal. "come back with that, if you please, sir!" "bow-wow!" barked the little poodle dog, and i suppose he was saying: "oh, can't i have it a little while?" by this time mab had her package open. "oh!" she cried. "it's skates! ice skates! oh, i've always wanted a pair!" "ha! that's what i thought they were, when daddy talked so much about ice and freezing," said hal. he had managed, in the meanwhile, to get his bundle away from roly-poly. opening it, hal found in the package a pair of shining ice skates, just like those mab was trying on her shoes. "oh, thank you, daddy!" hal cried. "and i thank you, too!" added mab. i'd get up and kiss you, only my mouth is all jam. i'll kiss you twice as soon as i've washed." "that will do," laughed her father. "do you like your skates, children?" "oh, do we?" they cried, and by the way they said it you could easily tell that they did. "and daddy's going to take us skating; aren't you?" asked hal as he measured his skates on his shoes to see if they would fit. they did. oh! daddy blake knew just how to buy things to have them right, i tell you. "yes, i'll take you skating, and show you how to stand up on the ice--that is as soon as it is thick enough on the pond to make it safe, and hold us up," promised the children's father. just then mamma blake came running up from down the cellar. she was much excited. "oh, come quickly!" she called to her husband. "something has happened to the stationary wash-tubs. the water is spurting all over the cellar. oh, do hurry!" chapter iv the frozen pond daddy blake hurried down cellar. hal and mab carefully putting away their new skates, followed their father. roly-poly, the little fat poodle dog looked around to see if he could find anything to drag off and hide, but, seeing nothing, he went down cellar also, barking loudly at each step. "hal! mab!" called aunt lolly. "come back here, dears!" "we want to see what has happened!" answered hal. "oh, you'll get hurt! i'm sure you will!" exclaimed the dear, little, fussy old lady aunt. "no, it isn't anything serious!" called daddy blake when he saw what had happened. "only one of the water pipes has burst. we must send for the plumber. wait, children, until i shut off the water, and then you can come down. it is like a shower-bath now." daddy blake found the faucet, by which he could shut off the water at the stationary wash-tubs, and then, when it had stopped spurting from the burst pipe, he called to hal and mab: "now you may come and see how strong ice is. not only does it burst glass bottles, but it will even crack an iron pipe." "just like it cracked a cannon ball!" cried hal, and he was in such a hurry to get down the cellar steps that he jumped two at a time. that might have been all right, only roly-poly, the little fat poodle dog, did the same thing. he became tangled up in hal's legs, and, a moment later, the little boy and the dog were rolling toward the bottom of the steps, over and over just like a pumpkin. "oh!" cried mab, holding fast to the handrail, a little frightened. "oh my!" exclaimed mamma blake at the top of the cellar steps. "what has happened?" "oh my goodness me sakes alive and some orange pudding!" exclaimed aunt lolly. "i just knew _something_ would happen!" but nothing much did, after all, for daddy blake, as soon as he heard hal falling, ran to the foot of the stairs, and there he caught his little boy before hal had bounced down many steps. "there you are!" cried daddy blake, as he set hal upright on his feet. "not hurt a bit; are you?" "n-n-n-n-no!" stammered hal, as he caught his breath, which had almost gotten away from him. "i'm not hurt. is roly-poly?" roly was whirling about, barking and trying to catch his tail, so i guess he was not much hurt. the truth was that both hal and roly were so fat and plump, that falling down a few cellar steps did not hurt them in the least. "well, now we'll look at the burst water pipe," said daddy blake, when the excitement was over. the water had stopped spurting out now, though there was quite a puddle of it on the cellar floor by the tubs. mr. blake lifted hal across this, and showed him where there was a big crack in the water pipe. then he showed mab, also lifting her across the little pond in the cellar. "you see the pipe was full of water," mr. blake explained, "and in the night it got so cold down cellar that the water froze, just as it did in the glass bottle out on the back porch. "then the ice swelled up, and it was so strong that it burst the strong iron pipe, splitting it right down the side." "but why didn't the water spurt out when i came down cellar earlier this morning?" asked mamma blake. "it did not leak then." "i suppose it was still frozen," answered her husband. "but when the furnace fire became hotter it melted the ice in the pipe and that let the water spurt out. but the plumber will soon fix it." hal and mab watched the plumber, to whom their papa telephoned. he had to take out the broken pipe, and put in a new piece. afterward hal looked at the pipe that had been split by the ice. "why it's just as if gun-powder blew it up," he said, for once he had seen a toy cannon that had burst on fourth of july, from having too much powder in it. "yes, freezing ice is just as strong as gunpowder, only it works more slowly," said daddy blake with a smile. "powder goes off with a puff, a flash and a roar, but ice freezes slowly." "oh, but when are we going skating?" asked mab, as she and her brother started for school, a little later that morning. "as soon as i can find a frozen pond," said daddy blake with a smile. well wrapped up, and wearing warm gloves, hal and mab went to their lessons. it was so cold that wintry day, though there was no snow, that they ran instead of walking. running made them warm. "is my nose red?" asked mab, when they were near the school. "oh, it's awful red!" cried hal. "is mine?" "as red as a boiled lobster!" laughed mab. "let's run faster!" so they ran, and soon they were in a glow of warmth. "oh!" cried mab, as she and her brother entered the school-yard, "we forgot to ask daddy why we get warm when we run." when the two children reached their house, after lessons were over for the day, they found their father waiting for them. he had his skates over his shoulder, dangling from a strap, and he had hal's and mab's in his hand. "come, we are going to look for the frozen pond!" he said. then hal and mab forgot all about asking why they became warm when they ran. they cried out joyfully: "oh, daddy is going to take us skating! daddy is going to take us skating!" across the fields they went, and in a little while they came to a place where was a pond, in which they used to fish during the summer. but now as they looked down on the water, from the top of a small hill, they saw that the pond was all frozen over. a sheet of ice covered it from edge to edge. "oh, now we can skate!" cried hal in delight, "now we can try our new skates." chapter v poor roly-poly "come on!" cried mab, as she started to run down the slope of the hill toward the frozen pond. "come on, hal!" "hold on!" called daddy blake. "wait a minute, mab! don't go on the ice yet!" mab stopped at once. so did hal, who had just begun to run. you see the children had gotten into the habit of stopping when their uncle called: "wait a minute and i'll give you a penny," so it was not hard for them to do so when their father called. "why can't i go on the ice?" asked mab, "i must first see how thick it is," answered daddy blake. "what difference does that make?" hal wanted to know. "oh, a whole lot," said mr. blake. "if the ice is too thin you will break through, and go into the cold water. we must be very careful, i will see if it is thick enough." mab waited for her father and hal to come to where she was standing. roly-poly did not wait, however. down he rushed to the frozen pond. "oh, come back! come back!" cried mab. "you'll go through the ice, roly!" but roly-poly paid no attention. out on the slippery ice he ran, and then he turned around and, looking at daddy blake and the two children, he barked as loudly as he could. roly-poly was a queer dog that way. sometimes he would mind mab, and then, again, he would not. "i guess the ice is thick enough to hold up roly," said mr. blake. "it doesn't need to be very strong for that, as roly is so little." "how thick must it be to hold us up?" hal wanted to know. "well, on a small pond, ice an inch thick might hold up a little boy or girl," explained mr. blake. "but not very many children at a time. on a large pond the ice should be from six to eight inches thick to hold up a crowd of skaters." "oh, does ice ever get as thick as that?" asked hal. "oh, yes, and much thicker. on big lakes it gets over two feet thick in cold weather," mr. blake said. "then it will hold up a whole regiment of soldiers, and cannon too. ice is very strong when once it is well frozen. but always be sure it is thick enough before going on." "how are you going to tell?" asked mab. "by cutting a little hole through the ice," her father told her. "you can look at the edges of the hole and tell how thick the ice is. we will try it and see." with the big blade of his knife, mr. blake cut and chipped a hole in the ice, a little way from shore. hal and mab stayed on the ground watching their father, but roly-poly ran all about, barking as hard as he could. "i guess he is looking for something to bury in a hole," spoke hal. but roly could not dig in the hard ice, and the ground was also frozen too solidly for him to scratch. so all the little poodle dog could do was to bark. "there we are!" cried mr. blake, after a bit. "see, children, the ice is more than six inches thick. it will be safe for us to skate on!" hal and mab ran to look into the little hole their father had cut in the ice. it went down for more than half a foot, or six inches, like a well you dig in the sand at the seashore. but no water showed in the bottom of this hole in the ice. "the ice is good and thick," said mr. blake. "it will hold up all the skaters that will come on this pond." but the children and their daddy were the only ones there now. mr. blake showed hal and mab how to put on their skates. he made the straps tight for them, and then put on his own. "now we will see how well you can skate," said mr. blake. "i can!" cried hal. "i've watched the big boys do it. i can skate!" "it's just like roller skating," said mab, "and i can do that, i know." "well, you may find it a little different from roller skating, mab," her papa answered with a laugh. "here i go!" cried hal. he struck out on the ice, first with one foot, and then with the other, as he had been used to doing on his roller skates. and then something happened. either hal's feet slid out from under him, or else the whole frozen surface of the pond tilted up, and struck him on the head. he was not quite sure which it was, but it felt, he said afterward, as though the ice flew up and struck him. "oh, be careful!" cried daddy blake, as he saw hal fall. but it was too late to warn the little boy then. "oh, he's hurt!" exclaimed mab with a little sob, as she saw that her brother did not get up. daddy blake skated over to hal, but there was no need of his help. for hal got up himself, only he was very careful about it. he did not try to skate any more. he did not want to slip and fall. "are you hurt?" asked mr. blake. "n-n-no; i guess not," hal answered slowly. "the ice is sort of soft, i guess." "no quite as soft as snow, however," laughed daddy blake. "now you had better not try to skate until i take hold of your hand. i will hold you up. come, mab, well take hold of hands and so help each other to stand up." roly-poly was rushing here and there, filled with excitement, and he was barking all the while. he was having fun too. "now strike out slowly and carefully," directed daddy blake to the children. "first lean forward, with your weight on the left foot and skate, and then do the same with your right. glide your feet out in a curve," and he showed them how to do it, keeping hold of their hands, mab on one side and hal on the other. in this way they did not fall down. slowly over the ice they went. "oh, we are skating!" cried mab, in delight. "isn't it fun!" shouted hal. "at least you are beginning to skate," said mr. blake. roly-poly kept prancing around in front, running here and there, and barking louder than ever. "don't get in our way, roly!" called mr. blake with a laugh, "or we might skate right over you!" "bow-wow!" barked the little poodle dog. and i suppose that was his way of saying: "no, i won't! i'll be good." hal and mab were beginning to understand the first simple rules of skating. it was not as easy as they had thought--nor was it the same as roller skating. the ice was so slippery. "oh, look at roly!" cried hal, when they had stopped for a rest. "he's skating, too." a boy who had no skates had come down to the frozen pond, and, seeing the poodle dog, and knowing him to be hal's pet, this boy wanted to have some fun. he would throw a stick on the ice, sliding it along, and roly would race after it. he would go so fast, roly would, that he could not stop when he reached the stick, and along he would slide, almost as if he were skating. just as hal called to mab to look, roly cook a long run and a slide. then, all of a sudden, there was a cracking sound in the ice. a hole seemed to open, close to where the poodle dog was, and, a moment later, roly-poly went down, out of sight, into the cold, black water. "poor roly-poly!" cried mab. "he's drowned!" roly-poly had gone under the ice. hal and mab were ready to cry. but listen. this is a secret. roly-poly was not drowned! a wonderful thing happened to him, but i can not tell you about it until the end of the book. and mind, you're not to turn over the pages to find out, either. that would not be fair. just wait, and i'll tell you when the times comes. chapter vi fishing through the ice "come on, mab," cried hal, to his sister. "we've got to get him out! we've got to save roly-poly!" letting go his father's hand, hal started to skate toward the place where the little poodle dog had last been seen. "wait--don't go," said mr. blake quickly, but there was no need. for, as soon as hal let go of his daddy's hands, his feet, on which were still the slippery skates, slid out from under him, and down he went again. "oh dear!" cried mab. "everything is happening! can't we save roly, daddy?" "yes, perhaps," he said slowly. "but we must not go too near. roly went down through an air hole in the ice. the ice is thin near there. it might break with us. i will go up carefully and look." telling hal and mab to stay together, in a spot where he knew the ice was thick, mr. blake skated slowly toward the place where poor roly-poly had gone under. as he came near the ice began to crack again. mr. blake skated back. "it would be dangerous to go on," he said. "i am sorry for roly-poly, but it would not be wise for us to risk our lives for him. it would not be right, however much you love him." "oh, we do love him so much!" sobbed mab. "i'll get you another dog," said mr. blake, and then he had to blow his nose very hard. maybe he was crying too, for all i know. mind, i'm not saying for sure. "no other dog will be like roly-poly," said hal, who was trying not to cry. "i'm awful sorry i threw the sticks for him to chase after," said charlie anderson, the boy who had been playing with the poodle dog while hal and mab were learning to skate. "oh, it wasn't your fault," said daddy blake. "poor roly! i will see if i can break the ice around the hole. maybe he is caught fast, and i can loosen the ice so he can get out." daddy blake took off his skates, and then, with a long piece of fence rail, while he stood on the bank, the children's papa broke the ice around the edges of the air hole. but no roly-poly could be seen. "oh dear" cried mab. "he is gone forever!" "yes," spoke hal, quietly, and then he put his arms around his little sister. but don't you feel badly, children. we know something hal and mab do not know, and we'll keep it a secret from them until it is time for the surprise. the two blake children were so sorry their doggie had been lost through the ice, that their father thought it best to take them home. "we will have another skating lesson to-morrow," he said. "but this shows you how dangerous air holes are." "what is an air hole in the ice, daddy?" asked hal. "i'll tell you," said mr. blake. this interested mab, and she stopped crying. besides, if you cry when it's cold, the tears may freeze on your cheeks, like little pearls, and fall off." "an air hole," said mr. blake, as he walked on home with the children, "is a place where the ice has not frozen solidly. sometimes it may be because there is a warm spring in that part of the pond, or a spring that bubbles up, and keeps the water moving. and you know moving or running water will not freeze, except in very, very cold weather. "but always be careful of air holes, for the ice around them is easily broken, and you might go through." "poor roly-poly!" sighed mab. "i wish he had been careful." "so do i," spoke hal. "how would you like to go fishing through the ice?" asked daddy blake, so the children would have something new to think about, and not feel sorry about roly. "fishing through the ice?" cried hal. "how can we do that? aren't the fish frozen in the winter?" "i saw some frozen ones down at the fish store," mab said. "well, i don't mean that kind," laughed daddy blake. "there are live fish in the waters of the lakes, rivers and ponds, down under the ice. you can not catch all kinds of fish through the ice in winter, but you may some sorts--pickeral for instance." "oh, daddy, and will you take us fishing?" asked mab. "i think i will, some day soon, if the cold keeps up," he said. and, surely enough he did. the weather was still very cold, and the ice froze harder and thicker. several times daddy blake took the children down to the pond, and taught them about skating. they were doing very well. then, one saturday, when there was no school, daddy blake called out: "now we'll go fishing through the ice. we'll go over to the big lake, so wrap up well, as it is quite cold. we'll take along some lunch, and we'll build a fire on the shore and make hot chocolate." "hurray!" cried hal. "oh, how lovely!" exclaimed mab. well wrapped up, and carrying with them their fishing things, as well as lunch, while mr. blake had a small axe, the little party set off for a large lake, about two miles away. when they reached it, hal wondered how they could ever get any fish, as the water was covered with a thick sheet of ice. but daddy blake chopped several holes in the frozen surface, so hal and mab could see the dark water underneath. the holes however, were not large enough for the children to fall through. "now we'll fish through the ice!" said daddy blake. "oh, i see how it's done!" exclaimed hal with a laugh. chapter vii learning to skate "now we'll bait our hooks," said mr. blake, when he had put the lunch, which they had brought along, safely away in a sheltered place. "and after that we will have a little skate practice to get warmed up, for it is colder than i thought." "but if we bait our hooks, and leave them in the water, won't the fish run away with our lines if we are not here to watch them?" asked mab. "we'll fix the lines so the fish that bite will ring a little bell, to tell us to come and take them off the hook!" replied daddy blake with a laugh. "oh, now i know you're fooling us!" said hal. "no, really i am not," replied his father, but mr. blake could not keep the funny twinkle out of his eyes, and hal was sure there was some joke. from a small satchel, in which he had put the things for fishing, mr. blake took several pieces of wire. on the ends were some bits of red cloth, and also, on each wire, a little brass bell, that went "tinkle-tinkle." "oh, they are really bells!" cried mab, as she heard them jingle. "of course they are" said her father. "now i'll tell you what we'll do. we'll bait our hook, and lower it into the water through a hole in the ice. then, close to the hole, we'll fasten one of these pieces of wire each one of which has, on the upper end, a bell and a bit of red cloth. "when the wires are stuck in the ice we'll fasten our lines to them, and then, when the fish, down in the cold water, pulls on the baited hook he will make the piece of red cloth flutter, and he will also ring the bell." "oh, now i see!" cried hal. "and if we are off skating we can look over here, and if we see the red rag fluttering we'll know we have a bite, and can come and pull up the fish." "that's it," said daddy blake, smiling. "and if we don't happen to see the red rag fluttering, we will hear the bell ring," added mab, clapping her hands. "how nice it is to fish this way!" the hooks were soon baited, and lowered into the water through the holes in the ice then the other end of each fish line was made fast to a wire sticking up, with its bit of red rag, and the little brass bell. "now we'll go skating," said daddy blake. "the fish themselves will tell us when they are caught. come along." hal and mab had, by this time, learned to put on their own skates, though of course hal helped his sister with the straps. "you must begin to learn to skate by yourselves," said daddy blake, after he had held the hands of the children for a time. "don't be afraid, strike out for yourselves." "but s'pose we fall?" asked mab. "that won't hurt you very much," her father said. "be careful, of course, not to double your legs up under you, and when you tumble don't hit your head on your own skates, or any one's else. but when you feel that you are going to fall, just let yourself go naturally. if you strain, and try not to fall, you may sprain and hurt yourself more than if you fall easily. now strike out!" hal and mab tried it. at first they were timid, and only took little strokes, but, after a while, they grew bolder, and did very well. they were really learning to skate. "oh, look!" suddenly cried hal. "my red rag is bobbing; i must have a bite!" he started in such a hurry toward the ice-hole where his line was set that he fell down. but he did not mind that, and was soon up again. however, mab, who did not stumble, teached her line first. "oh dear! i haven't a bite!" she sighed, for her bell was not jingling. "but i have!" cried hal, pulling his line in. "a big one, too!" "i'll help you," said daddy blake, as he skated up to his little son, and when daddy had felt of the tugging line he remarked: "yes, that is a large fish! up he comes!" and he pulled up hal's fish. just as the big, flopping pickerel was hauled out on the ice, mab cried: "my bell is tinkling! my bell is tinkling! i've got a fish, too!" and indeed her piece of wire was moving to and fro where it was stuck up in the ice, and the bell was jingling merrily. "wait, mab, i'll help you!" called daddy blake, and, leaving hal to take care of his own fish, the children's papa went to pull in mab's catch. her fish was not quite as large as was hal's, but it was a very nice one. then mr. blake called out: "oh ho! now there's a bite on my line!" his bell jingled quite loudly, and when the string was pulled up through the hole there was a fine, large pickerel on the hook. the fish were placed in a basket to be taken home, after having been mercifully put out of pain by a blow on the head. then the hooks were baited again. in a little while each one had caught another fish and then daddy blake said: "now we have all the fish we can use, so there is no need of catching any more. we will practice our skating a little longer, and then go home. for i am sure you children must be cold." "oh, but aren't we going to eat the lunch we brought, before we go home?" cried hal. "i was just wondering if you would think of that!" laughed daddy blake. "yes, we will eat lunch as soon as we get a little warm by skating around, or by running." chapter viii the skating race daddy blake and the two children glided to and fro over the ice of the frozen lake on their sharp steel skates. soon all their cheeks were red and rosy, and they felt as warm inside as though they had taken some hot chocolate at the corner drug store. "daddy," asked hal, "what makes you warm when you run fast, or skate?" "it is because your heart pumps so much more blood up inside your body," explained daddy blake. "our blood is just the same to our bodies as coal is to a steam engine. the more coal the fireman puts under the boiler (that is if it all burn well, and there is a good draft) the hotter the fire is, and the more steam there is made." "is our blood like steam?" asked mab, as she tried to peep down at her red nose and cheeks. but she could not see them very well so she looked at hal's. "well, our blood is something like steam," said daddy blake, with a laugh. "that is if we didn't have any blood we could not move around, and live and breathe, any more than an engine could move if it had no steam. "you see we eat food, which is fuel, or, just what coal and wood are to an engine. the food is changed into blood inside our bodies, and our heart pumps this blood through our arteries, which are like steam pipes. our heart is really a pump, you know; a very wonderful pump." "my heart is pumping hard," said hal, putting his hand over his thumping chest. "well," went on his father, "the reason for that is, that when we run, or skate fast, our body uses more blood, just as an engine which is going fast uses more steam than one going slowly. the heart has to pump faster to send more blood to our arms and legs, and all over, and whenever anything goes fast, it is warmer than when it goes slowly. "if you rub your finger slowly over the window-pane, your finger will _not_ be very warm, but if you rub it back and forth as _fast_ as you can, your finger-tip will soon be almost warm enough to burn you. "that is something like what happens when you run quickly. the blood goes through your body so much faster, and your heart beats so much harder, trying to keep up, that you are soon warm. and it is a good thing to exercise that way, for it makes the blood move faster, and thus by using up the old blood, you make room for new, and fresh. "but i guess we've had enough talk about our hearts now," spoke daddy blake with a laugh. "we'll eat some lunch and then take home our fish." daddy blake built a little fire on the shore, near the frozen lake, and over this blaze, when the flames were leaping up, and cracking, he heated the chocolate he had brought. then it was poured out into cups, and nice chicken sandwiches were passed on little wooden plates. "isn't this fun!" cried mab as she sipped the last of her chocolate. "indeed it is," agreed hal. "i'm coming skating over to this lake every day!" "well, i guess not every day," spoke daddy blake with a smile. "but we'll come as often as we can, for i want you to learn to be good skaters. and besides, there may be snow soon, and that will spoil the ice for us." "oh, i hope it doesn't snow for a long time," sighed mab. "so do i!" echoed her brother. "but, if it does, we can have some other fun. daddy will take us coasting; won't you?" "i guess so," answered mr. blake. the lunch things were packed in the basket, and then hal and mab went back to where the pickerel fish they had caught were left lying on the ice. "why, they're frozen stiff!" hal cried, as he picked up one fish, which was like a stick of wood. "that shows you how cold it is," said mr. blake. "but mamma can thaw out the fish by putting them in water, and we can have them for dinner to-morrow." "when are we coming skating again?" asked hal as they were on their way home. "oh, in a few days," his father promised. "meanwhile you and mab can practice on the pond near home, and then you can have a race." "oh, good!" cried mab. "and i'll win!" "huh! i guess not!" exclaimed hal. "boys always win races; don't they, daddy." "well, not always," said mr. blake. "and mab is becoming a good little skater." "well, i'll win!" declared hal. "you see if i don't!" the next day was too cold for the children to go skating with their daddy, but a little later in the week it was warmer, and one afternoon, coming home early from the office mr. blake said: "come on now. i hear you two youngsters have been practicing skating on the pond, so we'll go over there and have a race." "hurray!" cried hal. "oh, i do hope i win!" exclaimed mab. there were not many other skaters on the ice when the children and their father reached it mr. blake marked off a place, by drawing two lines on the ice with his skate. the space between them was about as long as from the blake's front gate to their back fence. "now, hal and mab," said daddy blake, "take your places on this first line. and when i call 'go!' start off. the one who reaches the other line first will win." hal and mab took their places. they were so eager to start that they stepped over the line, before it was time. "go back," said daddy blake, smiling. finally they were both evenly on the line. the other skaters came up to watch. "go!" suddenly cried daddy blake. chapter ix a winter pic-nic hal and mab started off on their race so evenly that neither one was ahead of the other. the two children had learned to skate farily well by this time, though of course they could not go very far, nor very fast. and they could not cut any "fancy figures" on the ice such as doing the "grape-vine twist," or others like that. "i--i--i think i'm going to win," said mab as she skated along beside her brother. "you'd better--better not talk," hal panted. "that takes your breath, and it's hard enough to breathe anyhow, when you're skating fast, without talking." "you're talking," said mab. "but i'm not going to talk any more," hal answered, and he closed his lips tightly. on and on they skated, side by side. "oh, hal's going to win!" cried some of the children who had gathered around to watch. "no, mab is!" shouted a number of little girls who were her friends. "mab will win!" sometimes mab would be in the lead, and then hal would come up with a rush and pass her. it was not very far to the "finish line," as the end of the race is called. "oh, i do hope i get there first!" thought mab, her little heart beating very fast. "i hope i win!" thought hal. and that is always the way it is in races--each one wants to be first. that is very right and proper, for it is a good thing to try and be first, or best, in everything we do. only we must do it fairly, and not be mean, or try to get in the way of anyone else. and, if we don't win, after we have done our best, why we must try and be cheerful about it. and never forget to say to the one who has come out ahead: "well, i am sorry i lost, but i am glad you won." that is being polite, or, as the big folks say; when they have races, that is being "sportsman-like," and that that is the finest thing in the world--to be really "sportsman-like" at all times. "go on! go on!" cried daddy blake. "don't stop, children! finish out the race!" but hal and mab were getting a little tired now, though the race was such a short one. gradually hal was skating ahead. "oh dear! he's going to win!" thought mab, but, just then, all of a sudden, hal's skate glided over a twig on the ice, and down he went. "ker-bunk-o!" before mab could stop herself she had slid over the finish line. "oh, mab wins! mab has won the race!" cried her girl friends. poor hal, who was not much hurt, i am glad to say, got up. he looked sorrowfully at his sister who had gone ahead of him, when he stumbled. he did want so much to win! but mab was a real "sportswoman," for there are such you know--even little girls. "hal, i didn't win!" she exclaimed, skating back to her brother, "it isn't a fair race when some one falls; is it daddy?" "well, perhaps in a real big race they would count it, even if some of the skaters fell," he said. "but this time you need not count--" "well, i'm not going to count this!" interrupted mab. "i don't want to win the race that way. come on, hal. we won't count this, and we'll race over again!" now i call that real good of mab. don't you? hal looked happy again. he didn't even mind the bruise on his knee, where it had hit on the ice. "well, i'd be glad to race over again," hal said. "next time i won't fall." "very well, race over once more," said daddy blake. so hal and mab did, and this time, after some hard skating, hal crossed the finish line a little ahead of his sister. poor mab tried not to look sad but she could not help it. "you--you won the race, hal," she said. "well, maybe i got started a little ahead of you," he replied kindly. "anyhow, i'm older and of course i'm stronger. oughtn't i give her a head-start, daddy?" "i think it would be more fair, perhaps," said daddy blake with a smile. he was glad his children were so thoughtful. "then let's race again," suggested hal. "oh, hurrah!" cried all the other children. "another race! that's three!" this time hal let mab start off a little ahead of him, when mr. blake called "go!" this "head-start," as we used to call it when i was a boy, is called a "handicap" by the big folk, but you don't need to use that big word, unless you care to. "oh, mab is going to win! mab is going to win!" shouted the children. and she did. she crossed the line ahead of hal. and oh! how glad she was. "now we've each won a race!" cried hal, as he helped his sister take off her skates. a few days after that daddy blake asked the children: "how would you like to go on a winter picnic?" "a winter pic-nic!" cried hal. "what is that?" "why we'll take our skates, and a basket of lunch, and go over to the big lake. we'll have a long skate, and at noon we'll eat our lunch in a log cabin i know of on the shores of the lake. that will be our winter pic-nic." "oh, how fine!" cried mab. "when may we go?" "to-morrow," answered daddy blake. "oh, i'm sure something will happen!" cried aunt lolly. and something did, but it was something nice, and soon you will know all about it. chapter x cutting the ice hal and mab blake were awake very early the next morning. mab jumped out of bed first and ran to the window. "is it raining?" asked hal, from his room. he put one foot out from under the covers to see how cold it was--i mean he wanted to see how cold the air in his room was--not how cold his foot was; for that was warm, from having been asleep in bed with him all night. "no, it isn't raining," said mab, "but it looks as if it might snow." "i hope it doesn't snow until we have our pic-nic on the ice," exclaimed hal, as he jumped out of bed, and began to dress. mamma blake was very busy cooking breakfast, and so was aunt lolly. they had to get the meal and also put up the lunch for the printer pic-nic. a large basket was packed full of good things to eat. i just wish i had some of them now, i'm so hungry! "well, are you all ready?" asked mr. blake of the children, after breakfast. "i am, daddy," answered hal, pulling on his red mittens, and swinging his skates by a strap over his shoulder. "i'm all ready." "and so am i," replied mab, as she tied her cap strings under her chin, so it would not blow away--i mean so the cap would not blow away, not mab's chin; for that was made fast to her face, you see, and couldn't blow off, no matter how much wind whistled down the chimney. "well, then we'll start," said daddy blake. just then there came a ring at the front door bell, and into the hall tramped charlie and mary johnson, who lived next door to the blake family. the visitors were warmly dressed, and charlie had two pairs of skates slung over his shoulder by the straps. "oh, we're going on a pic-nic, mary!" cried mab, thinking perhaps her little girl friend had come to ask her to go skating. "so are we!" exclaimed charlie, and he smiled at daddy blake, who laughed heartily. "oh, how funny!" cried hal. "are you going to where we are going, i wonder?" the johnson children looked at mr. blake and giggled. "yes," he answered with a smile, "they are going to the same place we are, hal and mab. i invited them to go with us, as i thought you would like company. and i guess mamma put up lunch enough for all of us; didn't you?" he asked, turning toward his wife. "indeed i did!" cried mamma blake. "there's a fine lunch." "oh, how lovely of you to come with us!" cried mab, as she put her arms around mary. "it's just dandy!" shouted hal, clapping charlie on the back. then, as he saw that charlie was carrying his sister mary's skates, hal took mab's and put them on a strap with his own, saying: "i'll carry them for you, mab!" "thank you," she said, most politely. "you are very kind." "well, do you like my little surprise?" asked daddy blake as they started off toward the lake, to hold their winter pic-nic. "surely we do!" answered hal. "it's fine that you asked mary and charlie to come with us." it was quite cold out in the air, and, as mab had said, it did look like snow. there were dull, gray clouds in the sky, and the sun did not shine. but the children were happy for all that. in a little while they reached the big frozen lake, and, putting on their skates they started to glide over the ice. "we will skate about a mile, and then we will rest, and have a little skating race, perhaps, and afterward we can eat our lunch." "and what will we do after that?" asked charlie. "oh, skate some more," answered daddy blake. "that is if you want to." the children had much fun on their skates. and once, when charlie sat down on the ice, to punch with his knife a hole in his strap, so that it would fit tighter, something happened. charlie laid down his knife, and when he went to pick it up, he found that it had sunk down in the ice, making a little hole for itself to hide in. "oh, look here!" he cried. "my knife has dug down in the ice just like your dog roly-poly used to dig a hole for a bone." "poor roly!" sighed mab. "i wish we had him now!" "but he's gone," said hal. "well never see him again," and he looked at charlie's knife down in the ice. "what made it do that, daddy?" he asked. "what made it sink down?" "the knife was warmer than the ice, and melted a hole in it," explained mr. blake. "the knife was warm from being in charlie's pocket. "i read once about some men who went up to the north pole," he continued. "they had with them a barrel of molasses, but it was so cold at the north pole that the molasses was frozen solid. when the men wanted any to sweeten their coffee they would have to chop out chunks with a hatchet. they had very little sugar and so used molasses. "once one of the men, after chopping some frozen molasses for breakfast, forgot what he was doing, and left the hatchet on top of the solid, frosty sweet stuff in the barrel. the next time he wanted the hatchet to chop with he could not find it. the hatchet had melted its way down through the frozen molasses, until it came to the bottom of the barrel, inside, and there it stayed until all the sweet stuff was chopped out in the spring." the children laughed at this funny story, and a little later they began skating around. they had races among themselves. hal raced with charlie, and once he won, and once charlie did. but mab, who raced with mary, won both times. mab was becoming a good skater, you see. and such fun as it was eating lunch in the log cabin. the little building kept off the cold wind, and daddy blake built a fire on the old hearth. hot chocolate was made; and how everyone did enjoy it! after lunch they all went skating again. as they glided around a little point of land, that stuck out in the lake, hal, who was skating on ahead, cried out, in a surprised voice: "oh, look at the men and horses on the ice! what are they doing?" "cutting ice," said daddy blake. "come, we will go over and see how it is done," and away they all skated to where the men were gathering the harvest of ice, just as farmers gather in their harvest of hay and grain. chapter xi a cold house "will you please show these children how you cut ice, and store it away, so you can sell it when the hot summer days come?" asked daddy blake of one of the many men who, with horses and strange machinery, were gathered in a little sheltered cove of the lake. "to be sure i will," the man answered. "just come over here and you will see it all." "oh, but look at the water!" cried mab, as she pointed to a place where the ice had been cut, and taken out, leaving a stretch of black water. "i won't let you fall in that," promised the man. "the ice is so thick this year, on account of the cold, that you could go close to the edge of the hole, and the ice would not break with you. see, there is a man riding on an ice cake just as if it were a raft of wood." "oh, so he is!" cried hal, as he saw a man, with big boots and a long pole, standing on a glittering white ice-raft. the man was poling himself along in the water, just as daddy blake had pushed the boat along when he was spearing eels in the summer. "he looks just like a picture i saw, of a polar bear on his cake of ice, up at the north pole," spoke charlie, "only he isn't a bear, of course," the little boy added quickly, thinking the man might think he was calling him names. the head ice man, and several others, laughed when they heard this. "now, i'll show you how we cut ice, beginning at the beginning," said the head man, or foreman, as he is called. "of course," the foreman went on, "we have to wait until the ice freezes thick enough so we men, and the horses won't break through it. when it is about eighteen inches thick, or, better still, two feet, we begin to cut. first we mark it off into even squares, like those on a checker board. a horse is hitched to a marking machine, which is like a board with sharp spikes in it, each spike being twenty-four inches from the one next to it. the spikes are very sharp. "the horse is driven across the ice one way, making a lot of long, deep scratches in the ice, where the scratches criss-cross one another they make squares." "what is that for?" hal wanted to know. "that," the foreman explained, "is so the cakes of ice will be all the same size, nice and square and even, and will fit closely together when we pile them in the ice house. if we had the cakes of ice of all different shapes and sizes they would not pile up evenly, and we would waste too much room." "i see!" cried mab. "it's just like the building blocks i had when i was a little girl." "that's it!" laughed the foreman. "you remember how nicely you could pile your blocks into the box, when you put them all in evenly and nicely. but if you threw them in quickly, without stopping to make them straight, they would pile up helter-skelter, and maybe only half of them would fit. it is that way with the ice blocks." "what do you do after you mark off the ice into squares?" charlie johnson asked. "then men come along with big saws, that have very large teeth, and they saw out each block. sometimes we cut the marking lines in the ice so deeply that a few blows from an axe will break the blocks up nice and even, and we don't have to saw them. "then, after the cakes are separated, they are floated down to a little dock, and carried up into the store house. come we will go look at that store house now. but button up your coats well, for it is very cold in this ice store house." the foreman led daddy blake and the children to a big house, five times as large as the one where the blake family lived. running up to this ice house from the ground near the lake, was a long incline, like a toboggan slide, or a long wooden hill. and clanking up this wooden hill was an endless chain, with strips of wood fastened across it. the chain was something like the moving stairways which are in some department stores instead of elevators. only, instead of square, flat stairs there were these cross pieces of wood, to hold the cakes of ice from slipping down the toboggan slide back into the lake again. men would float the ice cakes up to the end of the wooden hill. then, with sharp iron hooks, they would pull and haul on the cakes until they were caught on one of these cross pieces. then the engine that moved this endless chain, would puff and grunt, and up would slide the glittering ice, cake after cake. at the top of the incline other men were waiting. they used their sharp hooks to pull the ice cakes off the endless chain, upon a platform of boards, and from there the cakes were slid along into the store house, where they were stacked in piles up to the roof, there to stay until they were needed in the hot summer, to make ice cream, lemonade and ice cream cones. "oh, but it is cold in here!" cried mab as they went in the place where the ice was kept. and indeed it was, for there were tons and tons--thousands of pounds--of the frozen cakes. from them arose a sort of steam, or mist, and through this mist the men could hardly be seen as they stacked away the ice. the men looked like shadows moving about in a cold fog on a frosty, cold, wintry morning. "bang! bang! clatter! smash! crash!" went the cakes of ice as they came up the incline, and slid down the long wooden chutes, where the men hooked them off and piled them up. pile after pile was made of the ice, until it was stacked up like an ice berg, inside the store house. "why doesn't the ice melt when the hot summer comes?" asked hal. "because this building keeps the hot sun off the ice," explained the foreman. "very little heat can get in our ice house, and it takes heat to melt ice. of course some of it melts, but very little. then, too, the building has two walls. in between the double walls is sawdust, and that sawdust helps to keep the heat out, and the cold in. it is like a refrigerator you see. ice melts very slowly in a refrigerator because the cold is kept in, and the outside heat kept out." "oh, but it's cold here!" cried mab shivering. "let's go outside." and outside something very strange happened. the children never would have believed it had they read it in a book. but as it really happened to them they knew that it was true, no matter how strange it was. chapter xii a great surprise "how do you get the ice out of this big house when you want it in the summer time?" asked hal, as the foreman led them along the wooden platforms out of the big, cold storehouse. and how much warmer it was outside; even if the sun did not shine, than it was in the ice house. the children were glad to come out. "we load the ice from here into freight cars," the man explained. "see, the ice house is built in two parts, with a passage-way between. and is this passage is a railroad track. the engine backs a freight car in here, the big doors of the car are opened, and the ice is slid in on wooden chutes, something like the iron chutes the coal man uses. then, when the car is full, it is pulled down to the city in a long train, with other cars." "and then the icemen come with their wagons, get the ice and bring it to us," finished mab. "i've seen them." "that's right, little lady!" said the foreman with a laugh. and sometimes ice comes to the city by a boat, instead of in freight cars, and the men with wagons go down to the boat-dock to get the cold, frozen cakes. and now you have seen how ice is cut in winter, and stored away until we need it in the summer." "my!" exclaimed hal, as he looked up at the big ice store-house. "there must be enough ice in there for the whole world!" "oh, no indeed!" cried daddy blake. "no enough for one city. and besides this ice, which is called natural, because jack frost and mother nature make it, there is other ice, called artificial. that is what is made by machinery." "why, can anybody make ice by machinery?" asked mab in surprise. "oh, yes, even on the hottest day in summer," her papa told her. "but it takes a lot of machinery. it is done by putting water into small metal tanks, and then by taking all the warmth out of the water by dipping the tanks into a big vat of salt and water which is made very cold by something called ammonia. it is too hard for you to understand now, but when you get older i will explain. now i think we had better be skating home," said daddy blake. as they walked down to the frozen lake, there was a barking sound from a small shed under which was an engine, that hauled up the ice cakes. out from the shed rushed a little dog, spotted black and white, and straight for the blake children he rushed, barking and wagging his tail so that it almost wagged off. "look out!" cried daddy blake. "don't be afraid!" called the engineer, laughing. "he's so gentle he wouldn't hurt a baby!" and how strangely the dog was acting! he would jump up first on hal, and then on mab, trying to lick their faces and hands with his red tongue. "oh dear!" cried mab, who was a little bit frightened. "he won't hurt you!" exclaimed the engineer. "here, spot!" he called. "leave the children alone. be good, spot!" but the dog would not mind. he jumped up on hal, barking as loudly as he could, and wagging his tail so hard that it is a wonder it did not drop off. the animal seemed wild with delight. "why! why!" cried mab, as she looked carefully at the dog when he stood still a moment to rest after all the excitement. "that dog looks just like our roly-poly, only roly was white and not spotted black and white," said mab. "well, when i got this dog he was all white," explained the engineer. "he got spotted black by accident." "i wonder if that could be roly?" spoke daddy blake thoughtfully. "here, roly-poly!" he called. "come here, sir!" in an instant the dog made a jump for daddy blake, barking joyfully, and almost turning a somersault. "i believe it is roly!" shouted hal. "it's our dog!" "but how could it be?" asked mab. "roly was lost under the ice." "and that's just where i got this dog," the engineer explained. "out from under the ice. one day, after the first freeze this winter, i was balking along a little pond. i came to a thin place in the ice, and looking through, from the shore where i stood, i saw a little white dog down below, just as if he were under a pane of glass. "i broke the ice with a stick and got him out. i thought he was dead, but i took him home, thawed him out, gave him some hot milk, and soon he was as lively as a cricket. and i've had this dog ever since. when i came here to work at ice cutting i brought him with me." "but you said he was pure white when you got him out," said daddy blake wonderingly. "yes, that's right," answered the ice engineer. "so he was. and how he got spotted was like this. i was blacking my boots one day, and i left the bottle of black polish on a low bench. the dog grabbed it, playful like, and the black stuff spilled all over him. that's how he got spotted. he was worse than he is now, but it's wearing off." "then i'm sure this is our roly-poly!" cried "oh, you dear roly!" she cried, and the spotted poodle dog tried to climb up in her arms and kiss her, he was so glad to see her. "i believe it is roly," said daddy blake. "it is all very wonderful, but it must be our roly." "well, if he's yours, take him," said the engineer kindly. "i always wondered how he got under the ice. but of course he could not tell me." "we were skating, the children and i, one day," explained daddy blake. "poor roly slipped through an air hole in the ice. then he must have floated down the pond underneath the ice, until he came to another thin place, where you saw him." "i guess that's it," the engineer agreed. "he was almost drowned and nearly frozen when i found him. but i'm glad he's all right now, and i'm glad the children have him back." "oh, and maybe we aren't glad!" cried mab. "aren't we, hal?" "well, i guess!" he cried. "the gladdest ever!" roly-poly was happy too. he was so glad that he did not know whom to love first, nor how much. he raced back and forth from the children to mr. blake, and then over to the kind engineer, who had saved his life. "oh, let's hurry home!" cried mab. "i want to show mamma and aunt lolly and uncle pennywait that roly-poly is still alive." and so daddy blake and the children skated down to the end of the lake, roly-poly running along with them. he had barked his good-byes to the engineer, and daddy blake and hal and mab had thanked the nice man over and over again. "don't fall through any more air holes, roly!" cautioned hal, as he skated along with charlie, while mab glided slowly at the side of mary. "bow-wow!" barked roly, which meant, i suppose, that he would be very careful. soon they were all safely home, and roly-poly barked louder than ever, and almost wagged off his tail, sideways and up and down. "oh, how wonderful!" cried aunt lolly when she heard the story. "i knew something would happen. something wonderful has happened." and so it had. and it was really wonderful that roly had floated down beneath the ice, and that the engineer had come along just in time to get him out alive. and so roly came back, just as i told you he would. in a few weeks the black spots wore off him, and he was all white again, and as lively and frisky as ever, hiding anything he could find, and barking and wagging his tail like anything. "won't all the boys and girls be surprised when they see our dog back again?" asked mab. "i guess they will," agreed hal. "it is just like a fairy story; isn't it?" "oh, it's better than a fairy story, for it's true!" exclaimed mab. "if it was a fairy story we would wake up and roly-poly wouldn't be here. oh! i am so glad!" hal and mab had many more days of skating on the pond with daddy; blake. and then, one morning, when they woke up, the ground was deeply covered with white snow. "no more skating right away!" cried daddy blake, "the ice has gone to sleep under white blankets." "but we can have other fun!" said hal. "lots of it!" cried mab, joyfully. "oh we'll have more fun!" and what fun they had with daddy blake i will tell you about in the next book, as this one is all filled up. so i will say good-bye to you for a little while, only a little while, though. the end the next volume in this series will be called "daddy takes us coasting." it will be about santa claus and christmas. charles franks, and the distributed proofreaders [transcriber's note: this aims to be an accurate transcription of the original text. to achieve this, we deviate from the standard project gutenberg guidelines in the following respects: * the original line breaks are preserved; * hyphenated words are not rejoined; * page breaks are noted (in the right margin); * printing errors are not corrected. typographically, effort has been made to change the text as little as possible. the 'long s' has been converted, but none of the original spelling has been modified. text which was centred has been indented eight spaces from the left margin. right justified text is indifferently aligned in the original text; here all right justified text is aligned to the right-hand margin. the horizontal and vertical indentation of lines reflects the original text. italics are indicated by underscores, and punctuation has not been included inside the italics except for periods which indicate an abbreviation, or when an entire sentence is italicised. there is a macron over an 'e' on the last line of e3v, which has been rendered as 'ê' in this transcription.] the [tp] tragicall historie of hamlet _prince of denmarke_ by william shake-speare. as it hath beene diuerse times acted by his highnesse seruants in the cittie of london: as also in the two vniuersities of cambridge and oxford, and else-where [illustration] at london printed for n.l. and iohn trundell. 1603. [tpv] [illustration] [b1] the tragicall historie of hamlet prince of denmarke. _enter two centinels._ 1. stand: who is that? 2. t'is i. 1. o you come most carefully vpon your watch, 2. and if you meet _marcellus_ and _horatio_, the partners of my watch, bid them make haste. 1. i will: see who goes there. _enter horatio and marcellus._ _hor._ friends to this ground. _mar._ and leegemen to the dane, o farewell honest souldier, who hath releeued you? 1. _barnardo_ hath my place, giue you goodnight. _mar._ holla, _barnardo_. 2. say, is _horatio_ there? _hor._ a peece of him. 2. welcome _horatio_, welcome good _marcellus_. _mar._ what hath this thing appear'd againe to night. 2. i haue seene nothing. _mar._ _horatio_ says tis but our fantasie, and wil not let beliefe take hold of him, touching this dreaded sight twice seene by vs, therefore i haue intreated him a long with vs [b1v] to watch the minutes of this night, that if againe this apparition come, he may approoue our eyes, and speake to it. _hor._ tut, t'will not appeare. 2. sit downe i pray, and let vs once againe assaile your eares that are so fortified, what we haue two nights seene. _hor._ wel, sit we downe, and let vs heare _bernardo_ speake of this. 2. last night of al, when yonder starre that's westward from the pole, had made his course to illumine that part of heauen. where now it burnes, the bell then towling one. _enter ghost._ _mar._ breake off your talke, see where it comes againe. 2. in the same figure like the king that's dead, _mar._ thou art a scholler, speake to it h_oratio_. 2. lookes it not like the king? _hor._ most like, it horrors mee with feare and wonder. 2. it would be spoke to. _mar._ question it h_oratio_. _hor._ what art thou that thus vsurps the state, in which the maiestie of buried _denmarke_ did sometimes walke? by heauen i charge thee speake. _mar._ it is offended. _exit ghost._ 2. see, it stalkes away. _hor._ stay, speake, speake, by heauen i charge thee speake. _mar._ tis gone and makes no answer. 2. how now h_oratio_, you tremble and looke pale, is not this something more than fantasie? what thinke you on't? _hor._ afore my god, i might not this beleeue, without the sensible and true auouch of my owne eyes. _mar._ is it not like the king? [b2] _hor._ as thou art to thy selfe, such was the very armor he had on, when he the ambitious _norway_ combated. so frownd he once, when in an angry parle he smot the sleaded pollax on the yce, tis strange. _mar._ thus twice before, and iump at this dead hower, with marshall stalke he passed through our watch. _hor._ in what particular to worke, i know not, but in the thought and scope of my opinion, this bodes some strange eruption to the state. _mar._ good, now sit downe, and tell me he that knowes why this same strikt and most obseruant watch, so nightly toyles the subiect of the land, and why such dayly cost of brazen cannon and forraine marte, for implements of warre, why such impresse of ship-writes, whose sore taske does not diuide the sunday from the weeke: what might be toward that this sweaty march doth make the night ioynt labourer with the day, who is't that can informe me? _hor._ mary that can i, at least the whisper goes so, our late king, who as you know was by fortenbrasse of _norway_, thereto prickt on by a most emulous cause, dared to the combate, in which our valiant h_amlet_, for so this side of our knowne world esteemed him, did slay this fortenbrasse, who by a seale compact well ratified, by law and heraldrie, did forfeit with his life all those his lands which he stoode seazed of by the conqueror, against the which a moity competent, was gaged by our king: now sir, yong fortenbrasse, of inapproued mettle hot and full, hath in the skirts of _norway_ here and there, [b2v] sharkt vp a sight of lawlesse resolutes for food and diet to some enterprise, that hath a stomacke in't: and this (i take it) is the chiefe head and ground of this our watch. _enter the ghost._ but loe, behold, see where it comes againe, ile crosse it, though it blast me: stay illusion, if there be any good thing to be done, that may doe ease to thee, and grace to mee. speake to mee. if thou art priuy to thy countries fate, which happly foreknowing may preuent, o speake to me, or if thou hast extorted in thy life, or hoorded treasure in the wombe of earth, for which they say you spirites oft walke in death, speake to me, stay and speake, speake, stoppe it _marcellus_. 2. tis heere. _exit ghost._ h_or._ tis heere. _marc._ tis gone, o we doe it wrong, being so maiesticall, to offer it the shew of violence, for it is as the ayre invelmorable, and our vaine blowes malitious mockery. 2. it was about to speake when the cocke crew. h_or._ and then it faded like a guilty thing, vpon a fearefull summons: i haue heard the cocke, that is the trumpet to the morning, doth with his earely and shrill crowing throate, awake the god of day, and at his sound, whether in earth or ayre, in sea or fire, the strauagant and erring spirite hies to his confines, and of the trueth heereof this present obiect made probation. _marc._ it faded on the crowing of the cocke, some say, that euer gainst that season comes, wherein our sauiours birth is celebrated, the bird of dawning singeth all night long, [b3] and then they say, no spirite dare walke abroade, the nights are wholesome, then no planet frikes, no fairie takes, nor witch hath powre to charme, so gratious, and so hallowed is that time. h_or._ so haue i heard, and doe in parte beleeue it: but see the sunne in russet mantle clad, walkes ore the deaw of yon hie mountaine top, breake we our watch vp, and by my aduise, let vs impart what wee haue seene to night vnto yong h_amlet_: for vpon my life this spirite dumbe to vs will speake to him: do you consent, wee shall acquaint him with it, as needefull in our loue, fitting our duetie? _marc._ lets doo't i pray, and i this morning know, where we shall finde him most conueniently. _enter king, queene,_ h_amlet, leartes, corambis, and the two ambassadors, with attendants._ _king_ lordes, we here haue writ to _fortenbrasse_, nephew to olde _norway_, who impudent and bed-rid, scarely heares of this his nephews purpose: and wee heere dispatch yong good _cornelia_, and you _voltemar_ for bearers of these greetings to olde _norway_, giuing to you no further personall power to businesse with the king, then those related articles do shew: farewell, and let your haste commend your dutie. _gent._ in this and all things will wee shew our dutie. _king._ wee doubt nothing, hartily farewel: and now _leartes_; what's the news with you? you said you had a sute what i'st _leartes_? _lea._ my gratious lord, your fauorable licence, now that the funerall rites are all performed, i may haue leaue to go againe to _france_, [b3v] for though the fauour of your grace might stay mee, yet something is there whispers in my hart, which makes my minde and spirits bend all for _france_. _king_ haue you your fathers leaue, _leartes_? _cor._ he hath, my lord, wrung from me a forced graunt, and i beseech you grant your highnesse leaue. _king_ with all our heart, _leartes_ fare thee well. _lear._ i in all loue and dutie take my leaue. _king._ and now princely sonne _hamlet_, _exit._ what meanes these sad and melancholy moodes? for your intent going to _wittenberg_, wee hold it most vnmeet and vnconuenient, being the ioy and halfe heart of your mother. therefore let mee intreat you stay in court, all _denmarkes_ hope our coosin and dearest sonne. _ham._ my lord, ti's not the sable sute i weare: no nor the teares that still stand in my eyes, nor the distracted hauiour in the visage, nor all together mixt with outward semblance, is equall to the sorrow of my heart, him haue i lost i must of force forgoe, these but the ornaments and sutes of woe. _king_ this shewes a louing care in you, sonne _hamlet_, but you must thinke your father lost a father, that father dead, lost his, and so shalbe vntill the generall ending. therefore cease laments, it is a fault gainst heauen, fault gainst the dead, a fault gainst nature, and in reasons common course most certaine, none liues on earth, but hee is borne to die. _que._ let not thy mother loose her praiers h_amlet_, stay here with vs, go not to _wittenberg_. _ham._ i shall in all my best obay you madam. _king_ spoke like a kinde and a most louing sonne, and there's no health the king shall drinke to day, but the great canon to the clowdes shall tell [b4] the rowse the king shall drinke vnto prince h_amlet_ _exeunt all but_ h_amlet._ _ham._ o that this too much grieu'd and sallied flesh would melt to nothing, or that the vniuersall globe of heauen would turne al to a chaos! o god, within two months; no not two: married, mine vncle: o let me not thinke of it, my fathers brother: but no more like my father, then i to _hercules_. within two months, ere yet the salt of most vnrighteous teares had left their flushing in her galled eyes: she married, o god, a beast deuoyd of reason would not haue made such speede: frailtie, thy name is woman, why she would hang on him, as if increase of appetite had growne by what it looked on. o wicked wicked speede, to make such dexteritie to incestuous sheetes, ere yet the shooes were olde, the which she followed my dead fathers corse like _nyobe_, all teares: married, well it is not, nor it cannot come to good: but breake my heart, for i must holde my tongue. _enter_ horatio _and_ marcellus. _hor._ health to your lordship. _ham._ i am very glad to see you, (horatio) or i much forget my selfe. _hor._ the same my lord, and your poore seruant euer. _ham._ o my good friend, i change that name with you: but what make you from _wittenberg_ h_oratio_? _marcellus_. _marc._ my good lord. _ham._ i am very glad to see you, good euen sirs; but what is your affaire in _elsenoure_? weele teach you to drinke deepe ere you depart. _hor._ a trowant disposition, my good lord. [b4v] _ham._ nor shall you make mee truster of your owne report against your selfe: sir, i know you are no trowant: but what is your affaire in _elsenoure_? _hor._ my good lord, i came to see your fathers funerall. _ham._ o i pre thee do not mocke mee fellow studient, i thinke it was to see my mothers wedding. _hor._ indeede my lord, it followed hard vpon. _ham._ thrift, thrift, h_oratio_, the funerall bak't meates did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables, would i had met my deerest foe in heauen ere euer i had seene that day _horatio_; o my father, my father, me thinks i see my father. _hor._ where my lord? _ham._ why, in my mindes eye h_oratio_. _hor._ i saw him once, he was a gallant king. _ham._ he was a man, take him for all in all, i shall not looke vpon his like againe. _hor._ my lord, i thinke i saw him yesternight, _ham._ saw, who? _hor._ my lord, the king your father. _ham._ ha, ha, the king my father ke you. _hor._ ceasen your admiration for a while with an attentiue eare, till i may deliuer, vpon the witnesse of these gentlemen this wonder to you. _ham._ for gods loue let me heare it. _hor._ two nights together had these gentlemen, _marcellus_ and _bernardo_, on their watch in the dead vast and middle of the night. beene thus incountered by a figure like your father, armed to poynt, exactly _capapea_ appeeres before them thrise, he walkes before their weake and feare oppressed eies within his tronchions length, while they distilled almost to gelly. [c1] with the act of feare stands dumbe, and speake not to him: this to mee in dreadfull secresie impart they did. and i with them the third night kept the watch, where as they had delivered forme of the thing. each part made true and good, the apparition comes: i knew your father, these handes are not more like. _ham._ tis very strange. _hor._ as i do liue, my honord lord, tis true, and wee did thinke it right done, in our dutie to let you know it. _ham._ where was this? _mar._ my lord, vpon the platforme where we watched. _ham._ did you not speake to it? _hor._ my lord we did, but answere made it none, yet once me thought it was about to speake, and lifted vp his head to motion, like as he would speake, but euen then the morning cocke crew lowd, and in all haste, it shruncke in haste away, and vanished our sight. _ham._ indeed, indeed sirs, but this troubles me. hold you the watch to night? _all_ we do my lord. _ham._ armed say ye? _all_ armed my good lord. _ham._ from top to toe? _all._ my good lord, from head to foote. _ham._ why then saw you not his face? _hor._ o yes my lord, he wore his beuer vp. _ham._ how look't he, frowningly? _hor._ a countenance more in sorrow than in anger. _ham._ pale, or red? _hor._ nay, verie pal _ham._ and fixt his eies vpon you. [c1v] _hor._ most constantly. _ham._ i would i had beene there. _hor._ it would a much amazed you. _ham._ yea very like, very like, staid it long? _hor._ while one with moderate pace might tell a hundred. _mar._ o longer, longer. _ham._ his beard was grisleld, no. _hor._ it was as i haue seene it in his life, a sable siluer. _ham._ i wil watch to night, perchance t'wil walke againe. _hor._ i warrant it will. _ham._ if it assume my noble fathers person, ile speake to it, if hell it selfe should gape, and bid me hold my peace, gentlemen, if you haue hither consealed this sight, let it be tenible in your silence still, and whatsoeuer else shall chance to night, giue it an vnderstanding, but no tongue, i will requit your loues, so fare you well, vpon the platforme, twixt eleuen and twelue, ile visit you. _all._ our duties to your honor. _exeunt_. _ham._ o your loues, your loues, as mine to you. farewell, my fathers spirit in armes, well, all's not well. i doubt some foule play, would the night were come, till then, sit still my soule, foule deeds will rise though all the world orewhelme them to mens eies. _exit_. _enter leartes_ and _ofelia_. _leart._ my necessaries are inbarkt, i must aboord, but ere i part, marke what i say to thee: i see prince _hamlet_ makes a shew of loue beware _ofelia_, do not trust his vowes, perhaps he loues you now, and now his tongue, speakes from his heart, but yet take heed my sister, [c2] the chariest maide is prodigall enough, if she vnmaske hir beautie to the moone. vertue it selfe scapes not calumnious thoughts, belieu't _ofelia_, therefore keepe a loofe lest that he trip thy honor and thy fame. _ofel._ brother, to this i haue lent attentiue care, and doubt not but to keepe my honour firme, but my deere brother, do not you like to a cunning sophister, teach me the path and ready way to heauen, while you forgetting what is said to me, your selfe, like to a carelesse libertine doth giue his heart, his appetite at ful, and little recks how that his honour dies. _lear._ no, feare it not my deere _ofelia_, here comes my father, occasion smiles vpon a second leaue. _enter corambis._ _cor._ yet here _leartes_? aboord, aboord, for shame, the winde sits in the shoulder of your saile, and you are staid for, there my blessing with thee and these few precepts in thy memory. "be thou familiar, but by no meanes vulgare; "those friends thou hast, and their adoptions tried, "graple them to thee with a hoope of steele, "but do not dull the palme with entertaine, "of euery new vnfleg'd courage, "beware of entrance into a quarrell; but being in, "beare it that the opposed may beware of thee, "costly thy apparrell, as thy purse can buy. "but not exprest in fashion, "for the apparell oft proclaimes the man. and they of _france_ of the chiefe rancke and station are of a most select and generall chiefe in that: "this aboue all, to thy owne selfe be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any one, [c2v] farewel, my blessing with thee. _lear._ i humbly take my leaue, farewell _ofelia_, and remember well what i haue said to you. _exit._ _ofel._ it is already lock't within my hart, and you your selfe shall keepe the key of it. _cor._ what i'st _ofelia_ he hath saide to you? _ofel._ somthing touching the prince _hamlet_. _cor._ mary wel thought on, t'is giuen me to vnderstand, that you haue bin too prodigall of your maiden presence vnto prince hamlet, if it be so, as so tis giuen to mee, and that in waie of caution i must tell you; you do not vnderstand your selfe so well as befits my honor, and your credite. _ofel._ my lord, he hath made many tenders of his loue to me. _cor._ tenders, i, i, tenders you may call them. _ofel._ and withall, such earnest vowes. _cor._ springes to catch woodcocks, what, do not i know when the blood doth burne, how prodigall the tongue lends the heart vowes, in briefe, be more scanter of your maiden presence, or tendring thus you'l tender mee a foole. _ofel._ i shall obay my lord in all i may. _cor._ _ofelia_, receiue none of his letters, "for louers lines are snares to intrap the heart; "refuse his tokens, both of them are keyes to vnlocke chastitie vnto desire; come in _ofelia_, such men often proue, "great in their wordes, but little in their loue. _ofel._ i will my lord. _exeunt._ _enter_ hamlet, horatio, _and_ marcellus. _ham._ the ayre bites shrewd; it is an eager and an nipping winde, what houre i'st? _hor._ i think it lacks of twelue, _sound trumpets._ _mar._ no, t'is strucke. _hor._ indeed i heard it not, what doth this mean my lord? [c3] _ham._ o the king doth wake to night, & takes his rowse, keepe wassel, and the swaggering vp-spring reeles, and as he dreames, big draughts of renish downe, the kettle, drumme, and trumpet, thus bray out, the triumphes of his pledge. _hor._ is it a custome here? _ham._ i mary i'st and though i am natiue here, and to the maner borne, it is a custome, more honourd in the breach, then in the obseruance. _enter the ghost._ _hor._ looke my lord, it comes. _ham._ angels and ministers of grace defend vs, be thou a spirite of health, or goblin damn'd, bring with thee ayres from heanen, or blasts from hell: be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou commest in such questionable shape, that i will speake to thee, ile call thee _hamlet_, king, father, royall dane, o answere mee, let mee not burst in ignorance, but say why thy canonizd bones hearsed in death haue burst their ceremonies: why thy sepulcher, in which wee saw thee quietly interr'd, hath burst his ponderous and marble iawes, to cast thee vp againe: what may this meane, that thou, dead corse, againe in compleate steele, reuissets thus the glimses of the moone, making night hideous, and we fooles of nature, so horridely to shake our disposition, with thoughts beyond the reaches of our soules? say, speake, wherefore, what may this meane? _hor._ it beckons you, as though it had something to impart to you alone. _mar._ looke with what courteous action it waues you to a more remoued ground, but do not go with it. [c3v] _hor._ no, by no meanes my lord. _ham._ it will not speake, then will i follow it. _hor._ what if it tempt you toward the flood my lord. that beckles ore his bace, into the sea, and there assume some other horrible shape, which might depriue your soueraigntie of reason, and driue you into madnesse: thinke of it. _ham._ still am i called, go on, ile follow thee. _hor._ my lord, you shall not go. _ham._ why what should be the feare? i do not set my life at a pinnes fee, and for my soule, what can it do to that? being a thing immortall, like it selfe, go on, ile follow thee. _mar._ my lord be rulde, you shall not goe. _ham._ my fate cries out, and makes each pety artiue as hardy as the nemeon lyons nerue, still am i cald, vnhand me gentlemen; by heauen ile make a ghost of him that lets me, away i say, go on, ile follow thee. _hor._ he waxeth desperate with imagination. _mar._ something is rotten in the state of _denmarke_. _hor._ haue after; to what issue will this sort? _mar._ lets follow, tis not fit thus to obey him. _exit._ _enter ghost and hamlet._ _ham._ ile go no farther, whither wilt thou leade me? _ghost_ marke me. _ham._ i will. _ghost_ i am thy fathers spirit, doomd for a time to walke the night, and all the day confinde in flaming fire, till the foule crimes done in my dayes of nature are purged and burnt away. _ham._ alas poore ghost. _ghost_ nay pitty me not, but to my vnfolding lend thy listning eare, but that i am forbid [c4] to tell the secrets of my prison house i would a tale vnfold, whose lightest word would harrow vp thy soule, freeze thy yong blood, make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular haire to stand on end like quils vpon the fretfull porpentine, but this same blazon must not be, to eares of flesh and blood hamlet, if euer thou didst thy deere father loue. _ham._ o god. _gho._ reuenge his foule, and most vnnaturall murder: _ham._ murder. _ghost_ yea, murder in the highest degree, as in the least tis bad, but mine most foule, beastly, and vnnaturall. _ham._ haste me to knowe it, that with wings as swift as meditation, or the thought of it, may sweepe to my reuenge. _ghost_ o i finde thee apt, and duller shouldst thou be then the fat weede which rootes it selfe in ease on _lethe_ wharffe: briefe let me be. tis giuen out, that sleeping in my orchard, a serpent stung me; so the whole eare of _denmarke_ is with a forged prosses of my death rankely abusde: but know thou noble youth: he that did sting thy fathers heart, now weares his crowne. _ham._ o my prophetike soule, my vncle! my vncle! _ghost_ yea he, that incestuous wretch, wonne to his will o wicked will, and gifts! that haue the power (with gifts, so to seduce my most seeming vertuous queene, but vertne, as it neuer will be moued, though lewdnesse court it in a shape of heauen, so lust, though to a radiant angle linckt, would fate it selfe from a celestiall bedde, and prey on garbage: but soft, me thinkes i sent the mornings ayre, briefe let me be, sleeping within my orchard, my custome alwayes [c4v] in the after noone, vpon my secure houre thy vncle came, with iuyce of hebona in a viall, and through the porches of my eares did powre the leaprous distilment, whose effect hold such an enmitie with blood of man, that swift as quickesilner, it posteth through the naturall gates and allies of the body, and turnes the thinne and wholesome blood like eager dropings into milke. and all my smoothe body, barked, and tetterd ouer. thus was i sleeping by a brothers hand of crowne, of queene, of life, of dignitie at once depriued, no reckoning made of, but sent vnto my graue, with all my accompts and sinnes vpon my head, o horrible, most horrible! _ham._ o god! _ghost_ if thou hast nature in thee, beare it not, but howsoeuer, let not thy heart conspire against thy mother aught, leaue her to heauen, and to the burthen that her conscience beares. i must be gone, the glo-worme shewes the martin to be neere, and gin's to pale his vneffectuall fire: hamlet adue, adue, adue: remember me. _exit_ _ham._ o all you hoste of heauen! o earth, what else? and shall i couple hell; remember thee? yes thou poore ghost; from the tables of my memorie, ile wipe away all sawes of bookes, all triuiall fond conceites that euer youth, or else obseruance noted, and thy remembrance, all alone shall sit. yes, yes, by heauen, a damnd pernitious villaine, murderons, bawdy, smiling damned villaine, (my tables) meet it is i set it downe, that one may smile, and smile, and be a villayne; [d1] at least i am sure, it may be so in _denmarke_. so vncle, there you are, there you are. now to the words; it is adue adue: remember me, soe t'is enough i haue sworne. _hor._ my lord, my lord. _enter. horatio,_ _mar._ lord hamlet. _and marcellus._ _hor._ ill, lo, lo, ho, ho. _mar._ ill, lo, lo, so, ho, so, come boy, come. _hor._ heauens secure him. _mar._ how i'st my noble lord? _hor._ what news my lord? _ham._ o wonderfull, wonderful. _hor._ good my lord tel it. _ham._ no not i, you'l reueale it. _hor._ not i my lord by heauen. _mar._ nor i my lord. _ham._ how say you then? would hart of man once thinke it? but you'l be secret. _both_. i by heauen, my lord. _ham._ there's neuer a villaine dwelling in all _denmarke_, but hee's an arrant knaue. _hor._ there need no ghost come from the graue to tell you this. _ham._ right, you are in the right, and therefore i holde it meet without more circumstance at all, wee shake hands and part; you as your busines and desiers shall leade you: for looke you, euery man hath busines, and desires, such as it is; and for my owne poore parte, ile go pray. _hor._ these are but wild and wherling words, my lord. _ham._. i am sory they offend you; hartely, yes faith hartily. _hor._ ther's no offence my lord. _ham._ yes by saint _patrike_ but there is h_oratio_, and much offence too, touching this vision, it is an honest ghost, that let mee tell you, for your desires to know what is betweene vs, [d1v] or emaister it as you may: and now kind frends, as yon are frends, schollers and gentlmen, grant mee one poore request. _both_. what i'st my lord? _ham._ neuer make known what you haue seene to night. _both_. my lord, we will not. _ham._ nay but sweare. _hor._ in faith my lord not i. _mar._ nor i my lord in faith. _ham._ nay vpon my sword, indeed vpon my sword. _gho._ sweare. _the gost under the stage_. _ham._ ha, ha, come you here, this fellow in the sellerige, here consent to sweare. _hor._ propose the oth my lord. _ham._ neuer to speake what you haue seene to night, sweare by my sword. _gost_. sweare. _ham._ _hic & vbique_; nay then weele shift our ground: come hither gentlemen, and lay your handes againe vpon this sword, neuer to speake of that which you haue seene, sweare by my sword. _ghost_ sweare. _ham._ well said old mole, can'st worke in the earth? so fast, a worthy pioner, once more remoue. _hor._ day and night, but this is wondrous strange. _ham._ and therefore as a stranger giue it welcome, there are more things in heauen and earth _horatio_, then are dream't of, in your philosophie, but come here, as before you neuer shall how strange or odde soere i beare my selfe, as i perchance hereafter shall thinke meet, to put an anticke disposition on, that you at such times seeing me, neuer shall with armes; incombred thus, or this head shake, [d2] or by pronouncing some vndoubtfull phrase, as well well, wee know, or wee could and if we would, or there be, and if they might, or such ambiguous. giuing out to note, that you know aught of mee, this not to doe, so grace, and mercie at your most need helpe you, sweare. _ghost_. sweare. _ham._ rest, rest, perturbed spirit: so gentlemen, in all my loue i do commend mee to you, and what so poore a man as _hamlet_ may, to pleasure you, god willing shall not want, nay come lett's go together, but stil your fingers on your lippes i pray, the time is out of ioynt, o cursed spite, that euer i was borne to set it right, nay come lett's go together. _exeunt._ _enter corambis, and montano._ _cor._ _montano_, here, these letters to my sonne, and this same mony with my blessing to him, and bid him ply his learning good _montano_. _mon._ i will my lord. _cor._ you shall do very well _montano_, to say thus, i knew the gentleman, or know his father, to inquire the manner of his life, as thus; being amongst his acquaintance, you may say, you saw him at such a time, marke you mee, at game, or drincking, swearing, or drabbing, you may go so farre. _mon._ my lord, that will impeach his reputation. _cor._ i faith not a whit, no not a whit, now happely hee closeth with you in the consequence, as you may bridle it not disparage him a iote. what was i a bout to say, _mon._ he closeth with him in the consequence. _cor._ i, you say right, he closeth with him thus, this will hee say, let mee see what hee will say, [d2v] mary this, i saw him yesterday, or tother day, or then, or at such a time, a dicing, or at tennis, i or drincking drunke, or entring of a howse of lightnes viz. brothell, thus sir do wee that know the world, being men of reach, by indirections, finde directions forth, and so shall you my sonne; you ha me, ha you not? _mon._ i haue my lord. _cor._ wel, fare you well, commend mee to him. _mon._ i will my lord, _cor._ and bid him ply his musicke _mon._ my lord i wil. _exit._ _enter, ofelia_. _cor._ farewel, how now _ofelia_, what's the news with you? _ofe._ o my deare father, such a change in nature, so great an alteration in a prince, so pitifull to him, fearefull to mee, a maidens eye ne're looked on. _cor._ why what's the matter my _ofelia_? _of._ o yong prince _hamlet_, the only floure of _denmark_, hee is bereft of all the wealth he had, the iewell that ador'nd his feature most is filcht and stolne away, his wit's bereft him, hee found mee walking in the gallery all alone, there comes hee to mee, with a distracted looke, his garters lagging downe, his shooes vntide, and fixt his eyes so stedfast on my face, as if they had vow'd, this is their latest obiect. small while he stoode, but gripes me by the wrist, and there he holdes my pulse till with a sigh he doth vnclaspe his holde, and parts away silent, as is the mid time of the night: and as he went, his eie was still on mee, for thus his head ouer his shoulder looked, he seemed to finde the way without his eies: for out of doores he went without their helpe, [d3] and so did leaue me. _cor._ madde for thy loue, what haue you giuen him any crosse wordes of late? _ofelia_ i did repell his letters, deny his gifts, as you did charge me. _cor._ why that hath made him madde: by heau'n t'is as proper for our age to cast beyond ourselues, as t'is for the yonger sort to leaue their wantonnesse. well, i am sory that i was so rash: but what remedy? lets to the king, this madnesse may prooue, though wilde a while, yet more true to thy loue. _exeunt._ _enter king and queene, rossencraft, and gilderstone._ _king_ right noble friends, that our deere cosin hamlet hath lost the very heart of all his sence, it is most right, and we most sory for him: therefore we doe desire, euen as you tender our care to him, and our great loue to you, that you will labour but to wring from him the cause and ground of his distemperancie. doe this, the king of _denmarke_ shal be thankefull. _ros._ my lord, whatsoeuer lies within our power your maiestie may more commaund in wordes then vse perswasions to your liege men, bound by loue, by duetie, and obedience. _guil._ what we may doe for both your maiesties to know the griefe troubles the prince your sonne, we will indeuour all the best we may, so in all duetie doe we take our leaue. _king_ thankes guilderstone, and gentle rossencraft. _que._ thankes rossencraft, and gentle gilderstone. _enter corambis and ofelia._ _cor._ my lord, the ambassadors are ioyfully return'd from _norway_. _king_ thou still hast beene the father of good news. _cor._ haue i my lord? i assure your grace, [d3v] i holde my duetie as i holde my life, both to my god, and to my soueraigne king: and i beleeue, or else this braine of mine hunts not the traine of policie so well as it had wont to doe, but i haue found the very depth of hamlets lunacie. _queene_ god graunt he hath. _enter the ambassadors._ _king_ now _voltemar_, what from our brother _norway_? _volt._ most faire returnes of greetings and desires, vpon our first he sent forth to suppresse his nephews leuies, which to him appear'd to be a preparation gainst the polacke: but better look't into, he truely found it was against your highnesse, whereat grieued, that so his sickenesse, age, and impotence, was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests on _fortenbrasse_, which he in briefe obays, receiues rebuke from _norway_: and in fine, makes vow before his vncle, neuer more to giue the assay of armes against your maiestie, whereon olde _norway_ ouercome with ioy, giues him three thousand crownes in annuall fee, and his commission to employ those souldiers, so leuied as before, against the polacke, with an intreaty heerein further shewne, that it would please you to giue quiet passe through your dominions, for that enterprise on such regardes of safety and allowances as therein are set downe. _king_ it likes vs well, and at fit time and leasure weele reade and answere these his articles, meane time we thanke you for your well tooke labour: go to your rest, at night weele feast togither: right welcome home. _exeunt ambassadors._ _cor._ this busines is very well dispatched. [d4] now my lord, touching the yong prince hamlet, certaine it is that hee is madde: mad let vs grant him then: now to know the cause of this effect, or else to say the cause of this defect, for this effect defectiue comes by cause. _queene_ good my lord be briefe. _cor._ madam i will: my lord, i haue a daughter, haue while shee's mine: for that we thinke is surest, we often loose: now to the prince. my lord, but note this letter, the which my daughter in obedience deliuer'd to my handes. _king_ reade it my lord. _cor._ marke my lord. doubt that in earth is fire, doubt that the starres doe moue, doubt trueth to be a liar, but doe not doubt i loue. to the beautifull _ofelia_: thine euer the most vnhappy prince _hamlet_. my lord, what doe you thinke of me? i, or what might you thinke when i sawe this? _king_ as of a true friend and a most louing subiect. _cor._ i would be glad to prooue so. now when i saw this letter, thus i bespake my maiden: lord _hamlet_ is a prince out of your starre, and one that is vnequall for your loue: therefore i did commaund her refuse his letters, deny his tokens, and to absent her selfe. shee as my childe obediently obey'd me. now since which time, seeing his loue thus cross'd, which i tooke to be idle, and but sport, he straitway grew into a melancholy, from that vnto a fast, then vnto distraction, then into a sadnesse, from that vnto a madnesse, and so by continuance, and weakenesse of the braine [d4v] into this frensie, which now possesseth him: and if this be not true, take this from this. _king_ thinke you t'is so? _cor._ how? so my lord, i would very faine know that thing that i haue saide t'is so, positiuely, and it hath fallen out otherwise. nay, if circumstances leade me on, ile finde it out, if it were hid as deepe as the centre of the earth. _king_. how should wee trie this same? _cor._ mary my good lord thus, the princes walke is here in the galery, there let _ofelia_, walke vntill hee comes: your selfe and i will stand close in the study, there shall you heare the effect of all his hart, and if it proue any otherwise then loue, then let my censure faile an other time. _king_. see where hee comes poring vppon a booke. _enter hamlet._ _cor._ madame, will it please your grace to leaue vs here? _que._ with all my hart. _exit._ _cor._ and here _ofelia_, reade you on this booke, and walke aloofe, the king shal be vnseene. _ham._ to be, or not to be, i there's the point, to die, to sleepe, is that all? i all: no, to sleepe, to dreame, i mary there it goes, for in that dreame of death, when wee awake, and borne before an euerlasting iudge, from whence no passenger euer retur'nd, the vndiscouered country, at whose sight the happy smile, and the accursed damn'd. but for this, the ioyfull hope of this, whol'd beare the scornes and flattery of the world, scorned by the right rich, the rich curssed of the poore? the widow being oppressd, the orphan wrong'd; [e1] the taste of hunger, or a tirants raigne, and thousand more calamities besides, to grunt and sweate vnder this weary life, when that he may his full _quietus_ make, with a bare bodkin, who would this indure, but for a hope of something after death? which pusles the braine, and doth confound the sence, which makes vs rather beare those euilles we haue, than flie to others that we know not of. i that, o this conscience makes cowardes of vs all, lady in thy orizons, be all my sinnes remembred. _ofel._ my lord, i haue sought opportunitie, which now i haue, to redeliuer to your worthy handes, a small remembrance, such tokens which i haue receiued of you. _ham._ are you faire? _ofel._ my lord. _ham._ are you honest? _ofel._ what meanes my lord? _ham._ that if you be faire and honest, your beauty should admit no discourse to your honesty. _ofel._ my lord, can beauty haue better priuiledge than with honesty? _ham._ yea mary may it; for beauty may transforme honesty, from what she was into a bawd: then honesty can transforme beauty: this was sometimes a paradox, but now the time giues it scope. i neuer gaue you nothing. _ofel._ my lord, you know right well you did, and with them such earnest vowes of loue, as would haue moou'd the stoniest breast aliue, but now too true i finde, rich giftes waxe poore, when giuers grow vnkinde. _ham._ i neuer loued you. _ofel._ you made me beleeue you did. _ham._ o thou shouldst not a beleeued me! [e1v] go to a nunnery goe, why shouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? i am my selfe indifferent honest, but i could accuse my selfe of such crimes it had beene better my mother had ne're borne me, o i am very prowde, ambitious, disdainefull, with more sinnes at my becke, then i haue thoughts to put them in, what should such fellowes as i do, crawling between heauen and earth? to a nunnery goe, we are arrant knaues all, beleeue none of vs, to a nunnery goe. _ofel._ o heauens secure him! _ham._ wher's thy father? _ofel._ at home my lord. _ham._ for gods sake let the doores be shut on him, he may play the foole no where but in his owne house: to a nunnery goe. _ofel._ help him good god. _ham._ if thou dost marry, ile giue thee this plague to thy dowry: be thou as chaste as yce, as pure as snowe, thou shalt not scape calumny, to a nunnery goe. _ofel._ alas, what change is this? _ham._ but if thou wilt needes marry, marry a foole, for wisemen know well enough, what monsters you make of them, to a nunnery goe. _ofel._ pray god restore him. _ham._ nay, i haue heard of your paintings too, god hath giuen you one face, and you make your selues another, you fig, and you amble, and you nickname gods creatures, making your wantonnesse, your ignorance, a pox, t'is scuruy, ile no more of it, it hath made me madde: ile no more marriages, all that are married but one, shall liue, the rest shall keepe as they are, to a nunnery goe, to a nunnery goe. _exit._[e2] _ofe._ great god of heauen, what a quicke change is this? the courtier, scholler, souldier, all in him, all dasht and splinterd thence, o woe is me, to a seene what i haue seene, see what i see. _exit._ _king_ loue? no, no, that's not the cause, _enter king and_ some deeper thing it is that troubles him. _corambis._ _cor._ wel, something it is: my lord, content you a while, i will my selfe goe feele him; let me worke, ile try him euery way: see where he comes, send you those gentlemen, let me alone to finde the depth of this, away, be gone. _exit king._ now my good lord, do you know me? _enter hamlet._ _ham._ yea very well, y'are a fishmonger. _cor._ not i my lord. _ham._ then sir, i would you were so honest a man, for to be honest, as this age goes, is one man to be pickt out of tenne thousand. _cor._ what doe you reade my lord? _ham._ wordes, wordes. _cor._ what's the matter my lord? _ham._ betweene who? _car._ i meane the matter you reade my lord. _ham._ mary most vile heresie: for here the satyricall satyre writes, that olde men haue hollow eyes, weake backes, grey beardes, pittifull weake hammes, gowty legges, all which sir, i most potently beleeue not: for sir, your selfe shalbe olde as i am, if like a crabbe, you could goe backeward. _cor._ how pregnant his replies are, and full of wit: yet at first he tooke me for a fishmonger: all this comes by loue, the vemencie of loue, and when i was yong, i was very idle, and suffered much extasie in loue, very neere this: will you walke out of the aire my lord? _ham._ into my graue. [e2v] _cor._ by the masse that's out of the aire indeed, very shrewd answers, my lord i will take my leaue of you. _enter gilderstone, and rossencraft._ _ham._ you can take nothing from me sir, i will more willingly part with all, olde doating foole. _cor,_ you seeke prince hamlet, see, there he is. _exit._ _gil._ health to your lordship. _ham._ what, gilderstone, and rossencraft, welcome kinde schoole-fellowes to _elsanoure_. _gil._ we thanke your grace, and would be very glad you were as when we were at _wittenberg_. _ham._ i thanke you, but is this visitation free of your selues, or were you not sent for? tell me true, come, i know the good king and queene sent for you, there is a kinde of confession in your eye: come, i know you were sent for. _gil._ what say you? _ham._ nay then i see how the winde sits, come, you were sent for. _ross._ my lord, we were, and willingly if we might, know the cause and ground of your discontent. _ham._ why i want preferment. _ross._ i thinke not so my lord. _ham._ yes faith, this great world you see contents me not, no nor the spangled heauens, nor earth, nor sea, no nor man that is so glorious a creature, contents not me, no nor woman too, though you laugh. _gil._ my lord, we laugh not at that. _ham._ why did you laugh then, when i said, man did not content mee? _gil._ my lord, we laughed when you said, man did not content you. what entertainment the players shall haue, we boorded them a the way: they are comming to you. [e3] _ham._ players, what players be they? _ross._ my lord, the tragedians of the citty, those that you tooke delight to see so often. (stie? _ham._ how comes it that they trauell? do they grow re _gil._ no my lord, their reputation holds as it was wont. _ham._ how then? _gil._ yfaith my lord, noueltie carries it away, for the principall publike audience that came to them, are turned to priuate playes, and to the humour of children. _ham._ i doe not greatly wonder of it, for those that would make mops and moes at my vncle, when my father liued, now giue a hundred, two hundred pounds for his picture: but they shall be welcome, he that playes the king shall haue tribute of me, the ventrous knight shall vse his foyle and target, the louer shall sigh gratis, the clowne shall make them laugh (for't, that are tickled in the lungs, or the blanke verse shall halt and the lady shall haue leaue to speake her minde freely. _the trumpets sound, enter corambis._ do you see yonder great baby? he is not yet out of his swadling clowts. _gil._ that may be, for they say an olde man is twice a childe. (players, _ham._ ile prophecie to you, hee comes to tell mee a the you say true, a monday last, t'was so indeede. _cor._ my lord, i haue news to tell you. _ham._ my lord, i haue news to tell you: when _rossios_ was an actor in _rome_. _cor._ the actors are come hither, my lord. _ham._ buz, buz. _cor._ the best actors in christendome, either for comedy, tragedy, historie, pastorall, pastorall, historicall, historicall, comicall, [e3v] comicall historicall, pastorall, tragedy historicall: _seneca_ cannot be too heauy, nor _plato_ too light: for the law hath writ those are the onely men. _ha._ o _iepha_ iudge of _israel_! what a treasure hadst thou? _cor._ why what a treasure had he my lord? _ham._ why one faire daughter, and no more, the which he loued passing well. _cor._ a, stil harping a my daughter! well my lord, if you call me _iepha_, i hane a daughter that i loue passing well. _ham._ nay that followes not. _cor._ what followes then my lord? _ham._ why by lot, or god wot, or as it came to passe, and so it was, the first verse of the godly ballet wil tel you all: for look you where my abridgement comes: welcome maisters, welcome all, _enter players._ what my olde friend, thy face is vallanced since i saw thee last, com'st thou to beard me in _denmarke_? my yong lady and mistris, burlady but your (you were: ladiship is growne by the altitude of a chopine higher than pray god sir your voyce, like a peece of vncurrant golde, be not crack't in the ring: come on maisters, weele euen too't, like french falconers, flie at any thing we see, come, a taste of your quallitie, a speech, a passionate speech. _players_ what speech my good lord? _ham._ i heard thee speake a speech once, but it was neuer acted: or if it were, neuer aboue twice, for as i remember, it pleased not the vulgar, it was cauiary to the million: but to me and others, that receiued it in the like kinde, cried in the toppe of their iudgements, an excellent play, set downe with as great modestie as cunning: one said there was no sallets in the lines to make thê sauory, but called it an honest methode, as wholesome as sweete. [e4] come, a speech in it i chiefly remember was _æneas_ tale to _dido_, and then especially where he talkes of princes slaughter, if it liue in thy memory beginne at this line, let me see. the rugged _pyrrus_, like th'arganian beast: no t'is not so, it begins with _pirrus_: o i haue it. the rugged _pirrus_, he whose sable armes, blacke as his purpose did the night resemble, when he lay couched in the ominous horse, hath now his blacke and grimme complexion smeered with heraldry more dismall, head to foote, now is he totall guise, horridely tricked with blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sonnes, back't and imparched in calagulate gore, rifted in earth and fire, olde grandsire _pryam_ seekes: so goe on. (accent. _cor._ afore god, my lord, well spoke, and with good _play._ anone he finds him striking too short at greeks, his antike sword rebellious to this arme, lies where it falles, vnable to resist. _pyrrus_ at _pryam_ driues, but all in rage, strikes wide, but with the whiffe and winde of his fell sword, th' unnerued father falles. _cor._ enough my friend, t'is too long. _ham._ it shall to the barbers with your beard: a pox, hee's for a iigge, or a tale of bawdry, or else he sleepes, come on to _hecuba_, come. _play._ but who o who had seene the mobled queene? _cor._ mobled queene is good, faith very good. _play._ all in the alarum and feare of death rose vp, and o're her weake and all ore-teeming loynes, a blancket and a kercher on that head, where late the diademe stoode, who this had seene with tongue inuenom'd speech, would treason haue pronounced, [e4v] for if the gods themselues had seene her then, when she saw _pirrus_ with malitious strokes, mincing her husbandes limbs, it would haue made milch the burning eyes of heauen, and passion in the gods. _cor._ looke my lord if he hath not changde his colour, and hath teares in his eyes: no more good heart, no more. _ham._ t'is well, t'is very well, i pray my lord, will you see the players well bestowed, i tell you they are the chronicles and briefe abstracts of the time, after your death i can tell you, you were better haue a bad epiteeth, then their ill report while you liue. _cor._ my lord, i will vse them according to their deserts. _ham._ o farre better man, vse euery man after his deserts, then who should scape whipping? vse them after your owne honor and dignitie, the lesse they deserue, the greater credit's yours. _cor._ welcome my good fellowes. _exit._ _ham._ come hither maisters, can you not play the murder of _gonsago_? _players_ yes my lord. _ham._ and could'st not thou for a neede study me some dozen or sixteene lines, which i would set downe and insert? _players_ yes very easily my good lord. _ham._ t'is well, i thanke you: follow that lord: and doe you heare sirs? take heede you mocke him not. gentlemen, for your kindnes i thanke you, and for a time i would desire you leaue me. _gil._ our loue and duetie is at your commaund. _exeunt all but hamlet._ _ham._ why what a dunghill idiote slaue am i? why these players here draw water from eyes: for hecuba, why what is hecuba to him, or he to hecuba? [f1] what would he do and if he had my losse? his father murdred, and a crowne bereft him, he would turne all his teares to droppes of blood, amaze the standers by with his laments, strike more then wonder in the iudiciall eares, confound the ignorant, and make mute the wise, indeede his passion would be generall. yet i like to an asse and iohn a dreames, hauing my father murdred by a villaine, stand still, and let it passe, why sure i am a coward: who pluckes me by the beard, or twites my nose, giue's me the lie i'th throate downe to the lungs, sure i should take it, or else i haue no gall, or by this i should a fatted all the region kites with this slaues offell, this damned villaine, treachcrous, bawdy, murderous villaine: why this is braue, that i the sonne of my deare father, should like a scalion, like a very drabbe thus raile in wordes. about my braine, i haue heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play, hath, by the very cunning of the scene, confest a murder committed long before. this spirit that i haue seene may be the diuell, and out of my weakenesse and my melancholy, as he is very potent with such men, doth seeke to damne me, i will haue sounder proofes, the play's the thing, wherein i'le catch the conscience of the king. _exit._ _enter the king, queene, and lordes._ _king_ lordes, can you by no meanes finde the cause of our sonne hamlets lunacie? you being so neere in loue, euen from his youth, me thinkes should gaine more than a stranger should. _gil._ my lord, we haue done all the best we could, [f1v] to wring from him the cause of all his griefe, but still he puts vs off, and by no meanes would make an answere to that we exposde. _ross._ yet was he something more inclin'd to mirth before we left him, and i take it, he hath giuen order for a play to night, at which he craues your highnesse company. _king_ with all our heart, it likes vs very well: gentlemen, seeke still to increase his mirth, spare for no cost, our coffers shall be open, and we vnto your selues will still be thankefull. _both_ in all wee can, be sure you shall commaund. _queene_ thankes gentlemen, and what the queene of may pleasure you, be sure you shall not want. (_denmarke_ _gil._ weele once againe vnto the noble prince. _king_ thanks to you both; gertred you'l see this play. _queene_ my lord i will, and it ioyes me at the soule he is incln'd to any kinde of mirth. _cor._ madame, i pray be ruled by me: and my good soueraigne, giue me leaue to speake, we cannot yet finde out the very ground of his distemperance, therefore i holde it meete, if so it please you, else they shall not meete, and thus it is. _king_ what i'st _corambis_? (done, _cor._ mary my good lord this, soone when the sports are madam, send you in haste to speake with him, and i my selfe will stand behind the arras, there question you the cause of all his griefe, and then in loue and nature vnto you, hee'le tell you all: my lord, how thinke you on't? _king_ it likes vs well, gerterd, what say you? _queene_ with all my heart, soone will i send for him. _cor._ my selfe will be that happy messenger, who hopes his griefe will be reueal'd to her. _exeunt omnes_ _enter hamlet and the players_. [f2] _ham._ pronounce me this spcech trippingly a the tongue as i taught thee, mary and you mouth it, as a many of your players do i'de rather heare a towne bull bellow, then such a fellow speake my lines. nor do not saw the aire thus with your hands, but giue euerything his action with temperance. (fellow, o it offends mee to the soule, to heare a rebellious periwig to teare a passion in totters, into very ragges, to split the eares of the ignorant, who for the (noises, most parte are capable or nothing but dumbe shewes and i would haue such a fellow whipt, or o're doing, tarmagant it out, herodes herod. _players_ my lorde, wee haue indifferently reformed that among vs. _ham._ the better, the better, mend it all together: there be fellowes that i haue seene play, and heard others commend them, and that highly too, that hauing neither the gate or christian, pagan, nor turke, haue so strutted and bellowed, that you would a thought, some of natures journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanitie, so abhominable: take heede, auoyde it. _players_ i warrant you my lord. _ham._ and doe you heare? let not your clowne speake more then is set downe, there be of them i can tell you that will laugh themselues, to set on some quantitie of barren spectators to laugh with them, albeit there is some necessary point in the play then to be obserued: o t'is vile, and shewes a pittifull ambition in the foole that vseth it. and then you haue some agen, that keepes one sute of ieasts, as a man is knowne by one sute of apparell, and gentlemen quotes his ieasts downe in their tables, before they come to the play, as thus: [f2v] cannot you stay till i eate my porrige? and, you owe me a quarters wages: and, my coate wants a cullison: and, your beere is sowre: and, blabbering with his lips, and thus keeping in his cinkapase of ieasts, when, god knows, the warme clowne cannot make a iest vnlesse by chance, as the blinde man catcheth a hare: maisters tell him of it. _players_ we will my lord. _ham._ well, goe make you ready. _exeunt players._ _horatio_. heere my lord. _ham._ _horatio_, thou art euen as iust a man, as e're my conuersation cop'd withall. _hor._ o my lord! _ham._ nay why should i flatter thee? why should the poore be flattered? what gaine should i receiue by flattering thee, that nothing hath but thy good minde? let flattery sit on those time-pleasing tongs, to glose with them that loues to heare their praise, and not with such as thou _horatio_. there is a play to night, wherein one sceane they haue comes very neere the murder of my father, when thou shalt see that act afoote, marke thou the king, doe but obserue his lookes, for i mine eies will riuet to his face: and if he doe not bleach, and change at that, it is a dammed ghost that we haue seene. _horatio_, haue a care, obserue him well. _hor._ my lord, mine eies shall still be on his face, and not the smallest alteration that shall appeare in him, but i shall note it. _ham._ harke, they come. _enter king, queene, corambis, and other lords._ (a play? _king_. how now son _hamlet_, how fare you, shall we haue _ham_. yfaith the camelions dish, not capon cramm'd, feede a the ayre. [f3] i father: my lord, you playd in the vniuersitie. _cor._ that i did my l: and i was counted a good actor. _ham_. what did you enact there? _cor._ my lord, i did act _iulius cæsar_, i was killed in the capitol, _brutus_ killed me. _ham_. it was a brute parte of him, to kill so capitall a calfe. come, be these players ready? _queene_ hamlet come sit downe by me. _ham._ no by my faith mother, heere's a mettle more atlady will you giue me leaue, and so forth: (tractiue: to lay my head in your lappe? _ofel._ no my lord. (trary matters? _ham._ vpon your lap, what do you thinke i meant con _enter in dumbe shew, the king and the queene, he sits downe in an arbor, she leaues him: then enters luci anus with poyson in a viall, and powres it in his eares, and goes away: then the queene commmeth and findes him dead: and goes away with the other._ _ofel._ what meanes this my lord? _enter the prologue._ _ham._ this is myching mallico, that meanes my chiefe. _ofel._ what doth this meane my lord? _ham._ you shall heare anone, this fellow will tell you all. _ofel._ will he tell vs what this shew meanes? _ham._ i, or any shew you'le shew him, be not afeard to shew, hee'le not be afeard to tell: o, these players cannot keepe counsell, thei'le tell all. _prol._ for vs, and for our tragedie, here stowpiug to your clemencie, we begge your hearing patiently. _ham._ is't a prologue, or a poesie for a ring? _ofel._ t'is short, my lord. _ham._ as womens loue. _enter the duke and dutchesse._ _duke_ full fortie yeares are past, their date is gone, since happy time ioyn'd both our hearts as one: [f3v] and now the blood that fill'd my youthfull veines, runnes weakely in their pipes, and all the straines of musicke, which whilome pleasde mine eare, is now a burthen that age cannot beare: and therefore sweete nature must pay his due, to heauen must i, and leaue the earth with you. _dutchesse_ o say not so, lest that you kill my heart, when death takes you, let life from me depart. _duke_ content thy selfe, when ended is my date, thon maist (perchance) haue a more noble mate, more wise, more youthfull, and one. _dutchesse_ o speake no more for then i am accurst, none weds the second, but she kils the first: a second time i kill my lord that's dead, when second husband kisses me in bed. _ham._ o wormewood, wormewood! _duke_ i doe beleeue you sweete, what now you speake, but what we doe determine oft we breake, for our demises stil are ouerthrowne, our thoughts are ours, their end's none of our owne: so thinke you will no second husband wed, but die thy thoughts, when thy first lord is dead. _dutchesse_ both here and there pursue me lasting strife, if once a widdow, euer i be wife. _ham._ if she should breake now. _duke_ t'is deepely sworne, sweete leaue me here a while, my spirites growe dull, and faine i would beguile the tedious time with sleepe. _dutchesse_ sleepe rocke thy braine, and neuer come mischance betweene vs twaine. _exit lady_ _ham._ madam, how do you like this play? _queene_ the lady protests too much. _ham._ o but shee'le keepe her word. _king_ haue you heard the argument, is there no offence in it? _ham._ no offence in the world, poyson in iest, poison in [f4] _king_ what do you call the name of the play? (iest. _ham._ mouse-trap: mary how trapically: this play is the image of a murder done in _guyana_, _albertus_ was the dukes name, his wife _baptista_, father, it is a knauish peece a worke: but what a that, it toucheth not vs, you and i that haue free soules, let the galld iade wince, this is one _lucianus_ nephew to the king. _ofel._ ya're as good as a _chorus_ my lord. _ham._ i could interpret the loue you beare, if i sawe the poopies dallying. _ofel._ y'are very pleasant my lord. _ham._ who i, your onlie jig-maker, why what shoulde a man do but be merry? for looke how cheerefully my mother lookes, my father died within these two houres. _ofel._ nay, t'is twice two months, my lord. _ham._ two months, nay then let the diuell weare blacke, for i'le haue a sute of sables: iesus, two months dead, and not forgotten yet? nay then there's some likelyhood, a gentlemans death may outliue memorie, but by my faith hee must build churches then, or els hee must follow the olde epitithe, with hoh, with ho, the hobi-horse is forgot. _ofel._ your iests are keene my lord. _ham._ it would cost you a groning to take them off. _ofel._ still better and worse. _ham._ so you must take your husband, begin. murdred begin, a poxe, leaue thy damnable faces and begin, come, the croking rauen doth bellow for reuenge. _murd._ thoughts blacke, hands apt, drugs fit, and time confederate season, else no creature seeing: (agreeing. thou mixture rancke, of midnight weedes collected, with _hecates_ bane thrise blasted, thrise infected, thy naturall magicke, and dire propertie, one wholesome life vsurps immediately. _exit._ _ham._ he poysons him for his estate. [f4v] _king_ lights, i will to bed. _cor._ the king rises, lights hoe. _exeunt king and lordes._ _ham._ what, frighted with false fires? then let the stricken deere goe weepe, the hart vngalled play, for some must laugh, while some must weepe, thus runnes the world away. _hor._ the king is mooued my lord. _hor._ i _horatio_, i'le take the ghosts word for more then all the coyne in _denmarke_. _enter rossencraft and gilderstone._ _ross._ now my lord, how i'st with you? _ham._ and if the king like not the tragedy, why then belike he likes it not perdy. _ross._ we are very glad to see your grace so pleasant, my good lord, let vs againe intreate (ture to know of you the ground and cause of your distempera _gil._ my lord, your mother craues to speake with you. _ham._ we shall obey, were she ten times our mother. _ross._ but my good lord, shall i intreate thus much? _ham._ i pray will you play vpon this pipe? _ross._ alas my lord i cannot. _ham._ pray will you. _gil._ i haue no skill my lord. _ham._ why looke, it is a thing of nothing, t'is but stopping of these holes, and with a little breath from your lips, it will giue most delicate musick. _gil._ but this cannot wee do my lord. _ham._ pray now, pray hartily, i beseech you. _ros._ my lord wee cannot. (me? _ham._ why how vnworthy a thing would you make of you would seeme to know my stops, you would play vpon [g1] you would search the very inward part of my hart, mee, and diue into the secreet of my soule. zownds do you thinke i am easier to be pla'yd on, then a pipe? call mee what instrument you will, though you can frett mee, yet you can not play vpon mee, besides, to be demanded by a spunge. _ros._ how a spunge my lord? _ham._ i sir, a spunge, that sokes vp the kings countenance, fauours, and rewardes, that makes his liberalitie your store house: but such as you, do the king, in the end, best seruise; for hee doth keep you as an ape doth nuttes, in the corner of his iaw, first mouthes you, then swallowes you: so when hee hath need of you, t'is but squeesing of you, and spunge, you shall be dry againe, you shall. _ros._ wel my lord wee'le take our leaue. _ham_ farewell, farewell, god blesse you. _exit rossencraft and gilderstone._ _enter corambis_ _cor._ my lord, the queene would speake with you. _ham._ do you see yonder clowd in the shape of a camell? _cor._ t'is like a camell in deed. _ham._ now me thinkes it's like a weasel. _cor._ t'is back't like a weasell. _ham._ or like a whale. _cor._ very like a whale. _exit coram._ _ham._ why then tell my mother i'le come by and by. good night horatio. _hor._ good night vnto your lordship. _exit horatio._ _ham._ my mother she hath sent to speake with me: o god, let ne're the heart of _nero_ enter this soft bosome. let me be cruell, not vnnaturall. i will speake daggers, those sharpe wordes being spent, [g1v] to doe her wrong my soule shall ne're consent. _exit._ _enter the king_. _king_. o that this wet that falles vpon my face would wash the crime cleere from my conscience! when i looke vp to heauen, i see my trespasse, the earth doth still crie out vpon my fact, pay me the murder of a brother and a king, and the adulterous fault i haue committed: o these are sinnes that art vnpardonable: why say thy sinnes were blacker then is ieat, yet may contrition make them as white as snowe: i but still to perseuer in a sinne, it is an act gainst the vniuerfall power, most wretched man, stoope, bend thee to thy prayer, aske grace of heauen to keepe thee from despaire. _hee kneeles._ _enters hamlet_ _ham._ i so, come forth and worke thy last, and thus hee dies: and so, am i reuenged: no, not so: he tooke my father sleeping, his sins brim full, and how his soule floode to the state of heauen who knowes, saue the immortall powres, and shall i kill him now when he is purging of his soule? making his way for heauen, this is a benefit, and not reuenge: no, get thee vp agen, (drunke, when hee's at game swaring, taking his carowse, drinking or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed, or at some act that hath no relish of saluation in't, then trip him that his heeles may kicke at heauen, and fall as lowe as hel: my mother stayes, this phisicke but prolongs they weary dayes. _exit ham._ _king_. my wordes fly vp, my sinnes remaine below. no king on earth is safe, if gods his foe. _exit king._[g2] _enter queene and corambis._ _cor._ madame, i heare yong hamlet comming, i'le shrowde my selfe behinde the arras. _exit cor._ _queene_ do so my lord. _ham._ mother, mother, o are you here? how i'st with you mother? _queene_ how i'st with you? _ham,_ i'le tell you, but first weele make all safe. _queene_ hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. _ham._ mother, you haue my father much offended. _queene_ how now boy? _ham._ how now mother! come here, sit downe, for you shall heare me speake. _queene_ what wilt thou doe? thou wilt not murder me: helpe hoe. _cor._ helpe for the queene. _ham._ i a rat, dead for a duckat. rash intruding foole, farewell, i tooke thee for thy better. _queene_ hamlet, what hast thou done? _ham._ not so much harme, good mother, as to kill a king, and marry with his brother. _queene_ how! kill a king! _ham._ i a king: nay sit you downe, and ere you part, if you be made of penitrable stuffe, i'le make your eyes looke downe into your heart, and see how horride there and blacke it shews. (words? _queene_ hamlet, what mean'st thou by these killing _ham._ why this i meane, see here, behold this picture, it is the portraiture, of your deceased husband, see here a face, to outface _mars_ himselfe, an eye, at which his foes did tremble at, a front wherin all vertues are set downe for to adorne a king, and guild his crowne, whose heart went hand in hand euen with that vow, he made to you in marriage, and he is dead. [g2v] murdred, damnably murdred, this was your husband, looke you now, here is your husband, with a face like _vulcan_. a looke fit for a murder and a rape, a dull dead hanging looke, and a hell-bred eie, to affright children and amaze the world: and this same haue you left to change with this. what diuell thus hath cosoned you at hob-man blinde? a! haue you eyes and can you looke on him that slew my father, and your deere husband, to liue in the incestuous pleasure of his bed? _queene_ o hamlet, speake no more. _ham._ to leaue him that bare a monarkes minde, for a king of clowts, of very shreads. _queene_ sweete hamlet cease. _ham._ nay but still to persist and dwell in sinne, to sweate vnder the yoke of infamie, to make increase of shame, to seale damnation. _queene_ hamlet, no more. _ham._ why appetite with you is in the waine, your blood runnes backeward now from whence it came, who'le chide hote blood within a virgins heart, when lust shall dwell within a matrons breast? _queene_ hamlet, thou cleaues my heart in twaine. _ham._ o throw away the worser part of it, and keepe the better. _enter the ghost in his night gowne._ saue me, saue me, you gratious powers aboue, and houer ouer mee, with your celestiall wings. doe you not come your tardy sonne to chide, that i thus long haue let reuenge slippe by? o do not glare with lookes so pittifull! lest that my heart of stone yeelde to compassion, and euery part that should assist reuenge, [g3] forgoe their proper powers, and fall to pitty. _ghost_ hamlet, i once againe appeare to thee, to put thee in remembrance of my death: doe not neglect, nor long time put it off. but i perceiue by thy distracted lookes, thy mother's fearefull, and she stands amazde: speake to her hamlet, for her sex is weake, comfort thy mother, hamlet, thinke on me. _ham._ how i'st with you lady? _queene_ nay, how i'st with you that thus you bend your eyes on vacancie, and holde discourse with nothing but with ayre? _ham._ why doe you nothing heare? _queene_ not i. _ham._ nor doe you nothing see? _queene_ no neither. (habite _ham._ no, why see the king my father, my father, in the as he liued, looke you how pale he lookes, see how he steales away out of the portall, looke, there he goes. _exit ghost._ _queene_ alas, it is the weakeness of thy braine, which makes thy tongue to blazon thy hearts griefe: but as i haue a soule, i sweare by heauen, i neuer knew of this most horride murder: but hamlet, this is only fantasie, and for my loue forget these idle fits. _ham._ idle, no mother, my pulse doth beate like yours, it is not madnesse that possesseth hamlet. o mother, if euer you did my deare father loue, forbeare the adulterous bed to night, and win your selfe by little as you may, in time it may be you wil lothe him quite: and mother, but assist mee in reuenge, and in his death your infamy shall die. _queene_ _hamlet_, i vow by that maiesty, that knowes our thoughts, and lookes into our hearts, [g3v] i will conceale, consent, and doe my best, what stratagem soe're thou shalt deuise. _ham._ it is enough, mother good night: come sir, i'le provide for you a graue, who was in life a foolish prating knaue. _exit hamlet with the dead body._ _enter the king and lordes._ _king_ now gertred, what sayes our sonne, how doe you finde him? _queene_ alas my lord, as raging as the sea: whenas he came, i first bespake him faire, but then he throwes and tosses me about, as one forgetting that i was his mother: at last i call'd for help: and as i cried, _corambis_ call'd, which hamlet no sooner heard, but whips me out his rapier, and cries, a rat, a rat, and in his rage the good olde man he killes. _king_ why this his madnesse will vndoe our state. lordes goe to him, inquire the body out. _gil._ we will my lord. _exeunt lordes._ _king_ gertred, your sonne shall presently to england, his shipping is already furnished, and we have sent by _rossencraft_ and _gilderstone_, our letters to our deare brother of england, for hamlets welfare and his happinesse: happly the aire and climate of the country may please him better than his natiue home: see where he comes. _enter hamlet and the lordes._ _gil._ my lord, we can by no meanes know of him where the body is. _king_ now sonne hamlet, where is this dead body? _ham._ at supper, not where he is eating, but where he is eaten, a certaine company of politicke wormes [g4] are euen now at him. father, your fatte king, and your leane beggar are but variable seruices, two dishes to one messe: looke you, a man may fish with that worme that hath eaten of a king, and a beggar eate that fish, which that worme hath caught. _king_ what of this? _ham._ nothing father, but to tell you, how a king may go a progresse through the guttes of a beggar. _king_ but sonne _hamlet_, where is this body? _ham._ in heau'n, if you chance to misse him there, father, you had best looke in the other partes below for him, aud if you cannot finde him there, you may chance to nose him as you go vp the lobby. _king_ make haste and finde him out. _ham._ nay doe you heare? do not make too much haste, i'le warrant you hee'le stay till you come. _king_ well sonne _hamlet_, we in care of you: but specially in tender preseruation of your health, the which we price euen as our proper selfe, it is our minde you forthwith goe for _england_, the winde sits faire, you shall aboorde to night, lord _rossencraft_ and _gilderstone_ shall goe along with you. _ham._ o with all my heart: farewel mother. _king_ your louing father, _hamlet_. _ham._ my mother i say: you married my mother, my mother is your wife, man and wife is one flesh, and so (my mother) farewel: for england hoe. _exeunt all but the king._ _king_ gertred, leaue me, and take your leaue of _hamlet_, to england is he gone, ne're to returne: our letters are vnto the king of england, that on the sight of them, on his allegeance, he presently without demaunding why, [g4v] that _hamlet_ loose his head, for he must die, there's more in him than shallow eyes can see: he once being dead, why then our state is free. _exit._ _enter fortenbrasse, drumme and souldiers._ _fort._ captaine, from vs goe greete the king of denmarke: tell him that _fortenbrasse_ nephew to old _norway_, craues a free passe and conduct ouer his land. according to the articles agreed on: you know our randevous, goe march away. _exeunt all._ _enter king and queene._ _king_ _hamlet_ is ship't for england, fare him well, i hope to heare good newes from thence ere long, if euery thing fall out to our content, as i doe make no doubt but so it shall. _queene_ god grant it may, heau'ns keep my _hamlet_ safe: but this mischance of olde _corambis_ death, hath piersed so the yong _ofeliaes_ heart, that she, poore maide, is quite bereft her wittes. _king_ alas deere heart! and on the other side, we vnderstand her brother's come from _france_, and he hath halfe the heart of all our land, and hardly hee'le forget his fathers death, vnlesse by some meanes he be pacified. _qu._ o see where the yong _ofelia_ is! _enter ofelia playing on a lute, and her haire downe singing_. _ofelia_ how should i your true loue know from another man? by his cockle hatte, and his staffe, and his sandall shoone. [h1] white his shrowde as mountaine snowe, larded with sweete flowers, that bewept to the graue did not goe with true louers showers: he is dead and gone lady, he is dead and gone, at his head a grasse greene turffe, at his heeles a stone. _king_ how i'st with you sweete _ofelia_? _ofelia_ well god yeeld you, it grieues me to see how they laid him in the cold ground, i could not chuse but weepe: and will he not come againe? and will he not come againe? no, no, hee's gone, and we cast away mone, and he neuer will come againe. his beard as white as snowe: all flaxen was his pole, he is dead, he is gone, and we cast away moane: god a mercy on his soule. and of all christen soules i pray god. god be with you ladies, god be with you. _exit ofelia._ _king_ a pretty wretch! this is a change indeede: o time, how swiftly runnes our ioyes away! content on earth was neuer certaine bred, to day we laugh and liue, tomorrow dead. how now, what noyse is that? _a noyse within._ _enter leartes._ _lear._ stay there vntill i come, o thou vilde king, give me my father: speake, say, where's my father? _king_ dead. _lear._ who hath murdred him? speake, i'le not be juggled with, for he is murdred. _queene_ true, but not by him. _lear._ by whome, by heau'n i'll be resolued. [h1v] _king_ let him goe _gertred_, away, i feare him not, there's such diuinitie doth wall a king, that treason dares not looke on. let him goe _gertred_, that your father is murdred, t'is true, and we most sory for it, being the chiefest piller of our state: therefore will you like a most desperate gamster, swoop-stake-like, draw at friend, and foe, and all? _lear._ to his good friends thus wide i'le ope mine arms, and locke them in my hart, but to his foes, i will no reconcilement but by bloud. _king_ why now you speake like a most louing sonne: and that in soule we sorrow for for his death, yourselfe ere long shall be a witnesse, meane while be patient, and content your selfe. _enter ofelia as before._ _lear._ who's this, _ofelia?_ o my deere sister! i'st possible a yong maides life, should be as mortall as an olde mans sawe? o heau'ns themselues! how now _ofelia_? _ofel._ wel god a mercy, i a bin gathering of floures: here, here is rew for you, you may call it hearb a grace a sundayes, heere's some for me too: you must weare your rew with a difference, there's a dazie. here loue, there's rosemary for you for remembrance: i pray loue remember, and there's pansey for thoughts. _lear._ a document in madnes, thoughts, remembrance: o god, o god! _ofelia_ there is fennell for you, i would a giu'n you some violets, but they all withered, when my father died: alas, they say the owle was a bakers daughter, we see what we are, but can not tell what we shall be. for bonny sweete robin is all my ioy. [h2] _lear._ thoughts & afflictions, torments worse than hell. _ofel._ nay loue, i pray you make no words of this now: i pray now, you shall sing a downe, and you a downe a, t'is a the kings daughter and the false steward, and if any body aske you of any thing, say you this. tomorrow is saint valentines day, all in the morning betime, and a maide at your window, to be your valentine: the yong man rose, and dan'd his clothes, and dupt the chamber doore, let in the maide, that out a maide neuer departed more. nay i pray marke now, by gisse, and by saint charitie, away, and fie for shame: yong men will doo't when they come too't: by cocke they are too blame. quoth she, before you tumbled me, you promised me to wed. so would i a done, by yonder sunne, if thou hadst not come to my bed. so god be with you all, god bwy ladies. god bwy you loue. _exit ofelia._ _lear._ griefe vpon griefe, my father murdered, my sister thus distracted: cursed be his soule that wrought this wicked act. _king_ content you good leartes for a time, although i know your griefe is as a floud, brimme full of sorrow, but forbeare a while, and thinke already the reuenge is done on him that makes you such a haplesse sonne. _lear._ you haue preuail'd my lord, a while i'le striue, to bury griefe within a tombe of wrath, which once vnhearsed, then the world shall heare [h2v] leartes had a father he held deere. _king_ no more of that, ere many days be done, you shall heare that you do not dreame vpon. _exeunt om._ _enter horatio and the queene._ _hor._ madame, your sonne is safe arriv'de in _denmarke_, this letter i euen now receiv'd of him, whereas he writes how he escap't the danger, and subtle treason that the king had plotted, being crossed by the contention of the windes, he found the packet sent to the king of _england_, wherein he saw himselfe betray'd to death, as at his next conuersion with your grace, he will relate the circumstance at full. _queene_ then i perceiue there's treason in his lookes that seem'd to sugar o're his villanie: but i will soothe and please him for a time, for murderous mindes are always jealous, but know not you _horatio_ where he is? _hor._ yes madame, and he hath appoyntd me to meete him on the east side of the cittie to morrow morning. _queene_ o faile not, good _horatio_, and withall, coma mothers care to him, bid him a while (mend me be wary of his presence, lest that he faile in that he goes about. _hor._ madam, neuer make doubt of that: i thinke by this the news be come to court: he is arriv'de, obserue the king, and you shall quickely finde, _hamlet_ being here, things fell not to his minde. _queene_ but what became of _gilderstone_ and _rossencraft_? _hor._ he being set ashore, they went for _england_, and in the packet there writ down that doome to be perform'd on them poynted for him: and by great chance he had his fathers seale, so all was done without discouerie. [h3] _queene_ thankes be to heauen for blessing of the prince, _horatio_ once againe i take my leaue, with thowsand mothers blessings to my sonne. _horat._ madam adue. _enter king and leartes._ _king._ hamlet from _england_! is it possible? what chance is this? they are gone, and he come home. _lear._ o he is welcome, by my soule he is: at it my iocund heart doth leape for ioy, that i shall liue to tell him, thus he dies. _king_ leartes, content your selfe, be rulde by me, and you shall haue no let for your reuenge. _lear._ my will, not all the world. _king_ nay but leartes, marke the plot i haue layde, i haue heard him often with a greedy wish, vpon some praise that he hath heard of you touching your weapon, which with all his heart, he might be once tasked for to try your cunning. _lea._ and how for this? _king_ mary leartes thus: i'le lay a wager, shalbe on _hamlets_ side, and you shall giue the oddes, the which will draw him with a more desire, to try the maistry, that in twelue venies you gaine not three of him: now this being granted, when you are hot in midst of all your play, among the foyles shall a keene rapier lie, steeped in a mixture of deadly poyson, that if it drawes but the least dramme of blood, in any part of him, he cannot liue: this being done will free you from suspition, and not the deerest friend that _hamlet_ lov'de will euer haue leartes in suspect. _lear._ my lord, i like it well: but say lord _hamlet_ should refuse this match. _king_ i'le warrant you, wee'le put on you such a report of singularitie, [h3v] will bring him on, although against his will. and lest that all should misse, i'le haue a potion that shall ready stand, in all his heate when that he calles for drinke, shall be his period and our happinesse. _lear._ t'is excellent, o would the time were come! here comes the queene. _enter the queene._ _king_ how now gertred, why looke you heauily? _queene_ o my lord, the yong _ofelia_ hauing made a garland of sundry sortes of floures, sitting vpon a willow by a brooke, the enuious sprig broke, into the brooke she fell, and for a while her clothes spread wide abroade, bore the yong lady vp: and there she sate smiling, euen mermaide-like, twixt heauen and earth, chaunting olde sundry tunes vncapable as it were of her distresse, but long it could not be, till that her clothes, being heauy with their drinke, dragg'd the sweete wretch to death. _lear._ so, she is drownde: too much of water hast thou _ofelia_, therefore i will not drowne thee in my teares, reuenge it is must yeeld this heart releese, for woe begets woe, and griefe hangs on griefe. _exeunt._ _enter clowne and an other_ _clowne_ i say no, she ought not to be buried in christian buriall. 2. why sir? _clowne_ mary because shee's drownd. 2. but she did not drowne her selfe. _clowne_ no, that's certaine, the water drown'd her. 2. yea but it was against her will. _clowne_ no, i deny that, for looke you sir, i stand here, if the water come to me, i drowne not my selfe: but if i goe to the water, and am there drown'd, _ergo_ i am guiltie of my owne death: [h4] y'are gone, goe y'are gone sir. 2. i but see, she hath christian buriall, because she is a great woman. _clowne_ mary more's the pitty, that great folke should haue more authoritie to hang or drowne themselues, more than other people: goe fetch me a stope of drinke, but before thou goest, tell me one thing, who buildes strongest, of a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter? 2. why a mason, for he buildes all of stone, and will indure long. _clowne_ that's prety, too't agen, too't agen. 2. why then a carpenter, for he buildes the gallowes, and that brings many a one to his long home. _clowne_ prety agen, the gallowes doth well, mary howe dooes it well? the gallowes dooes well to them that doe ill, goe get thee gone: and if any one aske thee hereafter, say, a graue-maker, for the houses he buildes last till doomes-day. fetch me a stope of beere, goe. _enter hamlet and horatio._ _clowne_ a picke-axe and a spade, a spade for and a winding sheete, most fit it is, for t'will be made, _he throwes vp a shouel._ for such a ghest most meete. _ham._ hath this fellow any feeling of himselfe, that is thus merry in making of a graue? see how the slaue joles their heads against the earth. _hor._ my lord, custome hath made it in him seeme no _clowne_ a pick-axe and a spade, a spade, (thing. for and a winding sheete, most fit it is for to be made, for such a ghest most meet. _ham._ looke you, there's another _horatio_. why mai't not be the soull of some lawyer? [h4v] me thinkes he should indite that fellow of an action of batterie, for knocking him about the pate with's shouel: now where is your quirkes and quillets now, your vouchers and double vouchers, your leases and free-holde, and tenements? why that same boxe there will scarce holde the conueiance of his land, and must the honor lie there? o pittifull transformance! i prethee tell me _horatio_, is parchment made of sheep-skinnes? _hor._ i my lorde, and of calues-skinnes too. _ham._ ifaith they prooue themselues sheepe and calues that deale with them, or put their trust in them. there's another, why may not that be such a ones scull, that praised my lord such a ones horse, when he meant to beg him? _horatio_, i prethee lets question yonder fellow. now my friend, whose graue is this? _clowne_ mine sir. _ham._ but who must lie in it? (sir. _clowne_ if i should say, i should, i should lie in my throat _ham._ what man must be buried here? _clowne_ no man sir. _ham._ what woman? _clowne_. no woman neither sir, but indeede one that was a woman. _ham._ an excellent fellow by the lord _horatio_, this seauen yeares haue i noted it: the toe of the pesant, comes so neere the heele of the courtier, that hee gawles his kibe, i prethee tell mee one thing, how long will a man lie in the ground before hee rots? _clowne_ i faith sir, if hee be not rotten before he be laide in, as we haue many pocky corses, he will last you, eight yeares, a tanner will last you eight yeares full out, or nine. _ham._ and why a tanner? [i1] _clowne_ why his hide is so tanned with his trade, that it will holde out water, that's a parlous deuourer of your dead body, a great soaker. looke you, heres a scull hath bin here this dozen yeare, let me see, i euer since our last king _hamlet_ slew _fortenbrasse_ in combat, yong _hamlets_ father, hee that's mad. _ham._ i mary, how came he madde? _clowne_ ifaith very strangely, by loosing of his wittes. _ham._ vpon what ground? _clowne_ a this ground, in _denmarke_. _ham._ where is he now? _clowne_ why now they sent him to _england_. _ham._ to _england_! wherefore? _clowne_ why they say he shall haue his wittes there, or if he haue not, t'is no great matter there, it will not be seene there. _ham._ why not there? _clowne_ why there they say the men are as mad as he. _ham._ whose scull was this? _clowne_ this, a plague on him, a madde rogues it was, he powred once a whole flagon of rhenish of my head, why do not you know him? this was one _yorickes_ scull. _ham._ was this? i prethee let me see it, alas poore _yoricke_ i knew him _horatio_, a fellow of infinite mirth, he hath caried mee twenty times vpon his backe, here hung those lippes that i haue kissed a hundred times, and to see, now they abhorre me: wheres your iefts now _yoricke_? your flashes of meriment: now go to my ladies chamber, and bid her paint her selfe an inch thicke, to this she must come _yoricke_. _horatio_, i prethee tell me one thing, doost thou thinke that _alexander_ looked thus? _hor._ euen so my lord. _ham._ and smelt thus? _hor._ i my lord, no otherwise. [i1v] _ham._ no, why might not imagination worke, as thus of _alexander_, _alexander_ died, _alexander_ was buried, _alexander_ became earth, of earth we make clay, and _alexander_ being but clay, why might not time bring to passe, that he might stoppe the boung hole of a beere barrell? imperious cæsar dead and turnd to clay, might stoppe a hole, to keepe the winde away. _enter king and queene, leartes, and other lordes, with a priest after the coffin._ _ham._ what funerall's this that all the court laments? it shews to be some noble parentage: stand by a while. _lear._ what ceremony else? say, what ceremony else? _priest_ my lord, we haue done all that lies in vs, and more than well the church can tolerate, she hath had a dirge sung for her maiden soule: and but for fauour of the king, and you, she had beene buried in the open fieldes, where now she is allowed christian buriall. _lear._ so, i tell thee churlish priest, a ministring angell shall my sister be, when thou liest howling. _ham._ the faire _ofelia_ dead! _queene_ sweetes to the sweete, farewell: i had thought to adorne thy bridale bed, faire maide, and not to follow thee vnto thy graue. _lear._ forbeare the earth a while: sister farewell: l_eartes leapes into the graue._ now powre your earth on, _olympus_ hie, and make a hill to o're top olde _pellon_: _hamlet leapes_ whats he that coniures so? _in after _l_eartes_ _ham._ beholde tis i, _hamlet_ the dane. _lear._ the diuell take thy soule. _ham._ o thou praiest not well, i prethee take thy hand from off my throate, for there is something in me dangerous, which let thy wisedome feare, holde off thy hand: [i2] i lou'de _ofelia_ as deere as twenty brothers could: shew me what thou wilt doe for her: wilt fight, wilt fast, wilt pray, wilt drinke vp vessels, eate a crocadile? ile doot: com'st thou here to whine? and where thou talk'st of burying thee a liue, here let vs stand: and let them throw on vs, whole hills of earth, till with the heighth therof, make oosell as a wart. _king_. forbeare _leartes_, now is hee mad, as is the sea, anone as milde and gentle as a doue: therfore a while giue his wilde humour scope. _ham._ what is the reason sir that you wrong mee thus? i neuer gaue you cause: but stand away, a cat will meaw, a dog will haue a day. _exit hamlet and horatio._ _queene_. alas, it is his madnes makes him thus, and not his heart, _leartes_. _king_. my lord, t'is so: but wee'le no longer trifle, this very day shall _hamlet_ drinke his last, for presently we meane to send to him, therfore _leartes_ be in readynes. _lear._ my lord, till then my soule will not bee quiet. _king_. come _gertred_, wee'l haue _leartes_, and our sonne, made friends and louers, as befittes them both, even as they tender vs, and loue their countrie. _queene_ god grant they may. _exeunt omnes._ _enter hamlet and horatio_ _ham._ beleeue mee, it greeues mee much _horatio_, that to _leartes_ i forgot my selfe: for by my selfe me thinkes i feele his griefe, though there's a difference in each others wrong. _enter a bragart gentleman._ _horatio_, but marke yon water-flie, the court knowes him, but hee knowes not the court. _gent._ now god saue thee, sweete prince _hamlet_. [i2v] _ham._ and you sir: soh, how the muske-cod smels! _gen._ i come with an embassage from his maiesty to you _ham._ i shall sir giue you attention: by my troth me thinkes t'is very colde. _gent._ it is indeede very rawish colde. _ham._ t'is hot me thinkes. _gent._ very swoltery hote: the king, sweete prince, hath layd a wager on your side, six barbary horse, against six french rapiers, with all their acoutrements too, a the carriages: in good faith they are curiously wrought. _ham._ the cariages sir, i do not know what you meane. _gent._ the girdles, and hangers sir, and such like. _ham._ the worde had beene more cosin german to the phrase, if he could haue carried the canon by his side, and howe's the wager? i vnderstand you now. _gent._ mary sir, that yong leartes in twelue venies at rapier and dagger do not get three oddes of you, and on your side the king hath laide, and desires you to be in readinesse. _ham._ very well, if the king dare venture his wager, i dare venture my skull: when must this be? _gent._ my lord, presently, the king, and her maiesty, with the rest of the best iudgement in the court, are comming downe into the outward pallace. _ham._ goe tell his maiestie, i will attend him. _gent._ i shall deliuer your most sweet answer. _exit._ _ham._ you may sir, none better, for y'are spiced, else he had a bad nose could not smell a foole. _hor._ he will disclose himself without inquirie. _ham._ beleeue me _horatio_, my hart is on the sodaine very sore, all here about. _hor._ my lord, forebeare the challenge then. _ham._ no _horatio_, not i, if danger be now, why then it is not to come, theres a predestinate prouidence in the fall of a sparrow: heere comes the king. [i3] _enter king, queene, leartes, lordes._ _king_ now sonne _hamlet,_ we hane laid vpon your head, and make no question but to haue the best. _ham._ your maiestie hath laide a the weaker side. _king_ we doubt it not, deliuer them the foiles. _ham._ first leartes, heere's my hand and loue, protesting that i neuer wrongd _leartes_. if _hamlet_ in his madnesse did amisse, that was not _hamlet_, but his madnes did it, and all the wrong i e're did to _leartes_, i here proclaime was madnes, therefore lets be at peace, and thinke i haue shot mine arrow o're the house, and hurt my brother. _lear._ sir i am satisfied in nature, but in termes of honor i'le stand aloofe, and will no reconcilement, till by some elder maisters of our time i may be satisfied. _king_ giue them the foyles. _ham._ i'le be your foyle _leartes_, these foyles, haue all a laught, come on sir: _a hit._ _lear._ no none. _heere they play:_ _ham._ iudgement. _gent._ a hit, a most palpable hit. _lear._ well, come againe. _they play againe._ _ham._ another. iudgement. _lear._ i, i grant, a tuch, a tuch. _king_ here _hamlet_, the king doth drinke a health to thee _queene_ here _hamlet_, take my napkin, wipe thy face. _king_ giue him the wine. _ham._ set it by, i'le haue another bowt first, i'le drinke anone. _queene_ here _hamlet_, thy mother drinkes to thee. _shee drinkes._ _king_ do not drinke _gertred_: o t'is the poysned cup! _ham_. _leartes_ come, you dally with me, [i3v] i pray you passe with your most cunningst play. _lear_. i! say you so? haue at you, ile hit you now my lord: and yet it goes almost against my conscience. _ham._ come on sir. _they catch one anothers rapiers, and both are wounded, leartes falles downe, the queene falles downe and dies._ _king_ looke to the queene. _queene_ o the drinke, the drinke, h_amlet_, the drinke. _ham_. treason, ho, keepe the gates. _lords_ how ist my lord _leartes_? _lear._ euen as a coxcombe should, foolishly slaine with my owne weapon: _hamlet_, thou hast not in thee halfe an houre of life, the fatall instrument is in thy hand. vnbated and invenomed: thy mother's poysned that drinke was made for thee. _ham._ the poysned instrument within my hand? then venome to thy venome, die damn'd villaine: come drinke, here lies thy vnion here. _the king dies._ _lear._ o he is iustly serued: _hamlet_, before i die, here take my hand, and withall, my loue: i doe forgiue thee. _leartes dies._ _ham._ and i thee, o i am dead _horatio_, fare thee well. _hor._ no, i am more an antike roman, then a dane, here is some poison left. _ham._ vpon my loue i charge thee let it goe, o fie _horatio_, and if thou shouldst die, what a scandale wouldst thou leaue behinde? what tongue should tell the story of our deaths, if not from thee? o my heart sinckes _horatio_, mine eyes haue lost their sight, my tongue his vse: farewel _horatio_, heauen receiue my soule. _ham. dies._ _enter voltemar and the ambassadors from england. [i4] enter fortenbrasse with his traine._ _fort._ where is this bloudy fight? _hor._ if aught of woe or wonder you'ld behold, then looke vpon this tragicke spectacle. _fort._ o imperious death! how many princes hast thou at one draft bloudily shot to death? (_land_, _ambass._ our ambassie that we haue brought from _eng-_ where be these princes that should heare vs speake? o most most vnlooked for time! vnhappy country. _hor._ content your selues, ile shew to all, the ground, the first beginning of this tragedy: let there a scaffold be rearde vp in the market place, and let the state of the world be there: where you shall heare such a sad story tolde, that neuer mortall man could more vnfolde. _fort._ i haue some rights of memory to this kingdome, which now to claime my leisure doth inuite mee: let foure of our chiefest captaines beare _hamlet_ like a souldier to his graue: for he was likely, had he liued, to a prou'd most royall. take vp the bodie, such a fight as this becomes the fieldes, but here doth much amisse. _finis_ the daddy series for little folks daddy takes us to the garden by howard r. garis _author of_ _uncle wiggily and alice in wonderland_, _uncle wiggily longears_, _uncle wiggily and mother goose_, _uncle wiggily's arabian nights_ illustrated by eva dean made in u.s.a. m.a. donohue & company chicago new york the daddy series by howard r. garis the stories tell of a little boy and girl who go to various places with their dear daddy. each book contains something of value regarding nature lore, outdoor sports and animal life. price 50 cents per volume. howard r. garis * * * * * daddy takes us camping daddy takes us fishing daddy takes us to the circus daddy takes us skating daddy takes us coasting daddy takes us to the farm daddy takes us to the garden daddy takes us hunting birds daddy takes us hunting flowers daddy takes us to the woods copyright, 1914, by r.f. fenno & company * * * * * daddy takes us to the garden contents * * * * * chapter page i a new game 9 ii making a garden 20 iii upside down beans 34 iv the first radish 49 v the potatoes' eyes 59 vi the corn silk 70 vii early tomatoes 78 viii the children's market 92 ix sammie plants tomatoes 102 x white celery 113 xi gathering crops 123 xii pumpkin pie 134 chapter i a new game "mother, what can we do now?" "tell us something to play, please! we want to have some fun!" as harry and mabel blake said this they walked slowly up the path toward the front porch, on which their mother was sitting one early spring day. the two children did not look very happy. "what can we do?" asked hal, as he was called more often than harry. "there isn't any more fun," complained mab, to which her name was often shortened. "oh, my!" laughed mother blake. "such a sadness! what doleful faces you both have. i hope they don't freeze so and stay that way. it would be dreadful!" "it can't freeze," said hal. "it's too warm. daddy told us how cold it had to be to freeze. the ther--ther--oh, well the thing you tell how cold it is--has to get down to where it says number 32 before there's ice." "you mean the thermometer," said mab. "that's it," agreed hal. "and look, the shiny thing--mercury, that's the name of it--the mercury is at 60 now. it can't freeze, mother." "well, i'm glad it can't, for i wouldn't want your face to turn into ice the way it looked a little while ago." "but there's no fun, mother," and mab, whose face, as had her brother's, had lost its fretful look while they were talking about the thermometer, again seemed cross and unhappy. "we can't have any fun!" "why don't you play some games?" asked mrs. blake, smiling at the two children. "we did," answered hal. "we tried to play tag, but it's too muddy to run off the paths, and it's no fun, staying in one place. we can't play ball, 'cause mab can't throw like a boy, and i'm not going to play doll with her." "i didn't ask you to!" said mab quickly. "i was going to play doll by myself." "yes, but you'd want me to be a doctor, or something, when your doll got sick--you always do." "i should think that would be fun," said mother blake. "why don't you play doll and doctor?" "i'm not going to play doll!" declared hal, and his face looked crosser than ever. "oh, it isn't nice to talk that way," said his mother. "you ought to be glad if mab wanted you to be a doctor for her sick doll. but perhaps you can think of something else--some new game. just sit down a moment and we'll talk. then perhaps you'll think of something. i wonder why it is so warm to-day, and why there is no danger of anything freezing--not your faces of course, for i know you wouldn't let that happen. but why is it so warm; do you know?" "'cause it's spring," answered hal. "everybody knows that." "oh, no, not everybody," replied his mother. "your dog roly-poly doesn't know it." "oh, yes, mother! i think he does!" cried mab. "he was rolling over and over in the grass to-day, even if it was all wet like a sponge. he never did that in the winter." "well, perhaps dogs and cats do know when it is spring. the birds do, i'm sure, for then they come up from the south, where they have spent the winter, and begin to build their nests. so you think it is warm to-day because it is spring; do you, hal?" "yes, mother," he replied. "it's time winter was gone, anyhow. and the trees know it is going to be summer soon, for they are swelling out their buds." "and after a while there'll be flowers," added mab. "didn't we have fun, hal, when daddy took us hunting flowers?" "yes, and when he took us to the woods, and to see the different kinds of birds," added the little boy. "we had lots of fun then." "i wish we could have some of that kind of fun now," went on mab. "when's daddy coming home, mother?" "oh, not for quite a while. he has to work and earn money you know. he has to earn more than ever, now that everything costs so much on account of the war. daddies don't have a very easy time these days." "do mothers?" asked mab, thinking of how she played mother to her dolls. maybe, she thought, she could make up a new game, pretending how hard it was for dolls' mothers these days. "well, mothers have to do many things they did not have to do when things to eat and wear did not cost so much," spoke mother blake. "we have to make one loaf of bread go almost as far as two loaves used to go, and as for clothes--well, i am mending some of yours, hal, that, last year, i thought were hardly useful any more. but we must save all we can. so that's why daddy has to work harder and longer, and why he can't come home saturday afternoons as early as he used to." it was a saturday afternoon when hal and mab found so much fault about not having any fun. almost any other day they would have been in school, and have been busy over their lessons. but just now they wanted to play and they were not having a very jolly time, for they could not think of anything to do. or, at least, they thought they could not. "what makes it spring?" asked hal, after a bit, as he watched his mother putting a patch on his little trousers. hal remembered how he tore a hole in them one day sliding down a cellar door. "tell us what makes spring, mother," went on mab. "that will be as much fun as playing, i guess." "the sun makes the spring," said mrs. blake "spring is one of the four seasons. i wonder if you can tell me the others?" "which one starts?" asked hal. "spring, of course," exclaimed mab. "you have to start with something growing, and things grow in the spring." "that is right," said mrs. blake. "spring is the beginning of life in the world, when the flowers and birds begin to grow; the flowers from little buds and the birds from little eggs. what comes next?" "summer!" cried hal. "then's when we can have fun. the ground is dry, so we can play marbles and fly kites. and we can go in swimming and have a long vacation. summer's the jolly time!" "it is a time when things grow that start in the spring," said mother blake. "what comes after summer?" "autumn," answered mab. "some folks call it fall. why do they, mother?" "because the leaves fall from the trees, perhaps. it is a time when the trees and bushes go to sleep, and when most birds fly down to the warm south. and what comes after autumn or fall?" "christmas!" cried hal. "yes, so it does!" laughed mrs. blake. "and i guess most children would say the same thing. but i meant what season." "it's winter," hal said. "let's see if i know 'em. spring, summer, autumn, winter," he recited. "four seasons, and this is spring. i wish it would hurry up and be summer." "so do i," agreed mab. "you can't have any fun now. it's too wet to go without your rubbers, too cold to go without a coat and almost too hot to wear one. i like summer best." "and i like fall and winter," said hal. "but let's do something mab. let's have some fun. what can we do, mother?" and back the children were, just where they started. "why don't you get roly-poly and play with him?" asked mrs. blake. "he's gone away. i guess he ran down to daddy's office like he does sometimes," said mab. "let's go down after him," exclaimed hal. "that'll be some fun." "i don't want to," spoke mab. "i'd rather play with my doll." "you never want to do anything i want to play?" complained hal. "can't she come with me after roly-poly, mother?" "well, i don't know. can't you both play something here until daddy comes home? why don't you play bean-bag?" "we did, but hal always throws 'em over my head and i can't reach," mab said. "she throws crooked," complained hal. "oh, my dears! i think you each must have the spring fever!" laughed mother blake. "try and be nicer toward one another. let me see now. how would you like to help me bake a cake, mab?" "oh, that will be fun!" and mab jumped up from the porch, where she had been sitting near her mother's rocking chair, and began to clap her hands. "may i stir it myself, and put the dough in the pans? "yes, i think so." "pooh! that's no fun for me!" remarked hal. "i want to have some fun, too." "you may clean out the chocolate or frosting dish--whichever kind of a cake we make," offered mab. "you always like to scrape out the chocolate dish, hal." "yes, i like that," he said, smiling a little. "well, you may have it all alone this time, if i make the cake," went on mab. nearly always she and hal shared this pleasure--that of scraping out, with a knife or spoon, the chocolate or sugar icing dish from which mother blake took the sweet stuff for the top and inside the layers of the cake. "come on, hal!" hal was willing enough now, and soon he and his sister were in the kitchen, helping mother blake with her cake-making. though, to tell the truth, mab and mrs. blake did most of the work. while the three were in the midst of their cake-making, into the kitchen rushed a little poodle dog, whirling around, barking and trying to catch his tail. "oh, roly-poly, where have you been?" cried hal. "did daddy come home with you?" "bow-wow!" barked roly-poly, which might mean "no" or "yes," just as you happened to listen to his bark. "oh, don't get in my way, roly!" called mab as the little dog danced about in front of her, while she was carrying a pan filled with cake dough toward the oven. "look out! oh, there it goes." just what mab had feared came to pass. she tripped over the poodle dog, and, to save herself from falling, she had to drop the pan of cake dough. down it fell, right on roly-poly's back. "bow-wow-wow!" he barked and growled at the same time. "oh, look at him!" laughed hal "he's a regular cake himself." "don't let him run through the house that way!" called mother blake. "he'll get the carpets and furniture all dough. get him, hal!" hal made a grab for the little pet dog, and caught him by his tail. this made roly-poly howl louder than ever, until hal, not wishing to hurt his pet, managed to get him in his arms. but of course this made hal's waist all covered with cake dough. "never mind," said mother blake, as she saw hal looking at himself in dismay. "it will all wash off. better to have it on your waist than on the carpets. why, mab! what's the matter?" for mab was crying softly. "oh--oh, my--my nice ca-cake is all spoiled," she sobbed. "oh, no it isn't!" comforted mother blake. "only one pan of dough is spilled, and there is plenty more. the kitchen floor can easily be washed, and so can roly poly. "hal," went on his mother, "you take the dog up to the bath tub and give him a good scrubbing. he'll like that. take off your own waist and let the water run on that. i'll wipe up the floor and you can fill another pan and put it in the oven, mab. don't cry! we'll have the cake in time for supper yet." so mab dried her tears and once more began on the cake, while mrs. blake cleaned up the dough from the floor. in a little while the cake was baking in the oven, and hal came down stairs, rather wet and splattered, but clean. with him was roly-poly, looking half drowned, but also clean. "well, we did a lot of things!" said hal, when he had on dry clothes, and he and mab were waiting for the cake to be baked, after which the chocolate would be spread over it. "it was fun, wasn't it?" "i--i guess so," answered mab, not quite sure. "did i hurt roly when i stepped on him?" "i guess not. he splashed water all over me when i put him in the bath tub, though. i pretended he was a submarine ship and he swam all around." "i wish i had seen him." "i'll make him do it again," and hal started toward the stairs with roly in his arms. "no, please don't!" laughed mother blake. "one bath a day is enough. besides, i think it's time to take the cake out, mab." when the chocolate had been spread on, and hal had scraped out the dish, giving mab a share even though she had said she did not want any, the front door was heart to shut. "here comes daddy!" cried mab. "oh, i wonder if he brought anything?" said hal, racing after his sister. daddy blake did have a package in his arms, and he was smiling. he put the bundle down on the table and caught up first mab and then hal for a hearty kiss. "well, how are you all to-day?" he asked. "i just baked a cake," answered mab. "and the dough went all over roly-poly, and i made believe he was a submarine ship in the bath tub," added hal. "we had lots of fun." "before that we didn't thought," spoke mab. "we wanted to play something new but we didn't know what. did you bring us anything, daddy?" "yes, i brought you and hal a new game." "a new game? oh, goody! may we play it now?" "well, you can start to look at it now, but it takes quite a while to play it. it takes all spring, all summer and part of the fall." "oh, what a long game!" cried hal. "what is it?" "it is called the garden game," said daddy blake, smiling. "and after supper i'll tell you all about it." "the garden game," murmured mab. "it must be fun," said hal, "else daddy wouldn't laugh around his eyes the way he does." "yes, i think you'll like this new game," went on mr. blake. "and whoever learns to play it best will get a fine prize!" "oh! oh! oh!" cried hal and mab in delight. they could hardly wait to find out all about it. chapter ii making a garden "now children," began daddy blake, as the table was cleared of the dishes, when supper had been finished, "i'll start to tell you about the garden game we are going to play." "oh, are you going to play it, too?" asked hal in delight "won't that be fun, mab?" "lots of fun!" anything daddy blake did was fun for hal and mab, whether it was playing a game, or taking them somewhere. eagerly the two children watched while their father opened the package he had brought up from down town when he came home to supper. "is it some kind of a puzzle?" hal wanted to know. "does it go around with wheels?" asked mab, as she heard something rattle inside the paper. "how many can play it?" asked hal. "oh, as many as care to" answered daddy blake. i'm going to play it, and so is your mother, i think; and uncle pennywait, and aunt lollypop, and--no, i guess we can't let roly-poly play the garden game, but you two children can." "oh, it must be a fine game if so many can play," laughed hal. "hurry, daddy, and show us what it is." "do you play sides?" mab inquired. "yes, you can play sides," her father answered with a smile. "as i told you i'm going to give a prize to whoever plays the game best. i'll tell you about it. now here's the first part of the garden," and, as mr. blake opened the paper fully, out rolled a small parcel. the string came off it, and hal and mab saw a lot of beans. for a moment they looked very much disappointed. "oh, daddy blake!" cried hal. "this isn't a new game at all! we've got a bean-bag one!" "and we got tired of playing it to-day," went on mab, in disappointed tones. "this isn't exactly a bean-bag game," said mr. blake with a smile, "though you can make it one if you like. it's ever so much more fun than just bean-bags, for there are many other different parts to the garden game. now if you'll sit down i'll tell you about it." hal and mab saw some brightly colored pictures, among other things, in the big bag that had held the beans, and they thought perhaps they might have fun with the garden game after all. some of you have met hal and mab blake before, on one or more of their many trips with daddy, so i do not need to tell all of you about the children. but to those of you who read this book as the beginning of the daddy series i may say that the first volume is called "daddy takes us camping." in that i told you how daddy and the two children went to live in a tent, and how they heard a queer noise in the night and-well, i'll leave the rest for you to find out by reading the book. hal and mab lived with daddy and mother blake in a nice house in a small city, and with them lived uncle pennywait and aunt lollypop. these were not their real names. uncle pennywait was called that because he so often said to hal and mab: "wait a minute and i'll give you a penny!" aunt lollypop was more often called aunt lolly, and the reason she had such a queer name was because she was always telling the children to buy lollypops with the money uncle pennywait gave them. lollypops, the children's aunt thought, were the best kind of candy for them, and perhaps she was right. then there was roly-poly, the funny little poodle dog, and once when daddy blake took hal and mab skating, as you may read in that book, roly slid under the ice and was lost for a long, long time. hal and mab just loved to go places with daddy, to learn about the birds, trees and flowers. they had gone to the circus with him, had gone coasting, and had hunted birds with a camera to take pictures of them. there is a book about each one of the different trips hal and mab took with their father. they had many adventures each time they went out, and they learned many things. just before the story i am going to tell you now, daddy blake had taken the children to the woods, telling them about the different kinds of trees. sometimes roly-poly went along with hal and mab when daddy started off with the children. once mab had a little cat that got lost up in a tree, and once her dickey bird flew away and it was a long time before she found one she loved as much as her first singing pet. "but i don't see how you are going to take us anywhere, so we can have fun, just with beans," said hal, as he waited for his father to tell something about the new game. "oh, it isn't just beans," said daddy blake. "see here are some radishes, lettuce, carrots, turnips, potatoes, beets and--" "why it sounds just like a garden!" cried aunt lollypop, coming in from the hall at that moment. "it's a garden game, but we don't know how to play it yet," said mab. "that's what i'm going to teach you," spoke her father. "we are going to make a garden." "where?" hal wanted to know. "in our back yard and in the lot next door. i have hired that to use in planting our garden." "how do you start to make a garden?" asked hal. "that's part of the game you and mab must learn," said mr. blake. "now i'll begin at the beginning and tell you. i think you will like this game as well as any you have ever played, for not only will it be fun, but it will give you work to do, and the best fun in the world is learning to make fun of your work. and don't forget the prize!" "what's the prize for?" asked hal. "for the one who has the best little garden, whether it is hal, mab, uncle pennywait, aunt lolly, mother or myself. we're all going to play the garden game!" "what is the prize going to be?" asked mab. daddy blake thought for a moment. then he said: "well, i suppose if you won the prize you would like it to be a nice doll." "oh, i'd just love it!" cried mab with sparkling eyes. "and hal would want a pair of skates or maybe a sled, for i think his old one is broken," went on daddy blake. "it is," answered hal. "so, as only one of us can win the prize, and as we would all want something different," spoke the children's father, "i think i'll make the prize a ten dollar gold piece, and whoever wins it can buy what they like with it." "oh, that's great!" exclaimed hal. "ten dollars!" added mab. "why i could buy a lot of dolls for that!" "i hope you wouldn't spend all that money for dolls," said aunt lolly. "no, save some for candy!" laughed uncle pennywait. "i'll give you a penny extra as my prize." "we'll talk about spending the money when the prize is won," said daddy blake. "here it is," and he took from his pocket a bright, shining ten dollar gold piece. hal and mab looked at it. "but everyone must work hard in the garden to win it," said mr. blake. "and, mind you! i may get my own prize, for i am going to work in the garden, too. we will each choose some one vegetable, and whoever raises the finest and best crop will get the prize." "what made you think of this game for us?" asked hal. "well, everyone is making gardens this year," said daddy blake. "you know we are at war, and in war time it is harder to get plenty of food than when we are at peace." "why?" asked hal. "because so many men have to go to be soldiers," his father answered. "the farmers and gardeners--thousands of them--have been called away to fight the enemy, so that we, who never before helped to grow things from the earth, must begin now if we are to have enough to eat and to feed our soldiers. "that is why i am going to have a garden--larger than we ever had before. that is why many others who never had gardens before are going to have one this year. all over vacant lots and play-fields, and even some beautiful green, grassy lawns, are being turned into gardens. they will take the places of many gardens that have been turned into battle fields. we must raise more vegetables and fruits and we must save what we raise." "why do we want to save it?" asked hal, "can't we eat it?" "we will eat all we need," his father, "but you know that gardens and farms can only be planted, and fruits vegetables can only grow when the weather is warm. nothing grows in the cold winter. so we raise all we can in summer and save what we need to eat when snow is on the ground." "how are we going to make our garden?" asked mab. "and what am i going to plant?" asked hal. "well, we'll begin at the very beginning," answered daddy blake. "the first part of any garden is getting the soil ready. that is the dirt, in which we plant the seeds, must be dug up and made soft and mellow so the seeds will grow." "what makes seeds grow?" asked mab. "and why can't we plant 'em anywhere?" hal wanted to know. daddy blake laughed. "you're going to have a lot of questions to answer about this garden game," said uncle pennywait. "you'll be kept busy." "yes, i guess so," agreed daddy blake. "well i'll answer all the questions i can, for i want hal and mab to know how hard it is to make even one bean or radish grow from a seed. then, when they find out that it is not easy to have good vegetables, when the bugs, worms and weeds are fighting against them, they will not waste. for waste is wicked not only in war time but always." "oh, daddy!" cried mab. "do the worms and bugs and weeds fight the things in the garden?" "indeed they do," answered her father. "it is just like war all the while between the things we want to grow and the things we don't want." "oh, if the garden game is like war i'm going to have fun playing it!" exclaimed hal, while roly-poly chased his tail around the table. i don't mean that the little poodle dog's tail came off and that he raced around trying to get hold of it again. no indeed! his tail just stayed on him, but he whirled around and around trying to get hold of it in his mouth, and he was having a good time doing it. "there is one of the enemies you'll have to fight if you make a garden," said daddy blake with a smile. "who?" asked hal. "your dog, roly-poly. dogs, when they get in a newly planted garden, often dig up the seeds, just as chickens do. so from the start you'll have to keep roly-poly away." "and chickens, too," said mab. "they've got chickens next door." "yes, but they are kept shut up in their yard, with a wire fence around it," said daddy blake. "however you must keep watch. now suppose we start and pick out what crops we want to raise for the prize of the ten dollar gold piece. i have different kinds of seeds here--corn, beans, tomatoes, radishes and others." "i want to raise beans!" cried mab. "then i can have as many bean-bags as i want." "we mustn't waste too many beans just for playing games, since beans make a good meal, especially for soldiers," said daddy blake. "and much of the food raised on farms and gardens will have to go to feed our soldiers. so we'll give mab the first choice and let her raise beans. what will you choose, hal?" "corn, i guess," hal said. "i like pop corn." "well, we won't raise much pop corn," laughed his father. "while that is good to eat it is not good for making corn bread, and that is the kind we may have to eat if we can't raise enough wheat to make all the white bread we want." "why can't we raise wheat?" asked hal. "well, we could grow a little, for it would grow in our garden as well as in any other soil or dirt," explained daddy blake. "but to raise a lot of wheat, or other grains, a big field is needed--a regular farm--and we haven't that." "will you take us to a farm some day?" asked mab. "yes, after you learn how to make a garden," his father told him. "so you think you want to try corn; eh?" and he laid a package of that seed in front of the little boy. "if mab raises beans and hal grows corn we'll have succotash at any rate," said mother blake. "and succotash is good to can and keep all winter." "well, we may have enough to eat, after all, from our garden," said aunt lolly. "i think i'll raise pumpkins for my share of the new game." "then we can have jack-o-lanterns!" laughed hal. "that will be fun!" "now look here!" exclaimed; daddy blake. "i want you children to have some fun in your gardens, but is isn't all fun. there is going to be hard work, too, if anyone wins this prize," and he held up the ten dollar gold piece. "you may have one pumpkin for a hallowe'en lantern, maybe, but pumpkin pies are what aunt lolly is thinking of, i guess." "indeed i am," she said. "when i was a girl we used to raise many pumpkins in the cornfield at home. so i'll raise my pumpkins between your rows of corn, hal." "that's the way to do it," said uncle pennywait. "i think i'll raise potatoes. they're easy to grow if i can keep the bugs off them, and they'll keep all winter." "i'll raise tomatoes," said daddy blake, taking out a package of tomato seeds for his part of the garden. "we can eat them sliced in summer and have them canned, ready to stew, in winter, i'll have to plant some seeds in the house first to raise plants that i may set them out when it is warm enough. now, mother, what will you grow in the garden?" "carrots," answered mrs. blake. "oh, then we can keep a bunny rabbit!" cried mab. "i've always wanted a bunny." "well, a rabbit may be nice," said daddy blake. "but, as i said, this garden is not all for fun. we are going to raise as many vegetables as we can, so we will have them in the winter to save buying them at the store. we can't afford to raise carrots for rabbits this year. there are your seeds, mother," and he gave his wife a packet with a picture of yellow carrots on the outside. "but there are a lot of seeds left," said mab, as she looked at the large opened bundle on the table. "yes, well have to take turns planting these," her father said. "i just wanted you to pick out your prize crops first. now we have made a start on our garden. the next thing is to get the ground ready as soon as it is warm enough. but first i think i'll start my tomato plants. i'll plant the seeds in the morning." "where?" asked mab. "in a box in the house. you may bring me in a little dirt and i'll let it dry out near the fire, for it is rather damp and cold yet in the garden." the next day hal and mab brought in some dirt from the yard. it was wet and sticky but when it had been spread out on a paper under the stove it soon dried. that night daddy blake filled a big wooden box with the dirt, which he worked with a trowel until it was made fine and smooth. "the first thing to learn in making a garden," the children's father said, "is to have your dirt made very fine, and to be sure that it is the right kind for what you are going to raise. beans will grow in almost any kind of soil, but tomatoes and other vegetables must have soil which is called richer--that is it has more fertilizer in it--something which is food to the seeds and plants as bread, butter, meat and potatoes are food for us." "do plants eat?" asked hal. "of course they do, just as i told you the trees did. plants eat through their roots in the earth. they drink water that way, too, and through their leaves. and they breathe in the air and sunlight the same way. plants, as well as boys and girls, need warm sun, enough water and good soil to make them grow." "but why don't you plant the tomato seeds right in the garden?" asked hal. "because it is a little too early. the weather is not warm enough and the ground is too damp. so i plant the seeds in the house and soon there will be many little tomato plants in this box, which, you children must see to it, must be kept in the sunny window, and not out in the cool air. when the plants are large enough we will take them from the box and put them in the garden in nice long rows. this is called transplanting, which means planting a second time, and is done with many garden things such as lettuce, cabbage and celery." "but you didn't tell us what makes the seeds grow," said mab, as she watched her father carefully smooth the soil in the box and then scatter in the tomato seeds, afterward covering them up with a piece of window glass. "i'll tell you as best i can, though no one really knows what is in the seed to make it grow. only mother nature knows that. but at least we have a start with our garden," said daddy blake, "and to-morrow i'll tell you, as well as i can, why a seed grows. it is time to go to bed now." as hal and mab started up stairs, thinking what a wonderful thing it was to have a garden, there came a ring at the front door. "my! who can be calling this time of night?" asked mother blake, in surprise. hal and mab wondered too. chapter iii upside down beans "let's wait and see who it is, hal," whispered mab to her brother as they stood on the stairs. "maybe it's somebody come to find out about a garden," added the little boy. "daddy knows lots about how to make things grow, and maybe, on account of the war, everybody's got to plant corn and beans and things." "i don't like war and soldiers," spoke mab, while daddy blake went to the front door. "i don't care when you play soldier, and make believe shoot your pop gun, but i don't like real guns. maybe this is somebody come to tell daddy to go to war." "i hope not!" exclaimed hal. when daddy blake opened the door the children heard some one saying: "i guess this little fellow belongs to you, mr. blake. i found him over in my garden, digging away. maybe he was planting a bone, thinking he could grow some roast beef," and a man's laugh was heard. then came a sharp little bark. "oh, it's roly-poly!" cried hal. [illustration] "he must have run away and we didn't miss him 'cause we talked so much about the garden," added mab. "i wonder where he was?" "yes, that's my children's dog," said mr. blake to the man who had brought home roly-poly. "so he was in your garden; eh?" "well, yes, in the place where i'm going to make a garden. my name is porter, i live next door. only moved in last week and we haven't gotten acquainted yet." "that's right," said mr. blake. "well, i'm glad to know you, mr. porter. hal and mab will be pleased to have roly-poly back, i'm also glad to know you're going to have a garden. i'm going to start my two youngsters with one, and if roly-poly comes over, and digs out your seeds, let me know and i'll keep him shut up." "i will, and you do the same with my chickens. they're bad for scratching in a garden, though i plan to keep them in their own yard. so your boy and girl are going to have gardens; are they?" "yes. i want them to learn all they can about such things." "i've got a boy, but he's too young to start yet. sammie is only five," said mr. porter. "well, doggie, i guess you're glad to get back home," and he gave roly-poly to mr. blake who thanked his neighbor, asking him to call again. "here, hal and mab!" called their father. "after this you must keep watch of your pet. i guess there will be many gardens on our street this summer, and no dogs will be allowed in them until after the things are well grown. so watch roly-poly." hal and mab promised they would, and mab said: "oh, that's a cute little boy next door. he has red hair." "his name is sammie," said mr. blake. "now off to bed with you, toodlekins!" and he made believe roly-poly threw kisses from his paws to hal and mab. daddy blake had to go away early the next morning, to be gone three days, so he did not have time to tell hal and mab why it was that seeds grew when planted in the ground. but before going to school on monday the brother and sister saw to it that the glass covered box in which the tomato plants were soon to grow, was put in a sunny window. on the way to school they looked in the big yard of mr. porter who lived next door. he was raking up some dried leaves and grass and a small, red-haired boy was watching him. "hello, little ones!" called mr. porter. "have you got your garden started yet?" "not yet," answered hal. "but we got tomato seeds planted in the house," said mab. "yes, and i must do that too. we'll see who'll have the finest garden," went on mr. porter. "how's your poodle dog?" "oh, we got him shut up so he can't hurt your garden," hal said. "don't worry about that yet," went on the neighbor. "i haven't planted any seeds yet, and shall not until it gets warmer. so you may let your dog run loose." "all right. i guess i will," cried hal, running back to the house. "you'll be late for school!" warned mab. "i'll run fast!" promised her brother. "roly-poly cried when i shut him up. i want to let him out." soon the little dog came running out of the barn where hal had locked him. over into mr. porter's yard ran roly and sammie laughed when he saw hal's pet rolling around in the pile of dried leaves mr. porter had raked together. "roly, you be a good dog!" warned mab, shaking her finger at him. "i get him a cookie!" said sammie with a laugh as he toddled toward the house. "sammie likes dogs," said his father as hal and mab hurried on to school. mr. blake was away longer than he thought he would be, and it was over a week before he came back home. each day hal and mab had placed the box of tomato seeds in the warm sun before going to school, moving it when they came home at noon and in the afternoon they also changed it so that the soil would always be where the warm sun could shine on it. they sprinkled water in the box, as their father had told them to do. then, the day when daddy blake came back from his business trip, hal, looking at the tomato box, cried: "oh, mab! look! there are a lot of little green leaves here." "yes, the tomatoes are beginning to grow," said daddy blake, when he had taken a look. "what makes the seeds grow and green leaves come out?" asked hal. "well, as i said, mother nature does it and no one can tell how," said daddy blake. "but somewhere inside this tiny little thing," and he held out in his hand a tomato seed, "somewhere there is hidden a spark of life. what it looks like we can not say. it is deep in the heart of the seed." "do seeds have hearts?" asked mab. "well, no, not exactly," her father answered. "but we speak of the middle of a tree as it's heart and i suppose the middle of a seed, where its life is, is its heart. so this seed is really alive, though it doesn't seem so." "it looks like a little yellow stone--the kind that comes in sand," spoke hal. "and yet it is alive," said his father. "it can not move about now, though when it is planted it begins to grow and it can move. it can push its leaves up from under the earth. just now it is asleep, and has no life that we can see." "what will bring it to life and make it wake up?" asked hal. "the warm dirt in which it is planted, the sunlight, the air and the water you sprinkle on it," said mr. blake. "if you kept this seed cold and dry it might sleep for many many years, but as soon as you put it under the warm, wet soil, and set the box of dirt where the sun can shine on it, then the seed begins to awaken. something inside it--a germ some call it--begins to swell. it gets larger--the seed is germinating. the hard outside shell, or husk, gets soft and breaks open. the heart inside swells larger and larger. a tiny root appears and begins to dig its way down deeper in the ground to find things to eat. at the same time another part of the seed turns into leaves and these grow up. it is the green leaves you see first, peeping up above the ground, that tell you the seed has germinated and is growing." "isn't it funny!" said hal. "one part of the seed grows down and the other part grows up." "yes," said daddy blake. "that's the way seeds grow. each day you will see these little tomato plants growing more and more, and, as soon as they are large enough, we will set them out in the garden." hal and mab thought it was wonderful that a single, tiny seed of the tomato--a seed that looked scarcely larger than the head of a pin--should have locked up in its heart such things as roots and leaves, and that, after a while, great, big red tomatoes would hang down from the green tomato vine--all from one little seed. "it's wonderful--just like when the man in the show took a rabbit, a guinea pig and a lot of silk ribbon out of daddy's hat," spoke hal. "it is more wonderful," said mr. blake. "for the man in the show put the things in my hat by a trick, when you were not looking, and only took them out again to make you think they were there all the while. but roots, seeds and tomatoes are not exactly inside the seed all the while. the germ--the life--is there, and after it starts to grow the leaves, roots and tomatoes are made from the soil, the air, the water and the sunshine." "are there tomatoes in the air?" asked mab. "well, if it were not for the things in the air, the oxygen, the nitrogen and other gases, about which you are too young to understand now, we could not live grow, and neither could plants. plants also have to have water to drink, as we do, and food to eat, only they eat the things found in the dirt, and we can not do that. at least not until they are changed into fruits, grain or vegetables." hal and mab never tired looking at the tomato plants growing in the box in the house. each day the tiny green leaves became larger and raised themselves higher and higher from the earth. "soon they will be large enough to transplant, or set out in the garden," said daddy blake. two or three days after their father had told hal and mab why seeds grow, the children, coming home from school, saw something strange in their garden. there was a man, with a team of horses and the brown earth was being torn up by a big shiny thing which the horses were pulling as the man drove them. "oh, what's that in our garden?" cried hal to uncle pennywait. "it's a man plowing," said hal's uncle. "but won't he spoil the garden?" mab wanted to know. "he's just starting to make it," uncle pennywait answered. "didn't daddy blake tell you that the ground must be plowed or chopped up, and then finely pulverized or smoothed, so the seeds would grow better?" "oh, yet, so he did," hal said. "well, this is the first start of making a garden," went on uncle pennywait. "the ground must be plowed or spaded. spading is all right for a small garden, but when you have a large one, or a farm, you must use a plow." mr. blake owned a large yard back of his house, and next door, on the other side from where the new porter family lived, was a large vacant lot. the children's father had hired this lot to use as part of his garden. hal and mab watched the man plowing. he held the two curved handles of the plow, and it was the sharp steel "share" of this that they had seen shining in the sun as it cut through the brown soil. a plow cuts through the soil as the horses pull it after them, and it is so shaped that the upper part of the earth is turned over, bringing up to the top, where the sun can shine on it, the underneath part. the undersoil is richer and better for seeds to start growing in than the upper part, where the rain may wash away the plant-food things that are needed to make a good garden. "but daddy said the ground had to be smooth to make a garden," said mab. "the plowing man is making it all rough." "yes, it does look rough now," said daddy blake, as he came along just then, in time to watch the man plowing. "those long lines of overturned soil which you children see are called furrows." "could you plant anything in them?" asked hal. "well, you could, yes. but it would not grow very well, and when the corn, beans or whatever you planted came up, you could not work around them well to cut down the weeds. it would be too rough. so after the man has plowed the ground he will harrow it." "what's that?" asked hal "well a harrow is something like a big rake," explained daddy blake. "there are three kinds of harrows, but they don't often use more than one kind for a garden. the man will use a tooth harrow. it is called that because it is made of iron spikes, or teeth, driven through some long beams of wood. the teeth stick through and when they are dragged over the plowed ground they make it quite smooth. when i take you to the farm i can tell you about and show you other kinds of harrows or big rakes." it took the man with the plow the rest of the day to turn over the soil in the blake garden, and hal and mab looked on every minute they had out of school. mr. porter's garden, next door, was plowed too. when hal and mab went to the fence to see how mr. porter's ground looked they saw little sammie standing near. the red-haired boy was looking at something on the ground. "what is it?" asked hal. "big snake," was the answer. "i don't like a snake. i'm goin' home," and he started to run. "oh, a snake!" cried mab. "i don't like snakes either;" and she turned to go away. "where's the snake, sammie? show me!" said hal. "see him crawlin'?" and red-haired sammie pointed. "i guess he goin' to bite! i run!" and away he started, but he fell down on the rough ground. he did not cry, however, but picked himself up and kept on. "that isn't a snake!" called hal with a laugh, "it's only a big angle worm. that won't hurt you, sammie! don't be afraid." "dat no snake?" the little boy wanted to know. "no. only a fish worm. don't you remember how we went fishing with daddy, mab?" asked her brother. "yes, i do. but i thought it was a snake." hal had jumped over the fence and picked up the worm. it was a large one and had been crawling about the newly-plowed field. "oh, i don't like 'em," said mab with a little shiver. "worms are good," said mr. porter coming out into his garden. "you mean good for fishing?" asked hal "yes, and good for gardens, too. they wiggle through the ground and sort of chew it up so it does not get so hard. the earth around the roots of trees and plants ought to be kept loose and dug up so the air and water can get through easier. so worms in a garden help to make the plants grow." "i didn't know that," said hal, as he put down the big worm, which at once began to crawl slowly along, stretching itself out until it was almost twice as big as at first. in a few days the weather was much warmer, and the soil in the two gardens began to dry out. the man came with the spiked, or tooth, harrow, and his horses dragged this over the ground several times. soon the soil was quite smooth, the big lumps or clods of earth being broken up into little fine chunks. "but it must be finer yet for some things, like lettuce and tomatoes," said mr. blake. "so i'll use a hand rake." "can't we help too?" hal wanted to know. "yes, i want you and mab to do as much garden work as you can. in that way you'll understand how to make things grow. and remember the more you work around in the garden, digging up the earth above the roots of your plants, keeping the weeds cut down, the better your things will grow. making a garden is not easy work, but, after all think what a wonderful lot the seeds and plants do for themselves. still we must help them." "when can i plant my beans?" asked mab. "well, pretty soon now. make your part of the garden, where you are going to plant your beans, as smooth as you can. then mark it off into rows. you should plant your beans in rows with the rows about two feet apart, and put the beans in each row so they are about four inches, one from the other. that will give the plants room enough to spread." "how do i plant my corn?" asked hal. "well, corn must be planted a little differently from beans," answered daddy blake. "you should have your rows from two to three feet apart and each hill of corn should be from a foot to a foot and a half from the next hill." "does corn only grow on a hill?" asked hal. "oh, no," laughed his father, "though on some farms and gardens the corn may be planted on the side of a hill. what i mean was that after your corn begins to grow, the ground is hoed around the corn stalks in a sort of little hill. that is done to keep it from blowing over, for corn grows very tall, in the west sometimes ten and twelve feet high. "however that is yellow or field corn, from which corn meal is made. the kind you are going to plant, hal, is called sweet corn, such as we eat green from the cob after it is boiled. that may not grow so high. but in a day or so it will be time for your corn and beans to be planted, for spring is now fully here and the weather is warm enough." hal and mab worked hard in their gardens. they raked the ground until it was quite smooth. daddy blake, his wife, aunt lollypop and uncle pennywait also raked and smoothed the parts of the garden where they were going to plant their seeds. sometimes the older folks helped the children. next door mr. porter was planting his garden, and red-haired sammie thought he was helping. at least he picked up the stones and threw them at the fence. if roly-poly had been there maybe sammie would have thrown the stones for the little poodle dog to run after. but roly had been sent away for a few weeks, until the gardens had begun to grow. for roly never could see a nicely smoothed patch of ground without wanting to dig in it, and spoil it. "we'll bring him back when the garden things are larger and well-enough grown so he can not hurt them," said daddy blake. hal and mab planted their corn and beans. daddy blake showed his little girl how to punch holes in the brown earth along a straight row which her father made with the rake handle, and into the holes she dropped the beans, covering them with earth so that they were about two inches down from the top. hal's corn did not have to be planted quite so deep, and he dropped five kernels in a circle about as large around as a tea-saucer. this circle would, a little later, be hoed into one big hill of corn. "how long before my beans will grow?" asked mab. "and my corn?" hal wanted to know. "well, beans begin to grow almost as soon as they are in the ground," answered her father, "but you can't see them until about a week. then the little leaves appear. hal's corn will take longer, maybe ten days, before any green shows. you must be patient." hal and mab tried to be, but each day they went out in the garden and looked at where they had planted their beans and corn in the garden rows. "i don't believe they're ever going to grow," said mab at last. "maybe some worms came and took my seeds. i'm going to dig some up and look." "don't," begged hal. but mab did. with a stick she poked in the earth until she saw something that made her call: "oh, hal! look. my beans are all swelled up like a sponge." hal looked, mab had dug up one bean. it had swelled and split apart, and inside the two halves of the bean something green showed. "oh, mab! cover it up, quick!" he cried. "the beans are growing--they're sprouting! cover it up, quick!" and mab did. now she was sure her beans were growing. two mornings afterward she went out into her part of the garden before starting for school. she saw something very queer. "oh, daddy! hal!" cried the little girl "my beans were planted wrong! they're growing upside down! the beans are all pushed upside down out of the ground. oh, my garden is spoiled!" chapter iv the first radish daddy blake came hurrying out of the house as mab called. hal, who was anxiously looking to see if any of his corn had come up, ran over to his sister. "what is the matter?" asked mr. blake. "did roly-poly come home and scratch in your garden?" "no. but look at my beans!" wailed mab. "they're all upside down." it did seem so. along the rows she had so carefully planted in her garden could be seen some light green stems, some of them curved like the letter u upside down. and sticking out of the brown earth were the beans, split open in two halves. "who did it?" asked mab, tears in her eyes. daddy blake looked and laughed. "did you do it?" his little girl wanted to know. "did you upside down my beans, daddy blake?" "no, mother nature did that for you, mab." "then i don't like mother nature!" "but she had to," explained daddy blake. "all the beans i know anything about grow that way. after the bean is planted the heart or germ inside starts to sprout, and sends the root downward. at the same time the leaves begin to grow upward and they take with them the outside husk of the bean which is of no more use. the plant wants to get rid of it, you see, and as there is no room under ground for it, where it might be in the way of the roots, the leaves bring it up with them. for a time after the bean has been pushed out of the ground it keeps the tender leaves from being hurt. then the bean dries and drops off--that is all that is left of it, for the germ, or heart, has started growing another plant, you see. "so don't worry, mab. your beans are all right, even if they do seem to be growing upside down. that is the only way they know. from on your beans will grow very fast." and so they did. daddy blake told the children that beans are ready to eat sometimes within six weeks after the seeds are planted. the beans are not ripe, of course, and some are green, while others are yellow, or wax beans. inside the pods, which are almost like peas, are small green beans. if they were allowed to stay on the vines the green beans inside the pods would get hard and ripe, some turning white like the beans which boys and girls stuff into cloth bags to play games with, and other beans turning a sort of brownish red, with a white spot on. "some bean vines like to climb poles," said daddy blake, "and others are what are called bush-beans, growing as peas grow. that is the kind we planted, as i did not have time to get the poles. then besides string beans, which is the sort in your garden, mab, there are the larger or lima beans, which are very good to eat. i have planted some of them, and we will have them for dinner with your corn, hal, when it grows." "will my corn grow upside down like mab's beans?" hal wanted to know. "oh, no," answered mr. blake. "corn sprouts and grows from the bottom. in another week you ought to see some tiny green spears, like blades of grass, coming up through the brown soil. it is then that crows like to come along, pull up the green stalks and eat the soft kernel of corn which is still there, fast to the root." "how are we going to keep the crows away?" asked hal. "well, i think none will come here, as our garden is in the city and so near the house," said mr. blake. "crows are more plentiful in the country and--" "i know how to keep them away!" cried mab. "how?" asked her brother. "you take an old coat and a pair of pants and stuff 'em with straw, and fasten 'em on a stick in the field." "oh, you mean a scare-crow!" cried hal. "yes," said mab. "could i make a scare-crow for my beans, daddy?" "i hardly think you'll need it, mab," her father said with a laugh. "beans are not eaten by crows. but you will have to begin to hoe away the weeds soon, and work around your rows of bean plants. nothing makes garden things grow better than keeping the weeds away from them, and keeping the soil nicely pulverized and damp." "what do the weeds do to the beans?" asked mab. "well, the weeds grow faster than the beans, and if the weeds are too near they would keep off the sunlight. weeds also eat out of the soil the food that the beans need, so if you let weeds grow in your garden your bean plants would starve. it is just the same as if some big giant sat beside you at the table and took from your plate nearly everything mother put on for you to eat. "so, in order that you might grow well and strong, we would have to take the giant away. it's the same with weeds. they are the bad giants that eat the good things in the soil which our plants need. i'll get you and hal each a little hoe to use in your garden." mab's beans grew very fast and soon the two green leaves on each plant were quite large. then other leaves appeared. by this time hal's corn had begun to show green above the earth, and he was anxious to hoe the dirt around it up into hills, as he had been told he must do. "it is too soon now, though," his father said. "if you work around plants when they are too young you would kill them. they must be allowed to get their roots well down into the ground, to begin eating and drinking. a little baby, at first, does hardly anything but eat and sleep, so that it may grow fast. plants need to do the same thing. i'll tell you when it is time to hoe." aunt lolly and uncle pennywait, as well as daddy blake, had planted their parts of the garden, and the land around the blake house looked smooth and brown, with, here and there, a little green showing. "i know what i'm going to do with that ten dollar gold piece prize when i win it," said uncle pennywait. "what are you going to do?" asked his wife. "i'm going to buy ice cream," said uncle pennywait. "i never yet had all the ice cream i wanted. but i will when i get that ten dollars." "ten dollars is an awful lot of ice cream!" said mab, sighing. "he's only joking," laughed aunt lolly. "you children mustn't let him win the prize. keep busy in your gardens, and get it yourselves." hal and mab did, hoeing away each afternoon when school was out. daddy blake showed them how to cut off the weeds that grew in between the rows of corn and beans. the earth was chopped up fine, for the children were told that earth which is made fine holds water, or moisture, longer than when it is in big chunks. "and plants need to drink water from the soil, as well as through their leaves when it rains," said daddy blake. "a plant can no more get along without water to drink than you children can." "oh daddy!" cried mab, running in the house from her garden one day. "a lot of my bean leaves have holes in them. has hal been shooting his pop gun at them?" "no," said hal. "i didn't! i wouldn't shoot your beans, mab." "well, something did!" cried mab. "will my beans be spoiled, daddy?" "i don't know. i hope not. we'll take a look." as mab had said many of the leaves did have holes in them. daddy blake looked carefully and found some little bugs on the undersides of the bean plants. "ha!" he cried. "here is the enemy!" "it sounds like war to hear you say enemy," spoke hal. "well, if you have a garden you have to make war on the weeds, bugs and beetles," said mr. blake. "a bean-leaf beetle is eating your plants, mab." "can't we make him stop, daddy?" "yes, we'll spray some poison on the leaves, so that when the beetles eat them the poison will kill them," said mr. blake. "but if you poison the beans won't they poison us when we eat them?" hal wanted to know. "the rain will wash off all the poison the beetles do not eat," answered his father. "besides there are no beans on mab's plants yet. by the time the bean pods come i hope we shall have driven the beetles away." mr. blake mixed some poison called arsenic in a can of water and sprinkled it on mab's bean plants. in a few days the beetles had died, or they went away, not liking the taste of the poisoned leaves, and mab's beans were allowed to grow in peace. that war was over. but other bugs and worms came in the blake garden, and daddy blake, uncle pennywait and aunt lolly, as well as the children and their mother, were kept busy. the cut worms got in among the cabbages, and many a nice plant was gnawed off close to the ground, dropping over and wilting away until it died. the cut worms came up out of the ground and ate the tiny cabbage stalks close to the earth. "we shall have to put collars on the cabbage plants," said daddy blake, as he looked at some which were killed. "put collars on cabbages--how?" asked mab. "i'll show you," said her father. he took some tough paper and made a sort of hollow tube around the stalk of each cabbage plant, tying the paper with string. one end was shoved down in the ground, the other being close up around the lowest cabbage leaves, until it did look as though the plant had on a high, stiff collar. "the worms can't bite through the paper--or at least they hardly ever do," said daddy blake, "and after a while the cabbage stalk will get so strong that the worms can not do it any damage." by this time many things were growing in the blake garden. the tomato plants had been set out, and for the first day or so had been kept covered with pieces of paper so the strong sun would not wilt them. they had been used to living in the house, where they started to grow, and transplanting made them tender. but soon they took root in their new soil and began to grow very fast. hal and mab hoed and raked their gardens. when it did not rain they watered their corn and beans, and they were anxious for the time to come when they could really eat some of the things they had grown. daddy blake said mab's beans might be ready to pick green, so they could be boiled, in about six weeks, but hal's corn would not be ready for ten weeks. then the ears would be filled out enough so they could be boiled and eaten with salt and butter. corn grows more slowly than beans. "when will we have anything to eat from our garden?" asked mother blake one day, when the summer sun had been beaming down on the green things for a week. "well, we'll see," said her husband. "come with me, hal and mab. i'll take you to the garden and we'll see what we can find." "my beans aren't ready yet," said mab. "and there are only little, teeny ears of corn on the stalks in my garden," hal said. "we'll see," said daddy blake. he led the children to a plot of earth he himself had planted. hal and mab saw some dark green leaves in long rows. "pull up some of them," directed daddy blake. hal did so. on the end of the leaves, growing down in the ground, was something round and red. "it's a little beet!" cried mab, clapping her hands in delight. "no, they're radishes!" exclaimed hal. "aren't they, daddy?" "yes, those are red early radishes. here are some white ones over here for you to pull, mab. they are called icicles." mab gave a cry of delight as she pulled up some long, white radishes. they did look a little like icicles. "radishes grow very quickly," said daddy blake. "they are ready to eat in about five weeks after the seeds are planted--sooner even that the quickest beans. but of course radishes do not keep over winter. they must be eaten soon after they are pulled, and they make a good relish with bread and butter. we'll have some for dinner." and the blakes did. it was the first thing they had from their new garden, and hal and mab, who were allowed to eat a few, thought the radishes very good. just as the children were getting up from the table one morning, to go out and hoe a little among the corn and beans before going to school, they heard a barking, whining, growling noise out in the yard, and the voice of sammie porter could be heard crying: "oh, stop! stop! go on away! you're bad! oh, come take him away! oh! oh!" "something has happened!" cried daddy blake, jumping up from his chair. "i hope sammie isn't hurt!" chapter v the potatoes' eyes hal and mab ran after their father as he hurried out into the yard. they could hear sammie crying more loudly now, and above his voice sounded a growling and barking noise. one part of the fence, between the blake yard and that where mr. porter had made his garden, was low, so that the two children could look over. they saw sammie standing near the fence, greatly frightened, and looking at a tangle of morning glory vines in which something was wiggling around and making a great fuss. "oh, what is it?" asked hal. "it's a--it's a lion!" cried the frightened sammie. "a great--great big lion, all fuzzy like!" "oh, it couldn't be a lion, sammie," said mr. blake. "tell me what it is that scared you." "'tis a lion," said sammie again. "he ran after me an' i ran an' he ran in the bushes an' he's there now. he barked at me!" "ho! if he barked it's a dog," cried hal. "where is he, sammie?" "in there," and sammie pointed to the tangle of morning glory vines. just then mab saw something that made her call out: "why it is a dog. it's our dog--roly-poly!" "are you sure?" asked her father. "roly is over at mr. thompson's house you know," for the little poodle had been sent away while the garden was being made. mr. thompson had planted nothing, having too small a yard. "i don't care!" exclaimed mab. "i did see roly. he's in the bushes there--under the morning glories." "well, if it's your dog roly i would not be so frightened of him," said sammie. "only i thinked he was a lion." "here, roly! roly-poly, come on out!" cried hal, and out came a very queer-looking dog indeed. it was roly, but how he had changed. he was all stuck over with leaves, grass and bits of bark from the trees. he certainly did "fuzzy," as sammie had said, and not at all like the nice, clean poodle he had been. "oh, whatever is the matter with him?" cried mab. "he's got a lot of leaves stuck on him," added hal. "come here, roly, and i'll pull 'em off for you." roly came running over to hal, but when the little boy tried to get the leaves, grass and bits of bark off his pet he found out what was the matter. "roly's all stuck up in fly paper!" cried hal. "look!" "in fly paper?" asked mr. blake. "are you sure?" "yes, he must have sat down in some fly paper, and it stuck to him all over, and then he rolled in the leaves and grass," answered hal. "and then the leaves and grass stuck to the fly paper," added mab. "oh, you poor roly-poly!" the little poodle dog must have known how he looked, and he must have felt quite badly, for he just stretched out at the feet of hal, who had jumped over the fence, and he howled and howled and howled, roly-poly did. "i wonder how it happened?" asked mr. blake. "but we must take roly-poly in the house and wash him. then he'll feel better and look better. did he scare you very much, sammie?" "a--a little bit. when i saw him in our yard, all fuzzy like, i thought sure he was a lion." mrs. porter came out, having heard her little boy crying, and when she saw roly-poly she laughed. then she said: "you poor dog. come over and i'll squirt the hose on you. that will take off some of the fly paper." "oh, let me squirt it!" cried hal. "roly loves to be squirted on! let me do it!" "i'm going to help," added mab. "an' me, too!" called sammie. "they'll drown the poor dog," spoke mr. blake, laughing. "i guess i'd better take a hand in this myself." "what's the matter?" asked aunt lolly from the back steps. "is the house on fire?" she was always afraid that would happen. "no, it's just roly-poly and some sticky fly paper," answered mr. blake. "he must have run home to get a bath after he got all tangled up in the sticky stuff at the thompson house." by using the hose, and by greasing the fly paper, which really loosened it more than water did, and then by using soap suds and a brush, roly-poly was finally cleaned. then on their way to school hal and mab stopped at the thompson home to find out what had happened. "roly-poly was very good, all the while he was here," said mrs. thompson, "though at first he was lonesome for you. he would have run back to your house if i had let him out, but i knew he might make trouble in your garden so i kept him here. "this morning i put some of the sticky fly paper around the house and left a window open in the room where roly was sleeping. the wind must have blown the sticky paper on his curly coat of hair and this so frightened him that he jumped out of the window and ran back home to you." "only he went in the yard next door, instead of in ours," said mab, "and he hid under the morning glory vines." "and on his way," added hal, "he rolled in dried leaves and grass until he was all covered, and he looked twice as big as he is now." "and sammie thought he was a lion," went on mab. "are you going to bring roly-poly back to me to keep?" asked mrs. thompson. "thank you, no," answered hal. "daddy says our garden is growing so well now that roly can't do much harm. besides we're going to teach him he mustn't dig holes, to hide his bones, in places where we have things planted. so we'll keep roly now." "and we're much obliged to you for being so nice to him," added mab, "and we're sorry he spoiled your fly paper." "oh, i have plenty more fly paper," laughed mrs. thompson. "i'm only sorry poor roly was so stuck up. good-bye!" hal and mab hurried on to school, laughing over what had happened to their pet poodle. when their lessons were done they went back to their garden, anxious to see if roly had been good, and had not dug up any corn or beans. "everything is all right," said mab, as she looked at her bush beans, which were now in blossom. soon the blossoms would drop off and in their places would come tiny bean pods. "oh, see uncle pennyweight!" cried mab, when she had found that roly was peacefully sleeping on the shady porch. "what's he doing?" "planting something, i guess," replied hal after he had looked at his growing corn, and hoed around a few hills. "and aunt lolly is working in her part of the garden," went on mab. "i wonder if they'll win that ten dollar gold piece prize, hal?" "i hope one of us wins it, mab. if i win i'll give you half." "and i'll give you half if i win, 'cause you helped me hoe my beans one day when there was so many weeds in 'em." daddy blake had put the ten dollar gold piece in a little box on the dining room mantle, and every day hal or mab looked to make sure the prize was there. "what you doin' uncle pennywait?" asked mab as she and her brother went over to the vacant lot next door, where part of the blake garden had been planted. "i'm taking the eyes out of the potatoes," answered uncle pennywait. "eyes out of potatoes!" cried hal. "i didn't know they had any." "of course they have!" laughed his uncle. "else how could they see to get out of their brown skin-jackets when they want to go swimming in the kettle of hot water?" "oh, he's only fooling us; isn't he aunt lolly?" asked hal. his aunt was hoeing some weeds away from between the hills of cucumbers she had planted, for she was going to raise some of them, as well as pumpkins, which last had been planted in between the rows of hal's corn. "well, uncle pennywait may be fooling you a little," said aunt lolly, "but i did see him cutting some eyes from the potatoes." hal and mab looked at one another. they did not know what to think now. it was seldom that both aunt lolly and uncle pennywait joked at the same time. "come over here and i'll show you," called uncle pennywait when he had laughed at the funny looks on the faces of the two children. "see," he went on, "these are the 'eyes' of the potato, though the right name, of course, is seeds." he pointed to the little spots you may see on any potato you pick up, unless it is one to small to have them. the spots are near the ends and in the middle, and they look like little dimples. some of them may look very much like eyes, and that is what most gardeners and farmers call them, but they are really the potato's seeds. mab and hal watched what uncle pennywait was doing. he had a basket in which were some large potatoes and these he was cutting into chunks, letting them fall into another basket. in each chunk their uncle cut the children noticed several "eyes." "what are you doing?" asked hal. "i am getting ready to plant a second crop of potatoes," said uncle pennywait. "the first ones i planted in my garden were early ones. soon we will be eating them on the table. they are not the kind that will keep well all winter, and i am planting that kind now. i am going to win the ten dollar prize by raising a bigger crop of potatoes than you can raise of corn or beans, little ones," and he smiled at hal and mab. then he went on cutting the eyes out of the potatoes, while the children watched him. they saw that each potato chunk had in it two or three of the queer dimple-spots. "a potato is not like other things that grow in the garden," said uncle pennywait. "it does not have its seeds separate from it, as beans have theirs in a pod, or as corn has its kernels or seeds on a cob, or a pumpkin or apple has seeds inside it. a potato's seeds are part of itself, buried in the white part that we cook for the table, and each potato has in it many seeds or eyes. "of course i could plant whole potatoes, one in each hill, but that would be wasting seed, so i cut the potatoes up into chunks and plant the little chunks, each one with two or more seeds in it." "and do you only plant one chunk?" asked mab. "no, i drop in two or three, according to the size and the number of eyes. this is done so that if one set of seeds doesn't grow the other will. now you watch me." uncle pennywait had smoothed off a nice bit of his garden where, as yet, he had planted nothing, and into the long earth-rows of this he now began to plant his potato seed. he walked along the rows with a bag of the cut-up pieces hung around his neck, and as he dropped in the white chunks he covered them with dirt by using a hoe. "when my potatoes grow up into nice green vines, and the striped bugs come to have a feast on them, you may help me drive the bad creatures away," said uncle pennywait to the children. "in fact some of my early potatoes need looking after now." "are there bugs on them?" asked mab, when her uncle had finished his planting. "indeed there are! come and i'll show you." over they went to the early-potato part of uncle pennywait's garden. there, on many of the green vines, were a lot of blackish and yellowish bugs, crawling and eating the leaves. "we'll just give them a dinner of paris green," said uncle pennywait, "and they won't eat any more of my vines." "what's paris green?" asked mab. "it is a deadly poison, for grown folks or children as well as bugs, and you must never touch it, or handle it, unless i am with you, or your father is near," said uncle pennywait. "here is some of it." he showed the children a bright, green powder, some of which he stirred into a sprinkling pot full of water. this water he sprayed over the potato vines. "the poison in the water goes on the potato leaves," explained uncle pennywait, "and when the bugs eat the leaves they also eat the poison, and die. we have to kill them or they would eat away the leaves of the vines until they all died, and we would have no potatoes. the potato bugs are very harmful, and we must get rid of them." then he let hal and mab sprinkle the potato vines with the paris green, afterward making the children carefully wash their hands so there would be no danger. "is that the only way to drive away the potato bugs?" asked hal. "sometimes farmers go through their potato field and knock the bugs from the vines into a can full of kerosene oil," said uncle pennywait, "or they may use another poison instead of paris green. but the bugs must be killed if we are to have potatoes." just then mab saw aunt lolly going into her garden with a bottle in her hand. "are you going to poison bugs too?" asked the little girl. "no, i am going to make a cucumber grow inside this," was the answer. "make a cucumber grow in a bottle?" exclaimed hal. "why, how funny!" "let's go see!" cried mab, and together they ran over to aunt lolly's garden. chapter vi the corn silk "maybe this is another joke, like the eyes of the potatoes," said hal to his sister, as they ran along. "that wasn't a joke--the eyes were real, though they couldn't see nor blink at you," mab answered. "the potato eyes must see a little, else how could they find their way to grow up out of the dark ground?" hal wanted to know. "well, my beans didn't have any eyes, and they grew up," mab answered. "even if they did grow upside down, or i thought they did," and she laughed. "but let's see what aunt lolly is doing." uncle pennywait's wife was out among the cucumber vines now. she had planted them about the same time hal had put in the five kernels of corn in each hill. aunt lolly's cucumber seeds had also been planted in hills, so there would be a raised mound of earth for the roots to keep moist in, and in order that the vines, at the start, would be raised up from the other ground around them. now the cucumber plants were quite lengthy, running along over their part of the garden, and in some places there were growing tiny little pickles--or they would be pickles, when put in salt, vinegar and spices. "are you really going to make a cucumber grow in a bottle?" asked mab as she saw her aunt, with a bottle in her hand, stooping over one of the vines. "i really am," was the answer. "it is only a little trick, though, and really does no good. but i thought you children would like to see it." "how are you going to do it?" asked hal. "you see this little cucumber, or pickle," spoke aunt lolly, and she showed one to hal and mab. "well now i'm going to slip it inside this bottle, but not pull the pickle from the vine. if i did that the cucumber would stop growing and die." she had a bottle with a neck large enough so the pickle would go in it. the bottle was an odd shape. "the pickle will grow large and completely fill the bottle," went on aunt lolly. "it will grow because it is not broken off the stem, and the bottle, being glass, will let in the sunshine. the neck is also large enough so air can get in, for without air, sunlight and the food it gets through the stem the pickle would not live. "but as it grows it will swell and fill every part of the bottle and it also will grow just to the shape of the bottle, so that in the fall, when it can't grow any more, because of the strong glass, i can break the bottle and i will have a pickle shaped just like it, curves, queer twists and everything else." "oh, how funny!" cried hal "i wonder if i could grow an ear of corn in a bottle?" "no," answered his aunt. "an ear of corn has to grow inside the husk, and you could not, very well, put a bottle over that." "could i over one of my beans?" asked mab. "well, you might, but it would have to be a very long and thin bottle, for a bean is that shape when it has grown as large as it will ever get. so i don't believe i'd try it, if i were you. ill let you each have one of my pickles to grow inside a bottle." hal and mab thought this would be fun so they found other bottles with which to do the funny trick of making cucumbers grow inside the glass. "i wish daddy would give a prize for the funniest shaped cucumber," said mab, when she had fixed her bottle with a pickle inside it. "maybe he will," spoke her brother. "we'll ask him." but when daddy blake came home that evening he had a package in his arms, and the children were so interested about what might be in it that they forgot to ask for the cucumber prize. "what are you going to do now?" asked mab. "i'm going to take you and hal down to the garden and show you how to set out cabbage plants," said daddy blake. "but we've got some cabbage plants!" cried hal. "yes, i know. but these are a kind that will get a head, or be riper, later in the fall. this is winter cabbage that we will keep down cellar, and have to eat when there is snow on the ground, for cabbage is very good and healthful. we can eat it raw, or made into sauer-kraut or have it boiled with potatoes. we must save some cabbage for winter and that is the kind i am going to plant now." "and may we help?" asked mab. "yes, come on to the garden." daddy blake had asked uncle pennywait, that day, to smooth off a plowed and harrowed place ready for the cabbage plants to be put in that evening, and the long rows, dug in the brown soil, were now waiting. "where did you get the cabbage plants?" mab wanted to know. "did you grow them in a little box down at your office, daddy, as we did the tomatoes here?" "no, mab, not quite that way, though i might have done that if i had had room. i bought these cabbage plants in the market on my way home. some farmers, with lots of ground, plant the cabbage seed early in the spring in what are called 'hot-frames.' that is they are like our tomato boxes only larger, and they are kept out of doors. but over the top are glass windows, so the cold air can not get in. but the warm sun shines through the glass as it did through our tomato box, and soon the cabbage seeds begin to sprout. "then the plants grow larger and larger, until they are strong enough to be set out, as the tomatoes were. in this way you can grow the vegetables better than if you waited until it was warm enough to put the seed right out in the garden, and let the plants grow up there from the beginning. putting the seeds in the hot frame gives them a good start. now we'll set out the cabbage plants, and you may both help." daddy blake gave hal and mab each a small handful of the little cabbage plants, some of which had two and others three light green leaves on. there were also small roofs, with a little wet dirt clinging to them, from where they had been pulled out of their early home in which they first grew. "oh, hal! that isn't the way to do it!" cried daddy blake, when he had watched his little boy walking along the cabbage row for a while, dropping the plants, the roots of which were afterward to be covered with the brown earth. "why not?" hal asked. "because you must only drop one plant in a place. you are letting two and three fall at once. you mustn't make a bouquet of them," and his father laughed. "only one cabbage plant in a spot." "am i doing it right?" asked mab, who was on the other side of the cabbage plot. "well, not exactly. hal dropped his too close together and yours are too far apart. the cabbage plants ought to be about two and a half feet apart, in rows and the rows should be separate one from the other by about twenty inches. here, i'll cut you each a little stick for a measure. you don't need to worry about the rows, as uncle pennywait marked them just the right distance apart as he made them." so after that hal and mab measured, with sticks daddy blake gave them to get one cabbage plant just as far from the one next to it in the row as daddy blake wanted. then, with a hoe, the children's father covered the roots with dirt and the cabbages were planted, or "set out," as the gardener calls it. "now let me take a look at your corn and beans," said mr. blake to the two children, when the cabbages had been left to grow. "i want to see who has the best chance of winning that ten dollar gold prize." "hal's corn is very nice," said mab. "and so are her beans," added mab's brother kindly. "i guess maybe she'll get the prize." "well, it will be quite a little while before we can tell," spoke daddy blake. "corn and beans will not be gathered until fall, though we may eat some of hal's corn earlier, for he has some rows of the sweet variety which can be boiled and gnawed off the ears." daddy blake found a few places in mab's bean patch where the useless weeds needed hoeing away, so they would not steal from the brown earth the food which the good plants needed. "and one or two of your corn hills could be made a little higher, hal," said his father. "if you look at the corn stalks you will see, down near where they are in the ground, some little extra roots coming out above the earth. in order that these roots may reach the soil, and take hold, the dirt must be hoed up to them." mr. blake showed the children what he meant, and mab cried: "those roots are just like the ropes we had on our tent when we went camping." "that's it," said daddy blake. "these roots keep the tall corn stalks from blowing over just as the ropes keep the tent from falling down." "oh, look!" cried mab, as she passed one stalk of corn that was larger than any of the others. "there's something growing on this that's just like my doll's hair. i'm going to pull it off." "no, you mustn't do that," her father said. "that is corn silk." "oh, i know what it is," said hal. "it's brown stuff and sometimes when you're eating corn it gets in your mouth and tickles you." "corn silk isn't brown until it gets old and dried," said his father. "at first it is a light green, like this. and the silk is really part of the corn blossom." "i didn't know corn had a blossom," said mab. "yes," said her father, "it has. part of the blossom is up top here, on these things that look like long fingers sticking out," and he pointed to the upper part of the stalk. "on these fingers grows a sort of fine dust, called pollen, and unless this falls down from the top of the corn stalk, and rests on the silk which grows out from the ear, there would be no more corn seed. or, if corn seed, or kernels, did form on the ear, they would be lifeless, and when planted next year no corn would grow from them. the pollen dust and the silk must mingle together to make perfect ears of corn, so don't pull off the silk, even if you do want to make it into hair for your doll." mab promised she would not, though she loved the feel of the soft corn silk. then she and hal noticed where some of the light yellow pollen had already been blown by the wind down on the silk to help make the perfect ear of corn. as the children walked along through the garden with daddy blake they heard voices over the fence where mr. porter lived. then they heard sammie calling: "oh, daddy! look what i got! it's a big green bug, an' roly-poly is barkin' at him! come quick!" "i hope roly-poly isn't making any more trouble as he did with the fly paper," said mr. blake as he walked toward the fence. chapter vii early tomatoes "what's the matter, mr. porter?" asked mr. blake, looking over the fence where sammie's father was working in his garden. "has our little poodle dog been scratching up your plants?" "oh, no. roly is very good. he seems to know we want the thing's in our gardens to grow, and he only walks carefully between the rows, and doesn't scratch a bit," answered the neighbor. "what is he barking at now?" asked mab, for the little poodle dog had crawled under the fence and had gone next door, as he often did. he was standing near red-haired sammie now. "he's barkin' at a big, green bug," said the little boy. "a green bug; eh?" spoke mr. porter. "maybe we'd better see what it is," he added, speaking to daddy blake. "i rather think we had. there are so many bugs, worms and other things trying to spoil our gardens, that we must not let any of them get away." "he's a awful big bug, almost as long as roly's tail," called sammie from where he stood near a tomato plant. "well, roly's tail isn't very big," laughed daddy blake. "but a bug or worm of that size could eat a lot of plant leaves." "don't touch it--daddy will kill it!" called mr. porter to his little boy. but sammie had no idea of touching the queer bug he had seen, and at which the poodle dog was barking. "oh, it's one of the big green tomato worms!" exclaimed mr. blake when he saw it. "they can do a lot of damage. i hope they don't get in my garden. we must kill as many as we can," and he knocked the worm to the ground and stepped on it. roly-poly barked harder than ever at this, thinking, perhaps, that he had helped get rid of the unpleasant, crawling thing. "we'll look over your tomato patch and see if there are any more worms," suggested mr. blake to his neighbor. "yes, and then i'll come and help you clear your plants of the pests," said mr. porter. "we want to have our gardens good this year, so we won't have to spend so many of our pennies for food next winter." a few more of the green worms were found on the tomato vines, and there were more on daddy blake's. so many were found that he could not be sure he had knocked them all off. "i think i will have to spray the plants with paris green as i did the potatoes," he said. "the tomatoes will not be ready to pick--even the earliest--for some weeks and by that time the poison will have been washed off by the rain." "making a garden is lots of work" said hal, next day, when he and mab had helped their father spray the tomato plants. "yes, indeed," agreed mr. blake. "but, like everything else in this world, you can't have anything without working for it." "i thought all you had to do in a garden," said mab, "was to plant the seed and it would grow into cabbage, radishes, corn, beans or whatever you wanted." "you are beginning to learn otherwise," spoke her father, "and it is a good thing. mother nature is wise and good, but she does not make it too easy for us. she will grow beautiful flowers, and useful fruits and vegetables from tiny seeds, but she also grows bad weeds and sends eating-bugs that we must fight against, if we want things to grow on our farms and gardens. so we still have much work before us to make our gardens a success." "we haven't had much to eat from them yet," said mother blake, who had been hoeing among her carrots. "i hope we can pick something soon." "we had radishes," said hal. "and well soon have tomatoes," added his father. "now that i have driven away the eating worms the vines will grow better and the tomatoes will ripen faster." a week later on some of the vines there were quite large green tomatoes. hal and mab watched them eagerly, noting how they grew and swelled larger, until, one day, mab came running in, crying: "oh, one tomato has a red cheek!" "that's where it got sunburned," said her father with a smile. "that shows they are getting ripe. soon we will have some for the table." in a few days more tomatoes on the vines had red, rosy cheeks, some being red all over. these daddy blake let hal and mab pick, and they brought them in the house. "oh, we shall have some of our own tomatoes for lunch!" cried mother blake when she saw them. "how fine! our garden is beginning to give us back something to pay us for all the work we put on it." "but these are daddy's tomatoes," said hal. "he had the first thing, after the radishes, for the table from his garden, and mab and i haven't anything. daddy'll get his own prize." "no, i promise you i will not take the prize for these tomatoes, even if i did raise them in my part of the garden," said daddy blake with a smile. "and i won't count the radishes we had before the tomatoes were ripe, either. those belonged to all of us. "the prize isn't going to be given away until all the crops are harvested, or brought in, and then we'll see who has the most and the best of things that will keep over winter." "can you keep tomatoes all winter?" asked mab of her father. "well, no, not exactly. but mother can put them into cans, after they have been cooked, and she can make ketchup and spices of them--chili sauce and the like--as well as pickles, so, after all, you might say my tomatoes will last all winter. "sometimes you can keep tomatoes fresh for quite a while down in a cool, dry cellar, if you pull the vines up by the roots, with the tomatoes still on them, and cover the roots with dirt. but they will not keep quite all winter, i believe. at any rate i'm not going to keep ours that way. we'll can them." mother blake sliced the garden tomatoes for supper. she also made a dressing for them, with oil, vinegar and spices, though hal and mab liked their tomatoes best with just salt on. "tomatoes are not only good to eat--i mean they taste good--but they are healthful for one," said daddy blake. "it is not so many years ago that no one ate tomatoes. they feared they were poison, and in some parts of the country they were called ladies' or love apples. but now many, many thousands of cans of tomatoes are put up every year, so that we may have them in winter as well as in summer, though of course the canned ones are not as nice tasting as the ones fresh from the garden, such as we have now." it was not long before there was lettuce from the blake garden, and mother blake said it was the best she had ever eaten. lettuce, too, daddy blake explained, would not keep over winter, though it is sold in many stores when there is snow on the ground. but it comes from down south, where there is no winter, being sent up on fast express trains. "lettuce is also as good to eat as are tomatoes," remarked daddy blake. "it is said to be good for persons who have too many nerves, or, rather, for those whose nerves are not in good condition." one day, when hal and mab came home from school, they hurried out, after leaving their books in the house, for they wanted to play some games." "aren't you going to work in your gardens a little while?" asked their mother. "daddy is out there." "is he?" cried hal. "did he come home early?" "yes, on purpose to hoe among his tomatoes, i think he is cutting down the weeds which grew very fast since the last rain we had." "our parts of the garden are all right," said hal. "my corn doesn't need hoeing." "nor my beans," said mab. "but let's go out and see daddy, hal. maybe he'll tell us something new about the garden." "well, where are your hoes, toodlekins?" called daddy blake, when he saw the two children coming toward him. "there aren't any weeds in my corn," said hal. "nor in my beans," added mab. "not very many, it is true," said daddy blake. "but still there are some, and if you cut down the weeds when they are small, and when there are not many of them, you will find it easier to keep your garden looking neat, and, at the same time, make sure your crops will grow better, than if you wait and only hoe when the weeds are big. "gardens should be made to look nice, as well as be made free from weeds just because it is a good thing for the plants," went on daddy blake. "a good gardener takes pride in his garden. he wants to see every weed cut down. besides, hoeing around your corn and beans makes the dirt nice and finely pulverized--like the pulverized sugar with which mother makes icing for the cakes. and the finer the dirt is around the roots of a plant the more moisture it will hold and the better it will be for whatever is growing, as i have told you before." "well, we'll hoe a little bit," said hal. he and his sister got their hoes and soon they were so interested in cutting down the weeds in between the rows that they forgot about going off to play. hal noticed that the ears of corn on his stalks were getting larger inside the green husk that kept the soft and tender kernels from being broken, as might have happened if they were out in the air, as tomatoes grow. and so the gardens grew, just as did that of "mistress mary, quite contrary," about whom you may read in mother goose, or some book like that. sometimes it rained and again it was quite dry, with a hot sun beating down out of the blue sky. "if we don't get rain pretty soon we shall have to water the gardens," said daddy blake one night after about a week of very dry weather. around the roots of the many plants the earth was caked and hard, so that very little air could get down to nourish the growing things. "what do people do who have gardens where it doesn't rain as often as it does here, daddy?" asked mab. "well in very dry countries, such as some parts of ours near the places called deserts," said mr. blake, "men build large dams, and hold the water back in big ponds or lakes so it will last from one rainy season to another. the water is let run from the lake through little ditches, or pipes, so that the thirsty plants may drink. this is called the irrigation method, for to irrigate means to wet, soak or moisten with water. each farmer or gardener is allowed to buy as much water as he needs, opening little gates at the ends of the main ditches or sluices, and letting the water run over his dry ground, in which he has dug furrows to lead the water where he most needs it. "and sometimes, when there is too little water to use much of it this way, the gardeners do what they call intensive cultivation. those are big words, but they mean that the man just hoes his ground every day around his plants, instead of perhaps once a week. "you know there is moisture in the air, and at night dew falls. this wets the ground a little, and by digging and turning over the earth around the roots of his plants, the gardener makes it very fine so it holds the moisture longer. in this way a little bit of rain, or dew, lasts a long time. come out now, and i'll show you something you perhaps have not noticed." daddy took hal and mab to the garden, and with a hoe he pointed to a place around hal's corn stalks where the dry ground was hard, and baked by the sun. a few strokes of the hoe and daddy blake had turned up some of the underlying earth. hal and mab saw that it was darker in color than that on top, and when they put their hands down in it the earth felt moist. "what makes it?" asked mab. "because the underneath part of the ground held the moisture in it. the top part was baked dry and the moisture had all gone away--evaporated in the sun, if you want to use big words, just as water dries in your hands after you wash them, even if you do not soak it up with a towel." "does a towel soak up water?" asked mab. "i thought it just wiped it off our hands." "no, the towel is like a sponge," said daddy blake. "the fuzzier the towel the more like a sponge it is. each little bit of linen or cotton, is really a tiny hollow tube--a capillary tube it is called--and these tubes suck up the water on your hands as the same fuzzy capillary tubes in a piece of blotting paper suck up the ink. a towel is a sponge or a blotter. and the earth is a sort of sponge when it comes to sucking up the rain and dew. it also holds the water near the plant, when the ground is finely pulverized, so the tomato vine, the corn stalk or the bean bush can drink when it gets thirsty." "my! there's a lot to know about a garden; isn't there?" said mab with a sigh. "yes, there is," agreed hal. "i don't s'pose we'll ever know it all." "no," said his father, "you will not. there will always be something better to learn, not only for you but for everyone. but learn all you can, and learn, first of all, that plants must have sunshine, air and water to make them grow. now we'll water the garden." there were no signs of rain, and though the ground was a little moist in some parts of the garden daddy blake thought all the growing things would be better for a wetting from the hose. so he attached it to the faucet and let hal and mab take turns sprinkling. as the drops fell on the thirsty ground there floated up a most delicious smell, like the early spring rain, which helps mother nature to awaken the sleeping grass and flowers. "i guess my corn is wet enough," said hal, after a bit. he had only been sprinkling a little while when he heard one of his boy friends calling him from the street in front. "oh, your corn isn't half wet enough," laughed daddy blake. "it is almost better not to water the garden at all than not to give it enough, for it only hardens the dirt on top. give the corn a good soaking, just as if it had rained hard. a good watering for the garden means about two quarts of water to every square foot in your plots. don't be afraid of the water. your plants will do so much better for it. but don't spray them too heavily, so the dirt is washed away. let the hose point up in the air, and then the drops will fall like rain." hal kept the hose longer, giving his corn a good wetting, and he could almost see the green stalks stand up straighter when he had finished. they were refreshed, just as a tired horse is made to feel, better, after a hot day in the streets, when he has a cool drink and is sprinkled with the hose. "roly, get out the way or you'll be all wet!" cried mab, as the little poodle dog ran around her beans when she was watering them. "bow-wow!" barked roly, just as if he said he didn't care. "well, if you want to get wet--all right!" laughed mab. "here it comes!" she pointed the hose straight at roly and in a second he was wet through. "ki-yi! ki-yi! ki-yi!" he yelped as he ran out of the garden. "bow-wow! ki-yi!" "well, it will cool him off, and i guess he wanted it after all," said daddy blake. "but roly is a good little dog. he only dug once in the garden since he came back, but i tapped him on the end of his nose with my finger, and scolded him, and he hasn't done it since." the next day daddy blake took hal and mab to the garden again, and showed them how he was building little wooden frames under his tomatoes to keep the red vegetables off the ground where they might lie in the mud and sand and get dirty. "the frames help to hold up the vines so they will not break when the tomatoes get too heavy for them," said mr. blake. "plants have lots of trouble," said hal. "you have to put their seeds in the ground, keep the weeds away from them, hoe them, water them, and keep the bugs and worms away. is there anything else that can happen to things in a garden, daddy?" "yes, sometimes heavy hail storms come and beat down the plants, or tear the leaves to ribbons so the plants die, and bear nothing. this often happens to corn, which has broad leaves easily torn by hail." "what is hail?" asked hal. "well, it's a sort of frozen rain," said daddy blake. "often in a thunder shower the wind plays strange tricks. it whirls the rain drops about, first in some cool air, far above the earth and then whips them into some warm air. the cool air freezes the rain, and when it falls it is not in the shape of beautiful crystals, as is the snow, but is in hard, round balls, sometimes as large as marbles. often the hail will break windows." "i hope it doesn't hail in our nice garden," said hal. "it will hurt your corn worse than it would my beans," said mab. "i hope it doesn't hail, too, hal." but two or three days after that, one evening when the blakes were sitting on the steps after having worked in the garden, there came from the west low mutterings of thunder. then the lightning began to flash and daddy blake said: "we are going to have a shower, i think. well, it will be good for the garden." and soon the big drops began splashing down, followed by another sound. "oh, it's hailing!" cried aunt lolly. "hear the hail stones!" "i love to see it!" exclaimed mab. "but i hope it doesn't hail very big stones." however the stones from the sky--stones of ice that did not melt for some time after they rattled down--were rather large. they bounced up from the sidewalk and on the path around the blake house. "where's hal?" suddenly asked his father. "i want to show him and mab how the inside of hail stones look. i'll run out and get some as soon as the shower slackens a little." it was raining and hailing hard now, and the lightning was flashing brightly, while the thunder was rumbling like big cannon. "hal was here a minute ago," said his mother. "i wonder if he could have run out in the storm?" just then, from his porch, mr. porter called something to daddy blake. all mab and her mother could hear was: "hal--hail--umbrella!" "oh, i hope nothing has happened to him!" said mrs. blake. "you had better go look for him, daddy!" chapter viii the children's market daddy blake caught up an umbrella from the hallway and ran out into the storm, going around the side path toward the back yard and lot where the children had made their gardens. "where is he going?" asked mab. "to look for hal," answered her mother. "where is hal?" "he must have gone out in the storm to see what made it hail, i suppose." "oh, if one of the big hail stones hits him on the end of his nose he'll cry!" exclaimed aunt lolly. "well, he'll know better than to do it again," said uncle pennywait "listen to roly-poly howling!" the little poodle dog was afraid of thunder and lightning, and every time there was a storm he used to get in the darkest corner of the house and howl. he was doing this now as daddy blake ran to the garden to find where hal was. "he's back there--out where his corn is planted!" called mr. porter to hal's father as daddy blake ran around the house. "i saw him from our kitchen window, and i thought i'd tell you." "i'm glad you did!" shouted mr. blake. both he and mr. porter had to shout to be heard above the noise of the storm; for the thunder was very loud, and the patter of the rain drops, and the rattle of the hail made a very great racket indeed. [illustration] when daddy blake turned around the corner of the house and started down the main path that led through the vegetable garden, he saw a strange sight. there stood hal, in the midst of his little corn field, out in the pelting rain and hail, holding the biggest umbrella over as many of the stalks of corn as he could shelter. and hal himself was dripping wet for the rain blew under the umbrella. "what are you doing?" cried mr. blake. "keeping the hail off my corn," answered hal. "you said the hail stones would tear the green leaves all to pieces and i don't want it to. can't mab come out and hold an umbrella, too? you've got one, daddy, so you can help." mr. blake wanted to laugh but he did not like to hurt hal's feelings. besides he was a little worried lest hal take cold in the pelting storm. so he said: "you must come in, hal. holding an umbrella over your corn would only save one hill from the hail and saving that one hill would not make up for you getting ill. we shall have to let the storm do its worst, and trust that not all the corn will be spoiled." "is that what the farmers do?" asked hal, making his way between the rows of corn toward his father. "yes. they can't stop the hail and they can't cover the corn. sometimes it doesn't do a great deal of damage, even though it tears many of the green leaves. this storm is beginning to stop now, so you had better come in." "i didn't want my corn to be spoiled, so i couldn't win the prize," spoke hal, as he went back to the house with his father, walking under the umbrella. "that's why i came out to keep off the frozen rain. it came down awful hard." "yes, it was a heavy storm for a few minutes," said mr. blake. "but it will soon be over, and the rain will do the gardens good, though the hail may hurt them some." by the time hal and his father reached the porch the hail had stopped and it was only raining. mrs. blake, aunt lolly and the others were anxiously waiting. "i thought maybe he had been struck by lightning," said mab. "pooh! i wasn't afraid!" boasted hal. "i guess you were thinking too much about your corn," said his father with a laugh. "it was very good of you, but you mustn't do such a thing again. now you'll have to get dry clothes on. but wait until i show you how a hail stone looks inside." daddy blake ran out into the storm and came back with a handful of the queer, frozen stones. he let hal and mab look at them, and then, taking a large one, he held it on top of the warm stove for a second, until the chunk of ice had melted in half. "see the queer rings inside it," daddy blake said to the children and, looking, they noticed that the hail stone was made up of different layers of ice, just as some kinds of candy are made in sections. "what makes it that way--like an onion," asked hal, for the hail stone did look a bit like an onion that has been sliced through the centre. "it is because the hail is made up of different layers of ice," answered daddy blake. "it is supposed that a hail stone is a frozen rain drop. in the tipper air it gets whirled about, first going into a cold part that freezes it. then the frozen rain drop is tossed down into some warm air, or a cloud where there is water. this water clings to the frozen centre and then is whirled upward again. there is another freeze, and so it goes on, first getting wet and then freezing until, after having been built up of many layers of ice and frozen rain, the hail stone falls to the ground." "my!" exclaimed mab. "i didn't know hail stones were so wonderful." "neither did i," added hal. when hal had changed his clothes he told how it was he happened to run out into the garden during the heavy hail storm. he had seen the big frozen chunks of rain coming down, and he remembered what his father had said about it spoiling garden and farm crops. so hal, when no one was looking, got a big umbrella from the rack and went out to hold it over his corn. mr. porter happened to see him and told mr. blake. the shower did not last very long, and when it was over daddy blake took hal and mab into the garden to see what damage had been done. the ground was so muddy they had to wear rubbers. "oh, a lot of my beans are beaten down!" cried mab, as she looked at her bushes. "they'll straighten up again when the sun comes out," said her father. "if they don't you can hold them up with your hand and hoe more dirt around their roots. that's what i shall have to do with my tomatoes, too. the fruit is getting too heavy for the vines. however no great harm will be done." "a lot of my corn is torn," said hal. "it's too bad!" "not enough is torn to spoil the ears," said daddy blake. "a gardener must expect to have a little damage done to his crops by the storms. of course it isn't nice, but it is part of the garden game. sometimes whole orchards, big green houses and large fields of grain are ruined by hail storms. we were lucky." "what does a farmer do when his whole crop is spoiled by a big storm?" asked hal. "well, generally a farmer raises many crops, so that if one fails he can make money on the others. that is what makes it hard to be a farmer, or, rather, one of the things that make it hard. he never can tell whether or not he is going to have a good crop of anything. sometimes it may be storms that spoil his wheat or hay, and again it may be dry weather, with not enough rain, or bugs and worms may eat up many of his growing things. so you see a farmer, or a man who has a larger garden, must grow many crops so that if he loses one he may have others to keep him through the winter, either by selling the things he raises, or by eating them himself." the next day there was no school, and hal and mab spent much time in their garden. the sun came out bright and warm, and the children said they could almost see the things growing. mab declared that her bean vines grew almost an inch that one day, and it may be that they did. beans grow very fast. if you have ever watched them going up a pole you would know this to be true. with their hoes the children piled more dirt around the roots of the garden plants where the rain had washed the soil away, and thus the bushes and stalks were helped to stand up straighter. some straightened up of themselves when they had dried in the sun. "well, i think we are going to have some good crops," said daddy blake when he went to the garden with hal and mab a few days after the storm. "in fact we are going to have more of some things than we can use." "will we have to throw them away?" asked hal. "no indeed!" laughed his father. "that would be wrong at a time when we must save all the food we can. but we will do as the farmer does who raises a large crop of anything. we will start a little store and sell what we do not need." "a real store?" cried mab, with shining eyes. "and sell things for real money?" asked hal. "of course!" laughed their father, "though you may give your friends anything from your garden that you wish to." "where will we keep the store?" asked hal. "and who will we sell the things to?" "and what will we sell?" asked mab. "what have we too much of, daddy?" "my! you children certainly can ask questions!" exclaimed mr. blake. "now let me see! in the first place i think if you keep the store out on the front lawn, near the street, it will be the best place, i'll put an old door across two boxes and that will be your store counter. and you can sell things to persons that pass along the street. some in automobiles may stop and buy, and others, on their way to the big stores, may stop to get your vegetables because they will be so fresh. the fresher a vegetable is the better. that is it should be eaten as soon as possible after it is taken from the garden, else it loses much of its flavor." "but will people give us real money for our garden truck?" asked hal. he had heard his father and uncle pennywait speak of garden "truck" so he knew it must be the right word. "indeed they'll be glad to pay you real money," said mr. blake with a smile. "persons who have no garden of their own are very glad to buy fresh vegetables. you'll soon see." "but what are we going to sell?" asked mab. "oh, yes, i forgot your question," said her father. "well, there are more tomatoes than your mother has time to can, or make into ketchup just now. she will have plenty more later on. and i think there will be more of your beans, mab, than you will care to keep over winter, or use green. so you can sell some of my tomatoes and some of your beans." "my corn isn't ripe yet," said hal. "the ears are awful little." "no, you must wait a while about your corn. but mother's carrots are ready to pull, and she has more than we will need over winter. you may sell some of those, hal." "oh, won't it be fun--having a real store!" cried the little boy. "come on, mab, we'll get ready! i'm going to pull the carrots." "and i'll pull the beans!" cried mab. "will you get the tomatoes, daddy?" "yes, but you had better let me show you a little bit about getting the things ready for your market store. the nicer your vegetables look, and the more tastefully you set them out, the more quickly will people stop to look at them and buy them. wise gardeners and store-keepers know this and it is a good thing to learn." so daddy blake first showed mab how to pick her string beans, taking off only those of full size, leaving the small to grow larger, when there would be more to eat in each pod. the beans were kept up off the ground with strings running to sticks at the of each row. "if the beans touch the ground they not only get dirty," mr. blake, "but they often are covered with brown, rusty spots and they soon rot. persons like to buy nice, clean beans, free from dirt. so have yours that way, mab." mab put the beans site picked into clean strawberry boxes, and set them in the shade out of the sun until it was time to open the store on the lawn near the street. hal's father showed how to pull from the brown earth the yellow carrots from mother blake's part of the garden. only carrots of good size were pulled, the small ones being left to grow larger. the carrots were tied in bunches of six each, and the bright yellow, pointed bottoms, with the green tops, made a pretty picture as they were laid in a pile in the shade. "now i'll pick some tomatoes and your garden store will be ready for customers," said daddy blake. his vines were laden with ripe, red tomatoes and these were carefully picked and placed in strawberry boxes also, a few being set aside for lunch, as was done with mab's beans and mother blake's carrots. a little later hal and mab took their places behind a broad wooden counter, placed on two boxes out in front of their house. on the board were set the boxes of red tomatoes, those of the green and yellow string beans and the pile of yellow carrots. "now you are all ready for your customers," said daddy blake, as he helped the children put the last touches to their vegetable store. "oh, i wonder if we'll sell anything?" spoke mab, eagerly. "i hope so," answered hal. "oh, look! here comes a big automobile with two ladies in it, and they're steering right toward us!" "i hope they don't upset our counter," said mab slowly, as she watched the big auto approach. chapter ix sammie plants tomatoes "look at the lovely vegetables!" exclaimed one of the ladies in the automobile, as she glanced at what hal and mab had spread out on their store counter--the old barn door set on the two boxes. "are they nice and fresh, children?" asked the second lady, as she put a funny pair of spectacles, on a stick, up to her nose, and looked at the string beans through the shiny glass. "oh, yes'm, they're very fresh!" answered hal. "daddy and us just picked 'em from our garden." "we have more than we can eat, and mother hasn't time to can the tomatoes," explained mab, for their father had left them alone, to say and do as they thought best. "they certainly look nice," went on the first lady, "and how well the children have arranged them." "like a picture," added the other. "see how pretty the red, green and yellow colors show. i must have some tomatoes and beans." "and i want some of those carrots. they say carrots make your eyes bright." hal and mab thought the ladies eyes were bright enough, especially when the sun shone and glittered on the funny stick-spectacles. the automobile had stopped and the chauffeur got down off the front seat behind the steering wheel and walked toward the children's new vegetable store. "how much are your tomatoes?" asked the lady who had first spoken. "eight cents a quart," answered hal, his father telling him to ask that price, which was what they were selling for at the store. "and they're just picked," added the little boy. "i can see they are," spoke the lady. "i'll take three quarts, and you may keep the extra penny for yourselves," she added as she handed hal a bright twenty-five-cent piece. hal and his sister were so excited by this, their first sale, and at getting real money, that they could hardly put the three quarts of red tomatoes in the paper bags daddy blake had brought for them from the store. they did spill some, but as the tomatoes fell on the soft grass they were not broken. "i want some beans and carrots," said the other lady, and the chauffeur helped hal and mab put them in bags, and brought the money back to the children. the beans and carrots were sold for thirty cents, so that hal and mab now have fifty-five cents for their garden stuff. "isn't it a lot of money!" cried hal, when the auto had rolled away down the street, and he and his sister looked at the shining coins. "well get rich," exclaimed mab, gleefully. a little later a lady in a carriage stopped to buy some beans, and after that a man, walking along the street, bought a quart of tomatoes. later on a little girl and her mother stopped and looked at the carrots, buying one bunch. "i want my little girl to eat them as they are good for her," said the lady, "but she says she doesn't like them, though i boil them in milk for her." "but they don't taste like anything," complained the little girl. "our carrots are nice and sweet," said mab. "you'll like these. my brother and i eat them." "they look nice and yellow," said the little girl. "maybe i will like these." hal and mab had sold several boxes of beans and tomatoes and about half a dozen bunches of carrots, in an hour, and now they began putting their store counter in order again, for it was rather untidy. daddy blake had told them to do this. once or twice the children could not make the right change when customers stopped to buy things, but aunt lolly was near at hand, on the porch, and she came to their aid, so there was no trouble. it was rather early in the morning when hal and mab started their store, and by noon they had sold everything, and had taken in over two dollars in "real" money. "isn't it a lot!" cried hal, as he saw the pile of copper, nickle and silver coins in the little box they used for a cash drawer. "a big pile," answered mab. "we'll sell more things to-morrow." "no, i think not," spoke daddy blake, coming along just then. "we must not take too much from our garden to sell. but you have done better than i thought you would. over two dollars!" "what shall we do with it?" asked hal. "well, you may have some to spend, but we'll save most of it," his father answered. "this is the first money you ever earned from your garden, and i want you to think about it. just think what mother nature did for you, with your help, of course. "in the ground you planted some tiny seeds and now they have turned into money. no magician's trick could be more wonderful than that. this money will pay for almost all the seed i bought for the garden. of course our work counts for something, but then we have to work anyhow." hal and mab began to understand what a wonderful earth this of ours is, and how much comes out of the brown soil which, with the help of the air, the rain and sunlight, can take a tiny seed, no larger than the head of a pin, and make from it a great, big green tomato vine, that blossoms and then has on it red tomatoes, which may be eaten or sold for money. and the beans and carrots did the same, each one coming from a small seed. sammie porter came out two or three times and watched hal and mab selling things at their vegetable store. the little boy seemed to be wondering what was going on, and hal and mab told him as well as they could. "sammie goin' to have a 'mato store," he said when the two blake children had sold all their things, and were moving their empty boxes and door into the barn. "me goin' to sell 'matoes." "i wonder what he will do?" said mab. "maybe he'll take a lot of things from his father's garden," suggested hal. "we better tell him not to." "well, mr. porter is working among his potatoes so i guess sammie can't do much harm," mab said. a little later she and hal happened to look out in front and they saw a queer sight. sammie was drawing along the sidewalk his little express wagon, in which he had piled some tomatoes. they were large, ripe ones, and he must have picked them from his father's vines, since he could not get through the fence into the blake gardens. "oh, sammie!" cried mab, running out to him, "what are you doing with those tomatoes?" "sammie goin' have a 'mato store an' sell 'em like you an' hal. you want come my 'mato store?" he asked, looking up and smiling. "no, i guess we have all the tomatoes we want," laughed hal. sammie did not seem to worry about this. maybe he thought some one else would buy his vegetables. he wheeled his cart up near his own front fence, on the grass and sat down beside it. "'mato store all ready," he said. "people come an' buy now." but though several persons passed they did not ask sammie how much his tomatoes were. they may have thought he was only playing, and that his tomatoes were not good ones, though they really were nice and fresh. "we'd better go tell his father or mother," suggested mab to her brother. "i don't believe they know he's here." "guess they don't," hal agreed. "come on; he might get hurt out there all alone." brother and sister started into the porter yard. they did not see sammie's mother, but his father was down in the back end of his lot, weeding an onion bed. "hello, children!" called mr. porter. "did you come over to see how my garden is growing?" "we came to tell you about sammie," said mab. "he's out--" "hello! where is that little tyke?" cried mr. porter suddenly. "he was here a little while ago, making believe hoe the weeds out of the potatoes. i don't see him," he added, straightening up and looking among the rows of vegetables. "he's out in front trying to sell tomatoes," said hal. "oh my!" cried sammie's father. "i told him not to pick anything, but you simply can't watch him all the while." he ran out toward the front of the house, hal and mab following. they saw sammie seated on the ground near his express wagon, and he was squeezing a big red tomato, the juice and seeds running all over him. "sammie boy! what in the world are doing?" cried his father. "sammie plantin' 'mato," was the answer. "nobody come to my store like hal's an' mab's, so plant my 'matos." then they saw where he had dug a hole in the ground with a stick, into this he was letting some of the tomato juice and seeds run, as he squeezed them between his chubby fingers. "oh, but you are a sight!" said mr. porter with a shake of his head. "what your mother will say i don't dare guess! here! drop that tomato, sammie! you've got more all over you than you have in the hole. what are you trying to do?" "make a 'mato garden," was sammie's answer as his father picked him up. "i put seeds in ground and make more 'matoes grow." "but you musn't do it out here," said mr. porter, trying not to laugh, though sammie was a queer sight. "besides, i told you not to pick my tomatoes. you have wasted nearly a quart. now come in and your mother will wash you." into the house he carried the tomato-besmirched little boy, while hal and mab pulled in the express wagon with what were left of the vegetables. sammie had squeezed three of the big, ripe tomatoes into a soft pulp letting the juice and seeds run all over. "and a tomato has lots of juice and seeds," said mab as she and hal told daddy and mother blake, afterward, what had happened. "yes, nearly all vegetables have plenty of seeds," said their father. "mother nature provides them so there may never be any lack. if each tomato, squash or pumpkin or if each bean or pea pod only had one seed in, that one might not be a good one. that is it might not have inside it that strange germ of life, which starts it growing after it is planted. "so, instead of one seed there are hundreds, as in a watermelon or muskmelon. and nearly all of them are fertile, or good, so that other melons may be raised from them. "you see i only bought a small package of tomato seeds, and yet from them we will have hundreds of tomatoes, and each tomato may have a hundred seeds or more, and each of those seeds may be grown into a vine that will have hundreds of tomatoes on, each with a hundred seeds in it and each of these seeds--" "oh, daddy! please stop!" begged mab with a laugh. "it's like the story of the rats and the grains of corn!" "yes, there is no end to the increase that mother nature gives to us," said daddy blake. "the earth is a wonderful place. it is like a big arithmetic table--it multiplies one seed into many." the long summer vacation was now at hand. hal and mab did not have to go to school, and they could spend more time in the garden with their mother, with uncle pennywait or aunt lolly, while daddy blake, every chance he had, used the hoe often to keep down the weeds. "there is nothing like hoeing to make your garden, a success," he told the children. "do they hoe on big farms?" asked hal. "well, on some, yes. i'll take you children to a farm, perhaps before the summer is over, and you can see how they do it. instead of hoeing, though, where there is a big field of corn or potatoes, the farmer runs a cultivator through the rows. the cultivator is like a lot of hoes joined together, and it loosens the dirt, cuts down the weeds and piles the soft, brown soil around the roots of the plants just where it is most needed. but our garden is too small for a horse cultivator--that is one drawn by a horse. the one i shove along by hand is enough for me." of course hal and mab did not spend all their time in the garden. they sometimes wanted to play with their boy and girl chums. for though it was fun to watch the things growing, to help them by hoeing, by keeping away the weeds and the bugs and worms, yet there was work in all this. and daddy blake believed, as do many fathers, that "all work and no play makes jack a dull boy." so hal and mab had their play times. one day mrs. blake asked hal and mab to pick as many of the ripe tomatoes they could find on the vines. "are we going to have another store and sell them?" asked hal. "no, i am going to can some, and make chili sauce of the others," answered his mother. "in that way we will have tomatoes to eat next winter." it was more fun for hal and mab to pick the ripe tomatoes than it was to hoe in the garden, and soon, with the help of uncle pennywait, they had gathered several baskets full of the red vegetables. then aunt lolly and mother blake made themselves busy in the kitchen. they boiled and stewed and cooked on the stove and there floated out of the door and windows a sweet, spicy smell. "oh, isn't that good!" cried mab. "it will taste good next winter!" laughed their uncle. "and to think it comes out of our garden--the tomato part, i mean," spoke mab. "come on!" called hal, after a while, when they had picked all the tomatoes mother blake needed. "where you going?" asked mab. "over to charlie simpson's and have some fun. he's got a new dog." "wait a minute and i'll give you each a penny!" called their uncle, and hal and mab were very glad to wait, for they were hungry after having picked the tomatoes. very early the next morning the blake family was awakened by the loud ringing of their door bell. "oh, my goodness! i hope the house isn't on fire!" cried aunt lolly, quickly getting out of bed. "it's mr. porter. he's at our front door," reported hal, who had looked from the window of his room, from which the front steps could be seen. "what's the matter? what is it; a message--a telegram?" asked mr. blake, as he, too, looked from hal's window. "what has happened?" mrs. blake and the children waited anxiously to hear what the answer would be. chapter x white celery "in our garden you say!" cried daddy blake, with his head out of the window. what it was mr. porter had told their father, to make him exclaim like that, neither hal nor mab could guess. for they could not tell what mr. porter, who now was calling from down on the sidewalk in front, was saying. "that's too bad!" daddy blake went on, as he drew his head in from the window. "i'll come down right away." "oh, what is it?" anxiously asked his wife as he hurried to his room to change from his bath robe into outdoor clothes. "has anything happened?" "i'm afraid there has," answered daddy blake. "is anyone ill that mr. porter wants you to come out in such a hurry. is little sammie hurt in our garden?" "no, but it's something in our garden," replied her husband. "what? oh, don't tell me the garden is on fire?" cried aunt lolly. "how could a green garden burn?" asked uncle pennywait, laughing. "it's somebody cows in our garden--in hal's corn, too, i expect," said daddy blake. "mr. porter saw them and told me. we ought to have little boy blue here to drive them out with his horn. but i'll have to use a stick, i guess." "oh!" cried hal "cows in my corn! they'll eat it all up!" "that's what they will, and mab's beans and aunt lolly's green peas and other things if i don't get them out," said daddy blake from his room where he was quickly dressing. "where you going, hal?" asked mab as she saw her little brother come from his room half dressed. "i'm going with daddy, to the garden, to drive out the cows!" "no, you'd better stay here," his father said. "the cows might run wild when i drive them out, and step on you. it isn't any fun to be stepped on by a cow." hal thought this might be true, so he stayed in while mr. blake hurried out to the yard in the early morning. hal and mab looked from the windows at the back of the house but they could not see much of the garden on account of the thick, leafy trees. they could hear their father and mr. porter talking, though. then while they waited, they heard the mooing of cows, a little later there was a rushing sound at one side of the house, and next several of the big creatures ran out of the side gate into the street. daddy blake made sure the gate was fastened, so the cows could not get in again, and then he came into the house. "is my corn all eaten up?" asked hal, anxiously as he thought of the prize ten dollar gold piece. "is it all gone, daddy?" "no, not very much, though some is trampled down." "is the whole garden spoiled?" asked mab. "well, a little corner of it is. the cows got in among the green peas and they liked them so well they stayed there eating, not going far from where they were planted. so, though we may lose some corn and peas, nothing much else is harmed." "whose cows were they?" asked aunt lolly. "mr. porter says they belong to a milkman who lives on the other side of the town. they must have gotten out of their pasture during the night and then then came here to our garden. they broke down part of the fence to get in." "that milkman ought to be made to pay for what his cows ate," said uncle pennywait. "perhaps he will," said mr. blake. "mr. porter says the man is very good and honest. we won't make a fuss until we see what he will do." hal and mab were anxious to see what had happened to their garden, and so, as soon as they were dressed, they went out along the paths that were made among the different plots where the potatoes, beans, peas, lettuce and various vegetables were growing. "oh, look at my corn!" cried hal "it's all spoiled!" "no, not all, though you will lose several hills," said his father. "and my beans are all trampled down," wailed mab. "never mind," consoled uncle pennywait. "they'll still grow, even if the vines are not as nice as before. a wind storm would have made them look the same way." "and as long as both your crops are damaged, and each about the same amount," said daddy blake to hal and mab, "you will still be even for winning the prize of ten dollars in gold. that is if uncle pennywait doesn't get ahead of you," he added with a sly wink at aunt lolly's husband. hal and mab hurried to look mere closely at their garden plots. hal found, just as he had after the hail storm, that, fey hoeing dirt higher around his hills of corn he could make some of the stalks that had been trampled down, stand up straight. and mab's beans could also be improved. "but the cows certainly ate a lot of green peas," said daddy blake with a sigh as he looked at the place where they had been growing. "still i'd rather have them spoiled than the potatoes, as peas are easier to get in winter than are potatoes--at least for us." the cows wandered up and down the village street until their owner and some of his men came for them. then, when the milkman heard how his animals had damaged mr. blake's garden, an offer of payment was made. some of daddy blake's neighbors told what they thought the milkman should pay, and he did. he said he was very sorry his cows had made so much trouble, and hereafter, he said, he would see that they did not break out of their pasture. "i saw them in your garden, mr. blake, as soon as i got up," said mr. porter. "i arose earlier than i usually do as i wanted to hoe my lima beans before i went to work. i thought i'd call you before the cows ate everything." "i'm glad you did," spoke hal's father. "we saved most of the garden, anyhow." it took two or three days of hard work in the blake garden until it looked as nicely as it had done before the cows broke in. even then the pea vines were only about half as many in number as at first, and they had been delicious, sweet peas, that mother blake had counted on serving at many meals. "but i guess the cows enjoyed them as much as we did," she said. "anyhow there is no use in worrying over what can't be helped." "did the cows hurt the egg plants?" asked aunt lolly. "no, they didn't get in that part of the garden," answered mrs. blake. "i think well have some for dinner." "what--cows or _egg_ plant?" asked uncle pennywait, winking his left eye at mab as he made this joke. "egg plant, of course!" laughed mrs. blake. "suppose you go bring one in for me, uncle pennywait." "we'll come, too!" cried hal and mab, while the little girl, as she took hold of her uncle's hand, asked: "is there really an egg plant? i thought hens laid eggs, and we haven't any hens in our garden." "there is a plant named egg," uncle pennywait said. "i'll show you some. it's down in the far end of the garden." hal and mab had been so busy with their own part of the garden, hoeing and weeding their corn and beans, that they really did not know all the things daddy blake had planted. but when uncle pennywait showed them where, growing in a long row, were some big purple-colored things, that looked like small footballs amid the green leaves, hal cried: "are those egg plants?" "they are," said his uncle. "and do we eat them?" asked mab. "surely; and very good they are, too!" "what makes them call 'em egg plants?" hal wanted to know. "do they taste like eggs just like oyster plant tastes like stewed oysters?" "and how do they cook 'em?" asked mab. "well, you children certainly haven't forgotten to ask questions since your daddy began telling you things about the woods, fields, flowers and birds," laughed uncle pennywait. "let me see, now. well, to begin with, these are called egg plants because they are shaped like an egg you see, only much larger, of course," and uncle pennywait held up one he had cut off the stem where it had been growing. "they taste a little like eggs because, when they are fried, some persons dip them in egg batter. but first they cut them in slices, after they are peeled, and soak them in salt water." "what for?" asked hal. "oh, maybe to make them nice and crisp, or maybe to draw out a strong flavor they have; i really don't know about that part of it. at any rate we're going to have some fried egg plant for lunch, and i like it." so did hal and mab, when they had tasted it. they were beginning to find out that many things good to eat grew in their garden. about a week after this some of hal's corn ears were large enough to pick and very delicious they were boiled, and eaten from the cob with salt and butter on. mother blake also cooked some of the lima beans mab had planted when she made her garden, and the corn and beans, cooked together, made a dish called "succotash," which name the indians gave it many years ago. "what does the name mean?" asked hal. "i can't answer that, for i don't know," replied daddy blake. "i know what it means," said uncle pennywait. "what?" asked mab. "it means fine, good, very good," replied her uncle. "or, if it doesn't, it ought to. those indians knew what was good, all right! i'll have some more, mother blake," and he passed his dish the second time. one day, when hal and mab had finished cutting down some weeds in their garden plots they saw their father carrying some long boards down to the lower end of the lot next door. "are you going to build a bridge, daddy?" asked hal, for there was a little brook not far away. "no, i am going to make my celery grow white?" he answered. "make celery grow white?" exclaimed mab. "i thought it grew white, or light green, all of itself." "no," replied her father, "it doesn't. if celery were left to grow as it comes up from seed the stalks would be green, or at least only the hearts, or the most inside part, would be white. "to make celery white all over we have to keep the sun from shining on it. for it is the rays of the sun, together with the juices, or sap, inside leaves and plants, that makes them green. celery has to be bleached, and one way of doing it is to set long boards on each side of the row of celery plants, fastening them close up, and covering them with straw and dirt to keep out all the light. "some farmers bank up the dirt on both sides of their plants, not using any boards, but i like the boards because they are clean, and keep the soil from getting inside the celery stalks. another way is to put a small wooden tube, or barrel around each plant so that no sunlight can get to the sides of the stalk to make them green." "isn't it queer," said mab. "i thought celery always grew white, like we get it at the table. and so it has to be bleached. if you keep the light from anything green will it turn white, daddy?" "well, almost anything, like plants. children turn pale if they do not get enough sunlight and so does celery. only we like pale celery but it is not healthful for children to be too white. just try a little experiment yourself. take a flat stone and put it over some grass. in a week or so lift up the stone and see what has happened." hal and mab did this, after they had helped their father put the boards on the celery. then, a week later, they lifted up the stone which they had laid over a spot on the lawn. "why, the green grass has all turned white!" cried hal. and so it had. "that's how my celery will turn," said his father. "the grass grew pale from being in the dark so long. it did not like it, and if you left the stone there too long the grass would die. now take it away and in a day or so the grass will be green again." and that's exactly what happened. the sun had tanned the grass green as it tans children brown at the seashore. one day, when mab and hal had started out with their father who was going to show them how to dig potatoes, which is not as easy as it sounds, the children suddenly heard a yelping and barking sound in mr. porter's garden. "there's roly-poly in trouble again!" called mr. blake. "yes, and he's hurt, too!" added hal, for the little poodle was yelping as if in pain. "oh, what has happened to him?" cried mab. "hurry, daddy, please, and see!" chapter xi gathering crops hal, mab and their father ran to the gate in the fence that was between their yard and the garden of mr. porter. down where their neighbor's lima beans were planted, and where they were climbing up the poles, they heard the barking and yelping of roly-poly sounding loudly. "he's there!" cried mab. "here, roly! come here! come on, little doggie!" called hal, thinking, for a moment, that perhaps his pet was barking at a cat, as sometimes roly did, though he really would not have hurt pussy. "why doesn't he come?" asked mab, coming to a stop, while her father looked around, trying to see the poodle among the growing things in the garden. "maybe he's caught and can't come," suggested hal. "caught how?" asked mab. "well, maybe he's all tangled up in the bean vines like he was in the morning glories the day he sat down in the fly paper," hal answered. "oh, roly! are you hurt?" cried mab. "bow-wow! ki-yi!" was all the answer the little poodle dog gave, and, though it might have meant a great deal in dog language mab and hal could not understand it. but roly-poly was trying to make his friends know that something had happened to him. "i'll find him," said mr. blake. "you children had better stay back there," and he motioned to them not to come any farther. hal and mab stood still. "what is it? what's the matter?" mr. porter, coming from another part of the garden where he had been pulling up some turnips. "has anything happened?" "something has happened to roly-poly," replied hal. "hear him howl?" inquired mab. "i should say i did!" cried mr. porter. "and i guess i know what's the matter to. he's in the trap." "in the trap?" cried hal in surprise. "what trap?" mr. porter did not answer. he ran down to where daddy blake was poking among the green vines and bushes, trying to find roly. "come on!" exclaimed hal. "let's go see what it is." "daddy told us to stay here," said mab. "we can't go." hal knew that, and, much as he wanted to see what was going on, he would not disobey his father. mab, too, would have liked to run down where daddy blake and mr. porter were. "bow-wow! ki-yi!" barked and howled roly again, and then the children heard their father and his friend, the man next door, laughing. "i guess roly can't be hurt very much or daddy wouldn't laugh," said mab. "i guess not," agreed hal. "i wish we could go see what it is." just then their father came out from among the tall lima beans. he had roly in his arms, and the little poodle dog was cuddled up as though he did not want to leave them. "is he hurt?" asked mab. "a little," her father answered. "where?" hal wanted to know. "on his tail. it was pinched a little in the mole trap, where he was caught fast. but we got you out; didn't we roly-poly?" "bow-wow; ki-yi!" yelped the poodle. "was he in the mole trap?" asked hal. "and what is a mole trap?" asked mab. "well, i see i'll have to tell you more about the garden," answered daddy blake with a laugh, as he gave roly over to his little girl and boy, who eagerly petted him. "for the mole is one of the garden pests, and the trap, mr. porter set to catch some who were spoiling his things, caught roly-poly instead." "is a mole a worm?" hal wanted to know. "or is it like a potato bug?" "it's a little animal like a mouse," said his father, "only it is blind. it lives underground, in the dark all the while, so really it has no use for eyes, any more than have the blind fish in the big kentucky cave. "but, though a mole is blind, it does not stop him from turning up the ground and uprooting many plants. he really doesn't mean to do it, but we have to catch him just the same." "oh, i'd like to see a blind mole," said mab. "i can't show you one just now," spoke mr. porter, "but i can show you how they dig underground, and the damage they do to lawns and gardens. maybe, if your dog roly will keep out of my mole trap, i can catch one of the creatures and show you how it looks. come down here." mr. porter led the way to that part of the garden where roly had been caught by his little tail. on the ground, among the rows of beans, sometimes going right under them and spoiling the roots, was a long ridge of dirt, in a sort of wavy line. with his fingers daddy blake tore up some of the earth, and opened a regular little tunnel under ground. "the mole," said daddy blake, "tunnels, or digs, his way in the dark, underground, to find grubs and worms which he eats. he had two front claws, very strong, just purposely made for digging, and you would be surprised to see how soon a mole can dig himself underground, even if you put him on top of a hard, dirt road. "it is when the blind mole tunnels along, smelling here and there for grubs and worms, that he uproots the plants and for that reason we have to catch him. there are some traps that have sharp points which go down through the ground with a strong spring to push them, whenever a digging mole gets too near. but the trap mr. porter set was a spring trap without any sharp points to it, which he thought might catch a mole alive. instead it caught roly, who was digging away to find a buried bone, maybe." "is he all right now?" asked mab. "yes, his tail was only pinched a little but roly's tail is very tender i guess, for he howled very loudly." "i wish i could see a mole," said hal. "so do i," echoed his sister. but all they could see was the place where the mole had dug. and perhaps you may see, in your garden or on your lawn, a little raised ridge, or long, low hill of dirt, some morning. if you poke your finger, or a stick, down in it you will find that underneath it is hollow. this is a place where a mole has dug his tunnel in the night to get things to eat. moles dig deep down, too, under the surface where no one can see them, and when they do not uproot the grass or the garden plants, they do little harm. it is only when they come near the top that you can see the ridge they make. sometimes cats catch moles when they come out on top of the ground, thinking them a sort of mouse. the mole's fur is very fine and soft, and would make a fine cloak, only it would take many skins to make one large enough to wear. "well, i'm glad roly-poly is all right," said mab, as she took the little dog from hal, who was holding hint, and petted him on his head. "yes, you may put him down now," spoke her father. "and we'll go dig the potatoes. mother wants some for dinner, and i want to show you children how to get them out of the ground. for we will soon be digging them to put away for winter." when hal and mab reached the potato part of the garden, which was the largest of all the plots, the children saw that many of the green vines were getting brown and withered. "why, the vines are dying!" exclaimed mab. "did a mole spoil them, daddy?" "no, but the potatoes have grown as large as they ever will be, and, there being no more need of the vine, it is drying up. it has gone to seed, just as a dandelion goes to seed, in a way, though we call the potatoes 'tubers' instead of seed. there may be potato seeds, that come when the potato blossom dries up, for all i know, but i have always planted the eyes of the tubers and so does everyone else. now to show you how to dig." [illustration] mr. blake had planted two kinds of potatoes, early and late, and it was the vines of the early ones that had dried up. later on the others would dry, and then it would be time to dig their tubers to put down cellar for the long winter. "first you pull up the vine," said daddy blake, and he tore one from the earth, many of the potatoes clinging to it. these he picked off and put in the basket. then, with a potato hook, which is something like a spading fork, only with the prongs curved downward like a rake, daddy blake began scraping away the dirt from the side of the hill of potatoes. "when a farmer has a big field of potatoes," said the children's father, "he may use a machine potato-digger. this is drawn by horses, who walk between the rows, drawing the machine right over where the potato vines are growing. the machine has iron prongs which dig under the dirt like giant fingers, turning out the potatoes which are tossed between the rows of dirt so men, who follow, may pick them up. but we'll dig ours by hand. and in digging potatoes you must be careful not to stick your fork, spade or whatever you use, into the potato tubers, and so cutting them." "why can't we do that?" asked hal. "because a potato that is cut, pierced or bruised badly will not keep as well as one that is sound and good. it rots more quickly, and one rotten potato in a bin of good ones will cause many others to spoil, just as one rotten apple in a barrel of sound ones will spoil a great many. so be careful when you dig your potatoes." hal and mab watched daddy blake, and then he let them pull a vine and dig in the hill after the brown tubers. out they came tumbling and rolling, as if glad to get into the light and sunshine. for they had been down under the dark earth ever since the eyes were planted in the spring, growing from tiny potatoes into large ones. when mab dug up her hill of potatoes, after she had picked up all there were in it, her father saw her carefully looking among the clods of brown soil. "what have you lost, mab?" he asked. "i was looking for the eye pieces you planted when you made your potato garden," she answered. "oh, they have turned into these many potatoes," laughed mr. blake. "that is the magical trick mother nature does for us. we plant a piece of potato, with 'eyes' in it, or we plant a seed, and up springs a plant on the roots of which are more potatoes, or, if it is a bean, it turns into a vine with many more beans on it. and the seed--that is the eye potato or the bean--disappears completely, just as a magician on the stage pretends to make your handkerchief disappear and change into a lemon. mother nature is very wonderful." hal and mab thought so too. the summer was passing away. the days that had been long and full of sunshine until late in the evening were getting shorter. no longer was it light at five o'clock in the morning, and the golden ball did not stay up until after seven at night. "the days are getting shorter and the nights longer," said daddy blake. "that means winter is not far off, though we still have autumn or fall before us. and that will bring us the harvest days. we will soon begin to harvest, or bring in our crops." "and then will we know who gets the prize?" asked hal. "yes," his father answered. "i'll have to award the ten dollar gold prize then, but it will be some little time yet. things are not all done growing, though they have done their best. from now on we will not have to worry so much about weeds, bugs and worms." "do they die, too, like the potato vines?" asked mab. "yes, though many weeds will not be killed until a hard frost nips them. but the garden plants have gotten their full growth, and are not babies any more, so the weeds can not do them so much harm. most of the bugs and worms, too, have died or been eaten by the birds. the birds are the gardener's best friend, for they eat many worms and bugs that could not be killed in any other way. so the more insect-eating birds you have around your garden the better. even though the robins may take a few cherries they don't get paid half enough that way for the good work they do." "how am i going to harvest my beans?" asked mab. "there aren't many more green ones left to boil, for mother canned a lot of them." "what are left of your beans we will save dried, to make into baked beans this winter," said her father. "and what about my corn?" hal wanted to know. "well, your mother canned some of that," answered his father, "that is the sweet kind. the yellow ears i will show you how to save for the chickens this winter, and there is another kind--well, i'll tell you about that a little later," and he smiled at the children. "oh, have i got three kinds of corn?" asked hal, clapping his hands in delight. "we'll see when we come to harvest it," said daddy blake. "maybe i'll win the prize with that!" exclaimed the little boy. "come on, mab! let's go in and look at the ten dollar gold piece. i hope i win it!" "i hope you do, too, hal," said his sister. "but i'd like it myself, and i've got a awful lot of beans. my vines are covered with them--i mean dried ones, in pods like peas." "i wish we could both have the prize," said hal. "but if i win i'll give you half, mab." "so will i to you!" exclaimed the little girl. as they ran toward the house they saw a farmer, from whom their mother often bought things, standing on the porch. in his hand he held what looked to be a big whip. there was a long wooden handle and fast to it was a shorter stick of wood. "there's the flail i told mr. blake i'd bring him," said the farmer to aunt lolly, who had come to the door when he rang the bell. "a flail," she repeated. "what is it for?" "well, i think mr. blake wants to whip some beans with it," and the farmer laughed, while hal and mab looked at him curiously. chapter xii pumpkin pie "oh, hal!" murmured mab, as she looked at the queer sticks the farmer had brought. "it does seem like a whip! i wonder if daddy is going to whip roly-poly for getting in the mole trap?" "of course not!" laughed hal. "daddy never whips roly anyhow, except sometimes to tap him on the nose with his finger when our poodle does something a little bad. daddy would never use this big wooden whip, anyhow." "the farmer-man said he was bringing it to daddy to whip my beans," went on mab. "i wonder what he means?" just then daddy blake himself came on the front stoop. "ah, so you have brought the flail?" he asked the farmer. "yes, and your little boy and girl here were afraid it was to use on their pet dog!" laughed the farmer, "i guess they never saw a flail before." "i hardly think they did," said mr. blake. "but next year i intend to take them to a farm where they will learn many more things than i could teach them from just a garden." "daddy, but what is a flail?" asked mab. "a flail," said mr. blake, "is what the farmers used to use before threshing machines were invented. and i had mr. henderson bring this one from his farm to thresh out your beans, mab, as we haven't enough to need a machine, even if we could get one." "what does thresh mean?" asked hal. "it means to beat, or pound out," his father explained. "you see wheat, oats, barley, rye and other grains, when they grow on the stalks in the field, are shut up in a sort of envelope, or husk, just as a letter is sealed in an envelope. to get out the letter we have to tear or break the envelope. to get at the good part of grain--the part that is good to eat--we have to break the outer husk. it is the same way with peas or beans. "when they are green we break the pods by hand and get out the peas or beans, but when they are dried it is easier to put a pile of pods on a wooden floor and beat them with a stick. this breaks the envelopes, or pods and the dried peas or beans rattle out. they fall to the bottom, and when the husks and vines are lifted off, and the dirt sifted out, there are our beans or peas, ready to eat after being cooked. "the stick with which the beating is done is called a flail. one part is the handle, and the other part, which is fastened to the handle by a leather string, is called a swingle, or swiple, because it swings through the air, and beats down on the bean or pea pods. "in the olden days wheat, rye and oats were threshed this way on a barn floor, and in the bible you may read how sometimes oxen were driven around on the piles of grain on the threshing floor, so that they might tread out the good kernels from the husks, or envelopes that are not good to eat. but i'll tell you more about that when we get on the farm." "when are we going to beat out my beans?" asked mab. "in a week or so, as soon as they get dried well, and are ripe enough so that they are hard, we will flail, or thresh them," answered daddy blake. "i am going to thresh some peas, too, to have them dried for this winter." farmer henderson left the flail which he had made for daddy blake, and hal and mab looked at it. they could whirl it around their heads, but their father told them to be careful not to hurt one another. "i'm going to thresh some peas!" cried hal. "and i'll use it on my beans so i can get the ten dollar gold prize!" cried mab. there were busy times in the blake home for the next few weeks, for there was much canning to be done, so that the vegetables raised in the garden during the summer would keep to be eaten in the winter. "for that," said daddy blake, "is why uncle sam, which is another name for our government, wants us to grow things out of the earth. it is so that there may be plenty of food for all." so tomatoes were canned, or made into ketchup and chili sauce, while some were used green in pickles. aunt lolly brought into the house the cucumber which had grown inside the glass bottle. it was the exact shape of the glass flask, and when this had been broken the cucumber even had on its side, in white letters, the name of the drug firm that made the bottle. for the name had been painted black by aunt lolly and as the rays of the sun could not go through the black paint the cucumber was white in those places and green all over elsewhere. the children's cucumbers also grew to funny shapes in their bottles. mother blake, with mab and hal to help, pulled up her carrots, of which she had a good crop. the long yellow vegetables, like big ice cream cones, uncle pennywait said, were stored in a dark place in the cellar. "you have a fine crop of carrots," said daddy blake. "do you think i'll win the prize?" asked his wife. "well, i wouldn't be surprised," he answered. "oh, if she should!" exclaimed hal to his sister. "well," spoke mab, with a long sigh, "of course i'd like to have that ten dollar gold piece myself, but we ought to want mother to have it, too." "of course," said hal, and then he went out to look at his corn. it had grown very tall, and there were ears on every stalk. much had been eaten during the summer, boiled green, and sweet and good it was. mother blake had canned some plain corn, and had also put away more, mixed with lima beans, making succotash as the indians used to do. daddy blake soon began to dig the late potatoes, which would be kept down cellar in the dark to be eaten as they were needed during the long winter. "and i think we'll have enough to last us until spring," he said, "and perhaps have some for seed. our garden has been a great success, even if the hail did spoil some things and bugs and worms part of other crops." the potatoes were really uncle pennywait's crop--at least he had planted most of them and called them his, for the tomatoes were daddy blake's. and uncle pennywait kept careful count of every quart and bushel of the potatoes that were eaten, or put away for winter. "because i want that ten dollar prize," he said. hal and mab looked at one another anxiously. "who would win it?" they wondered. finally there were some cold, sharp frosts, so that the tomato and other vines were all shriveled up when hal and mab went out to the garden to look at them. "oh, daddy! will they straighten up again?" they asked. "no. their work is done. we shall have to plant new seeds to make new vines, but we shall have to wait until spring comes again. the earth is soon going to sleep for the winter, when nothing will grow in it. but it is time to get in your corn and beans, children. you must cut your yellow corn, hal, and the other kind, too, and let the ears get dry, ready for husking." "what other kind of corn, daddy?" hal asked. "come and i'll show you," his father said. mr. blake led the way down to the corn patch of the garden. at the end he plucked an ear of corn, stripped away the half dried husk, and showed hal and mab some sharp-pointed kernels. "that's the kind of corn that pops," said the children's father. "i sowed a few hills for you without saying anything. i wanted it as a surprise." "and will it really pop?" asked hal, his eyes shining. "try some and see," advised daddy blake. and later, when the ears of popcorn had dried, and the kernels were shelled into the popper and shaken over the fire, they burst out into big, white bunches like snow flakes. "what makes pop-corn?" asked hal. "well the heat of the fire turns into steam the water that is inside the kernel of corn," said mr. blake. "though you can not see it, there is water in corn, beans and all vegetables, even when they are dry." "and, as i have told you before, when water gets too hot it turns into steam, and the gas or vapor, for that is what steam is, grows very big, as if you blew up a balloon, so that the steam bursts whatever it is inside of, unless the thing that holds it is very strong. steam can even burst cannon balls, so you see it can easily burst, or pop the corn. "then, as the kernel bursts it puffs out and quickly dries into queer shapes by the heat of the fire. it is white because the inside of corn is really white, though the outside husk looks rather yellow sometimes." so part of hal's pop corn crop made something nice to eat during the long winter evenings. but before those evenings came hal and mab had harvested all the things in the garden, with the help of their father and mother, uncle pennywait and aunt lolly. "we must get in the pea and bean vines," said daddy blake when he saw what a hard frost there had been. "then we'll thresh them on the barn floor and it will be time soon, hal, to husk your corn and bring in aunt lolly's pumpkins." for about a dozen big yellow pumpkins were growing amid the stalks of corn, and very pretty they looked in the cool, crisp mornings, when the corn had turned brown from the frost. hal's father showed him how the farmers cut off a hill of the corn stalks, close to the ground, stacking them up in a little pile called a "shock." they were allowed to stand there until the wind and sun had dried the husks on the corn. "now we'll husk the corn," said daddy blake, after the peas and beans had been stored in the barn to dry until they were ready to be threshed or flailed. he showed hal and mab how to strip back the dried husk, and break it off, together with the part of the stalk to which the ear of corn is fastened when it is growing. it was hard work, and the two children did not do much of this, leaving it for the older folk. but they took turns using the flail, and thought this great fun. on a big cloth, on the floor of the barn, were spread the dried bean vines that had been pulled from mab's part of the garden. then the swinging end of the flail was whacked down on the dried vines and pods. out popped the white beans as the pods were broken, and when the flail had been used long enough daddy blake lifted up the vines and crushed, dried pods, and there was left a pile of white beans. "oh, what a lot of them!" cried mab, when they had been sifted, cleaned and put away. there were about two bushels of the dried, white beans, enough to last all winter, baked or made into soup. some dried peas were threshed out also, but not so many of them, and they could be cooked soft again, after they were soaked in water. then hal's yellow corn was piled into two bushel baskets, and there were some of the ears left over. as for uncle pennywait's potatoes, there were nearly ten bushels of them stored away down cellar, and aunt lolly had more than a dozen yellow pumpkins, one very big. mother blake's carrots measured over a barrel and there were many, many cans filled with daddy blake's tomatoes. "now who won the prize?" asked mab, as she looked at her bushels of beans and then at hal's corn. "did hal or did i?" "well," slowly said her father, "i think you both did so well, and you raised, each one, such fine crops, nearly the same in amount, that i'll have to give two prizes!" "two prizes!" cried hal. "yes," went on his father. "instead of dividing this one i'll make another. i brought another ten dollar gold piece from the bank to-day, and here is the first one," and he held up the two, shining, yellow pieces of money. "here is one for you, hal," went on daddy blake, "and one for you, mab," and he handed the children their prizes. "and how did you like being taken to the garden, instead of after flowers or to the woods?" "it was fine!" cried hal, looking eagerly at his golden prize. "and we learned so much," added mab. "i never knew, before, how many things can grow in the ground." "oh, you are just beginning to learn them," said her father. "wait until you go to the farm." "what about my prize?" asked aunt lolly with a laugh. "i'm sure my pumpkins will more than fill two bushel baskets." "perhaps they will," said daddy blake. "well, i'll give you a prize for the first pumpkin pie you bake, aunt lolly. and uncle pennywait shall have a prize for his potatoes, while as for mother--well we'll each give her a prize for the many good meals she got for us while we were working in the garden, and she'll get a special prize for her carrots, which will give you children red cheeks this winter." "hurray!" cried mab. "hurray!" echoed hal. "it's better than fourth of july." a few days after this, when all the vegetables had been gathered in from the garden, which was now sear and brown because of heavy frosts, mab and hal heard their aunt calling them. "maybe she has some lollypops," said hal. "let's go see," cried mab. "here is something you may have for hallowe'en which comes to-morrow night," said aunt lolly, and she pointed to a large pumpkin. "there'll be enough without this," she went on, "and i promised you one for a jack-o'lantern." "oh, won't it be fun to make one!" cried hal. aunt lolly showed them how to cut the top off the big pumpkin, leaving part of the vine for a handle, so that it could be lifted off and put on like a lid. then the pumpkin was scooped out from the inside, so that eyes, a nose and mouth could be cut through the shell. "to-morrow night you can put a lighted candle inside, and set it on the front porch for hallowe'en," said aunt lolly, when the pumpkin lantern was finished. the afternoon of hallowe'en hal and mab, who were helping daddy blake rake up some of the dead vines in the garden, heard sammie porter crying on their front stoop. "what's the matter?" asked hal, running around the corner of the house. "oh-o-o-o-o!" cried sammie. "look at the pumpkin face!" and he pointed to the jack-o'lantern into which the candle had not yet been put. "it's alive!" cried sammie. "look, it's rollin'!" and so the scooped-out pumpkin was moving! it was rolling to and fro on the porch and, for a moment, hal and mab did not know what to think. then, all of a sudden, they heard a noise like: "bow-wow! ki-yi!" "oh, it's roly-poly!" exclaimed mab. "he's in the pumpkin," shouted hal. and so the little poodle dog was. he had crawled inside the big, hollowed lantern, while the lid was off, and had gone to sleep inside. then aunt lolly, as she said afterward, came out, and, seeing the top off the pumpkin-face, had put it on, for fear it might get lost. thus, not knowing it, she had shut roly-poly up inside the jack-o'lantern and he had slept there until he felt hungry and awakened. then he wiggled about, making the pumpkin move and roll over the stoop as if it were alive. "oh, what a funny little dog!" cried mab, as she cuddled him up in her arms, when she took him from the pumpkin. "he's a regular hallowe'en dog!" laughed hal. that night mr. jack-of-the-lantern looked very funny as he grinned at hal, mab and the other hallowe'en frolic-makers who passed the blake stoop. the candle inside him blazed brightly, shining through his eyes, nose and through his mouth with the pumpkin-teeth. "a garden makes fun, and it makes good things to eat," said hal. "i wonder what we'll see when daddy takes us to the farm?" spoke mab. "it will be fun, anyhow," went on hal. "we always have fun when we go anywhere with daddy!" and now, as the children's garden is finished, and all the vegetables are safely put away for the winter, this book comes to an end. but there will be another soon, which i hope you will like. and, for a time, i'll say "good-bye!" the end the next volume in this series will be called: "daddy takes us to the farm." =boy inventors' series= the author knows these subjects from a practical standpoint. each book is printed from new plates on a good quality of paper and bound in cloth. each book wrapped in a jacket printed in colors. _price 60c each_ 1 boy inventors' wireless triumph 2 boy inventors' and the vanishing sun 3 boy inventors' diving torpedo set 4 boy inventors' flying ship 5 boy inventors' electric ship 6 boy inventors' radio telephone * * * * * =the "how-to-do-it" books= these books teach the use of tools; how to sharpen them; to design and layout work. printed from new plates and bound in cloth. profusely illustrated. each book is wrapped in a printed jacket. _price $1.00 each_ 1 carpentry for boys 2 electricity for boys 3 practical mechanics for boys _for sale by all book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of the above price._ mâ·aâ·donohueâ·&â·company 711â·southâ·dearbornâ·streetâ·â·chicago =uncle wiggily series= by howard r. garis four titles of these famous books, fifty-two stories in each. printed from large, clear type on a superior quality of paper. numerous illustrations and jacket printed in full colors. bound in cloth. _price each $1.00 postpaid_ _uncle wiggily and alice in wonderland uncle wiggily and mother goose uncle wiggily longears uncle wiggily's arabian nights_ =those smith boys= by howard r. garis new and complete editions printed from new plates on a superior quality paper. each book is wrapped in a special jacket printed in colors. appropriately stamped and handsomely bound in cloth. _price each 60c postpaid_ _those smith boys those smith boys on the diamond_ =the daddy series= by howard r. garis mr. garis has won the hearts of little folks with his stories. each is founded on animal lore and is told in simple language. large, clear text. special jacket printed in colors. bound in clothene. _price each 35c postpaid_ _daddy takes us camping daddy takes us hunting flowers daddy takes us fishing daddy takes us hunting birds daddy takes us to the circus daddy takes us to the woods daddy takes us skating daddy takes us to the farm daddy takes us coasting daddy takes us to the garden_ mâ·aâ·donohueâ·&â·company 711â·southâ·dearbornâ·streetâ·â·chicago =furry folk stories= by jane fielding a series of life tales of our four-footed friends, as related by the animals. these stories are entertaining and pleasing to the young and old alike. bound in cloth and illustrated. colored wrapper. _price each 50 cents postpaid_ 1 bear brownie _the life of a bear_ 2 jackie hightree _adventures of a squirrel_ 3 kitty purrpuss _the memoir of a cat_ 4 master reynard _the history of a fox_ 5 scamp _a dog's own story_ 6 wee willie mousie _life from his own viewpoint_ =the jingle book= by carolyn wells _price each 60 cents postpaid_ a popular book of jingles by this well-known writer. a comic illustration on every page. bound in cloth and beautifully stamped in colors. each is book wrapped in a jacket printed in colors. =lets make believe stories= by lilian t. garis delightful and fascinating stories; printed from large, clear type on a superior quality of paper. frontispiece and jacket printed in full colors. bound in cloth and stamped from appropriate dies. _price each 50 cents postpaid_ 1 let's make believe we're keeping house 2 lets play circus 3 let's make believe we're soldiers mâ·aâ·donohueâ·&â·company 711â·southâ·dearbornâ·streetâ·chicago =boys banner series= a desirable assortment of books for boys, by standard and favorite authors. each title is complete and unabridged. printed on a good quality of paper from large, clear type. beautifully bound in cloth. each book is wrapped in a special multi-colored jacket. 1 afloat on the flood _leslie_ 2 at whispering pine lodge _leslie_ 3 churns of the campfire _leslie_ 4 in school and out _optic_ 5 jack winter's baseball team _overton_ 6 jack winter's campmates _overton_ 7 jack winter's gridiron chums _overton_ 8 jack winter's iceboat wonder _overton_ 9 little by little _optic_ 10 motor boat boys mississippi cruise _arundel_ 11 now or never _optic_ 12 phil bradley's mountain boys _boone_ 13 phil bradley's winning way _boone_ 14 radio boys' cronies _whipple_ 15 radio boys loyalty _whipple_ 16 rivals of the trail _leslie_ 17 trip around the world in a flying machine _verne_ 18 two years before the mast _dana_ _for sale by all book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 40 cents_ mâ·aâ·donohueâ·&â·company 711â·southâ·dearbornâ·streetâ·chicago =kenmore series= new editions of famous books _the kenmore series_ is composed of select titles by famous authors of boys and girls books. printed from new plates on a high quality paper. four illustrations, inlay and wrapper of each book printed in full colors. cloth-bound and stamped from unique dies. an old fashioned girl _louisa may alcott_ black beauty _anna sewell_ elsie dinsmore _martha finley_ heidi _johanna spyri_ king arthur _retold_ little lame prince _miss mulock_ little men _louisa may alcott_ little women _louisa may alcott_ pinocchio _c. collodi_ robin hood _retold_ storyland gems for little folks _winnington_ treasure island _robert louis stevenson_ _for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid upon receipt of $1.25_ mâ·aâ·donohueâ·&â·company 711â·southâ·dearbornâ·streetâ·chicago =girls banner series= a desirable assortment of books for girls, by standard and favorite authors. each title is complete and unabridged. printed on a good quality of paper from large, clear type and bound in cloth. each book is wrapped in a special multi-colored jacket. _1_ alice's adventures in wonderland _carroll_ _2_ alice through the looking glass _carroll_ _3_ campfire girls on a long hike _francis_ _4_ daddy's girl _meade_ _5_ dog of flanders, a _ouida_ _6_ elsie dinsmore _finley_ _7_ ethel hollisters 1st summer as a campfire girl _benson_ _8_ ethel hollisters 2nd summer as a campfire girl _benson_ _9_ faith gartney's girl hood _whitney_ _10_ four little mischiefs _mulholland_ _11_ polly, a new fashioned girl _meade_ _12_ world of girls _meade_ _for sale by all book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 40 cents_ mâ·aâ·donohueâ·&â·company 711â·southâ·dearborn streetâ·â·chicago =the aeroplane series= by john luther langworthy 1. the aeroplane boys; or, the young pilots first air voyage 2. the aeroplane boys on the wing; or, aeroplane chums in the tropics 3. the aeroplane boys among the clouds; or, young aviators in a wreck 4. the aeroplane boys' flights; or, a hydroplane round-up 5. the aeroplane boys on a cattle ranch * * * * * =the girl aviator series= by margaret burnham just the type of books that delight and fascinate the wide awake girls of the present day who are between the ages of eight and fourteen years. the great author of these books regards them as the best products of her pen. printed from large clear type on a superior quality of paper; attractive multi-color jacket wrapper around each book. bound in cloth. 1. the girl aviators and the phantom airship 2. the girl aviators on golden wings 3. the girl aviators' sky cruise 4. the girl aviators' motor butterfly. _for sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c._ m.a. donohue & company 701-733 south dearborn street :: chicago =motor boat boys series= by louis arundel 1. the motor club's cruise down the mississippi; or the dash for dixie. 2. the motor club on the st. lawrence river; or adventures among the thousand islands. 3. the motor club on the great lakes; or exploring the mystic isle of mackinac. 4. motor boat boys among the florida keys: or the struggle for the leadership. 5. motor boat boys down the coast; or through storm and stress. 6. motor boat boy's river chase; or six chums afloat or ashore. 7. motor boat boys down the danube; or four chums abroad * * * * * =motor maid series= by katherine stokes 1. motor maids' school days 2. motor maids by palm and pine 3. motor maids across the continent 4. motor maids by rose, shamrock and thistle. 5. motor maids in fair japan 6. motor maids at sunrise camp _for sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c_. m.a. donohue & company 701-733 s. dearborn street :: chicago =the boys' elite series= _12mo, cloth. price 75c each_. contains an attractive assortment of books for boys by standard and favorite authors. printed from large, clear type on a superior quality of paper, bound in a superior quality of binders' cloth, ornamented with illustrated original designs on covers stamped in colors from unique and appropriate dies each book wrapped in attractive jacket. 1. cudjo's cave trowbridge 2. green mountain boys 3. life of kit carson edward l. ellis 4. tom westlake's golden luck perry newberry 5. tony keating's surprises mrs. g.r. alden (pansy) 6. tour of the world in 80 days jules verne * * * * * =the girls' elite series= _12mo, cloth. price 75c each_. contains an assortment of attractive and desirable books for girls by standard and favorite authors. the books are printed on a good quality of paper in large clear type. each title is complete and unabridged. bound in clothene, ornamented on the sides and back with attractive illustrative designs and the title stamped on front and back. 1. bee and the butterfly lucy foster madison 2. dixie school girl gabrielle e. jackson 3. girls of mount morris amanda douglas 4. hope's messenger gabrielle e. jackson 5. the little aunt marion ames taggart 6. a modern cinderella amanda douglas _for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c_ m.a. donohue & company 711 s. dearborn street :: chicago =special standard 12mos= _bound in cloth. jacket printed in colors_ an old fashioned girl louisa may alcott black beauty anna sewell children of the abbey roche child's history of england charles dickens christmas stories charles dickens dog of flanders, a ouida east lynne mrs. henry wood elsie dinsmore martha finley hans brinker mary mapes dodge heidi johanna spyri helen's babies john habberton ishmael e.d.e.n. southworth island of appledore aldon ivanhoe sir walter scott kidnapped robert louis stevenson king arthur and his knights retold last days of pompeii lytton life of kit carson edward s. ellis little king, the charles major little lame prince miss mulock little minister, the j.m. barrie little men louisa may alcott little women louisa may alcott oliver twist charles dickens pilgrim's progress john bunyan pinocchio c. collodi prince of the house of david rev. j.h. ingraham robin hood retold robinson crusoe daniel defoe self raised e.d.e.n. southworth sketch book washington irving st. elmo augusta j. evans-wilson swiss family robinson wyss tale of two cities charles dickens three musketeers, the alexander dumas tom brown at oxford thomas hughes tom brown's school days thomas hughes treasure island robert louis stevenson twenty thousand leagues under the sea jules verne twenty years after alexander dumas uncle tom's cabin harriet beecher stowe under two flags ouida _for sale by all book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 60 cents_ mâ·aâ·donohueâ·&â·company 711â·southâ·dearborn streetâ·â·chicago =boy scout series= by g. harvey ralphson just the type of books that delight and fascinate the wide awake boys of today. clean, wholesome and interesting; full of mystery and adventure. each title is complete and unabridged. printed on a good quality of paper from large, clear type and bound in cloth. each book is wrapped in a special multi-colored jacket. 1. boy scouts in mexico; or, on guard with uncle sam 2. boy scouts in the canal zone; or, the plot against uncle sam 3. boy scouts in the philippines; or, the key to the treaty box 4. boy scouts in the northwest; or, fighting forest fires 5. boy scouts in a motor boat; or adventures on columbia river 6. boy scouts in an airship; or, the warning from the sky 7. boy scouts in a submarine; or, searching an ocean floor 8. boy scouts on motorcycles; or, with the flying squadron 9. boy scouts beyond the arctic circle; or, the lost expedition 10. boy scout camera club; or, the confessions of a photograph 11. boy scout electricians; or, the hidden dynamo 12. boy scouts in california; or, the flag on the cliff 13. boy scouts on hudson bay; or, the disappearing fleet 14. boy scouts in death valley; or, the city in the sky 15. boy scouts on open plains; or, the roundup not ordered 16. boy scouts in southern waters; or the spanish treasure chest 17. boy scouts in belgium; or, imperiled in a trap 18. boy scouts in the north sea; or, the mystery of a sub 19. boy scouts mysterious signal or perils of the black bear patrol 20. boy scouts with the cossacks; or, a guilty secret _for sale by all book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 60 cents_ mâ·aâ·donohueâ·&â·company 711â·southâ·dearborn streetâ·â·chicago =calumet series of popular copyrights= apaches of new york alfred henry lewis arsene lupin, gentleman burglar maurice leblanc battle, the cleveland moffett black motor car, the harris burland captain love theodore roberts cavalier of virginia, a theodore roberts champion, the john collin dane comrades of peril randall parrish devil, the van westrum dr. nicholas stone e. spence depue devils own, the randall parrish end of the game, the arthur hornblow every man his price max rittenberg garrison's finish w.b.m. ferguson harbor master, the theodore roberts king of the camorra e. serav land of the frozen suns bertrand w. sinclair little grey girl mary openshaw master of fortune cutliffe hyne new england folks eugene w. presbrey night winds promise varick vanardy red nights of paris goron return of the night wind varick vanardy true detective stories a.l. drummond watch-dog, the arthur hornblow _for sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of 50c_. m.a. donohue & company 701-733 s. dearborn street :: chicago you never can tell by george bernard shaw act i in a dentist's operating room on a fine august morning in 1896. not the usual tiny london den, but the best sitting room of a furnished lodging in a terrace on the sea front at a fashionable watering place. the operating chair, with a gas pump and cylinder beside it, is half way between the centre of the room and one of the corners. if you look into the room through the window which lights it, you will see the fireplace in the middle of the wall opposite you, with the door beside it to your left; an m.r.c.s. diploma in a frame hung on the chimneypiece; an easy chair covered in black leather on the hearth; a neat stool and bench, with vice, tools, and a mortar and pestle in the corner to the right. near this bench stands a slender machine like a whip provided with a stand, a pedal, and an exaggerated winch. recognising this as a dental drill, you shudder and look away to your left, where you can see another window, underneath which stands a writing table, with a blotter and a diary on it, and a chair. next the writing table, towards the door, is a leather covered sofa. the opposite wall, close on your right, is occupied mostly by a bookcase. the operating chair is under your nose, facing you, with the cabinet of instruments handy to it on your left. you observe that the professional furniture and apparatus are new, and that the wall paper, designed, with the taste of an undertaker, in festoons and urns, the carpet with its symmetrical plans of rich, cabbagy nosegays, the glass gasalier with lustres; the ornamental gilt rimmed blue candlesticks on the ends of the mantelshelf, also glass draped with lustres, and the ormolu clock under a glass-cover in the middle between them, its uselessness emphasized by a cheap american clock disrespectfully placed beside it and now indicating 12 o'clock noon, all combine with the black marble which gives the fireplace the air of a miniature family vault, to suggest early victorian commercial respectability, belief in money, bible fetichism, fear of hell always at war with fear of poverty, instinctive horror of the passionate character of art, love and roman catholic religion, and all the first fruits of plutocracy in the early generations of the industrial revolution. there is no shadow of this on the two persons who are occupying the room just now. one of them, a very pretty woman in miniature, her tiny figure dressed with the daintiest gaiety, is of a later generation, being hardly eighteen yet. this darling little creature clearly does not belong to the room, or even to the country; for her complexion, though very delicate, has been burnt biscuit color by some warmer sun than england's; and yet there is, for a very subtle observer, a link between them. for she has a glass of water in her hand, and a rapidly clearing cloud of spartan obstinacy on her tiny firm set mouth and quaintly squared eyebrows. if the least line of conscience could be traced between those eyebrows, an evangelical might cherish some faint hope of finding her a sheep in wolf's clothing--for her frock is recklessly pretty--but as the cloud vanishes it leaves her frontal sinus as smoothly free from conviction of sin as a kitten's. the dentist, contemplating her with the self-satisfaction of a successful operator, is a young man of thirty or thereabouts. he does not give the impression of being much of a workman: his professional manner evidently strikes him as being a joke, and is underlain by a thoughtless pleasantry which betrays the young gentleman still unsettled and in search of amusing adventures, behind the newly set-up dentist in search of patients. he is not without gravity of demeanor; but the strained nostrils stamp it as the gravity of the humorist. his eyes are clear, alert, of sceptically moderate size, and yet a little rash; his forehead is an excellent one, with plenty of room behind it; his nose and chin cavalierly handsome. on the whole, an attractive, noticeable beginner, of whose prospects a man of business might form a tolerably favorable estimate. the young lady (handing him the glass). thank you. (in spite of the biscuit complexion she has not the slightest foreign accent.) the dentist (putting it down on the ledge of his cabinet of instruments). that was my first tooth. the young lady (aghast). your first! do you mean to say that you began practising on me? the dentist. every dentist has to begin on somebody. the young lady. yes: somebody in a hospital, not people who pay. the dentist (laughing). oh, the hospital doesn't count. i only meant my first tooth in private practice. why didn't you let me give you gas? the young lady. because you said it would be five shillings extra. the dentist (shocked). oh, don't say that. it makes me feel as if i had hurt you for the sake of five shillings. the young lady (with cool insolence). well, so you have! (she gets up.) why shouldn't you? it's your business to hurt people. (it amuses him to be treated in this fashion: he chuckles secretly as he proceeds to clean and replace his instruments. she shakes her dress into order; looks inquisitively about her; and goes to the window.) you have a good view of the sea from these rooms! are they expensive? the dentist. yes. the young lady. you don't own the whole house, do you? the dentist. no. the young lady (taking the chair which stands at the writing-table and looking critically at it as she spins it round on one leg.) your furniture isn't quite the latest thing, is it? the dentist. it's my landlord's. the young lady. does he own that nice comfortable bath chair? (pointing to the operating chair.) the dentist. no: i have that on the hire-purchase system. the young lady (disparagingly). i thought so. (looking about her again in search of further conclusions.) i suppose you haven't been here long? the dentist. six weeks. is there anything else you would like to know? the young lady (the hint quite lost on her). any family? the dentist. i am not married. the young lady. of course not: anybody can see that. i meant sisters and mother and that sort of thing. the dentist. not on the premises. the young lady. hm! if you've been here six weeks, and mine was your first tooth, the practice can't be very large, can it? the dentist. not as yet. (he shuts the cabinet, having tidied up everything.) the young lady. well, good luck! (she takes our her purse.) five shillings, you said it would be? the dentist. five shillings. the young lady (producing a crown piece). do you charge five shillings for everything? the dentist. yes. the young lady. why? the dentist. it's my system. i'm what's called a five shilling dentist. the young lady. how nice! well, here! (holding up the crown piece) a nice new five shilling piece! your first fee! make a hole in it with the thing you drill people's teeth with and wear it on your watch-chain. the dentist. thank you. the parlor maid (appearing at the door). the young lady's brother, sir. a handsome man in miniature, obviously the young lady's twin, comes in eagerly. he wears a suit of terra-cotta cashmere, the elegantly cut frock coat lined in brown silk, and carries in his hand a brown tall hat and tan gloves to match. he has his sister's delicate biscuit complexion, and is built on the same small scale; but he is elastic and strong in muscle, decisive in movement, unexpectedly deeptoned and trenchant in speech, and with perfect manners and a finished personal style which might be envied by a man twice his age. suavity and self-possession are points of honor with him; and though this, rightly considered, is only the modern mode of boyish self-consciousness, its effect is none the less staggering to his elders, and would be insufferable in a less prepossessing youth. he is promptitude itself, and has a question ready the moment he enters. the young gentleman. am i on time? the young lady. no: it's all over. the young gentleman. did you howl? the young lady. oh, something awful. mr. valentine: this is my brother phil. phil: this is mr. valentine, our new dentist. (valentine and phil bow to one another. she proceeds, all in one breath.) he's only been here six weeks; and he's a bachelor. the house isn't his; and the furniture is the landlord's; but the professional plant is hired. he got my tooth out beautifully at the first go; and he and i are great friends. philip. been asking a lot of questions? the young lady (as if incapable of doing such a thing). oh, no. philip. glad to hear it. (to valentine.) so good of you not to mind us, mr. valentine. the fact is, we've never been in england before; and our mother tells us that the people here simply won't stand us. come and lunch with us. (valentine, bewildered by the leaps and bounds with which their acquaintanceship is proceeding, gasps; but he has no opportunity of speaking, as the conversation of the twins is swift and continuous.) the young lady. oh, do, mr. valentine. philip. at the marine hotel--half past one. the young lady. we shall be able to tell mamma that a respectable englishman has promised to lunch with us. philip. say no more, mr. valentine: you'll come. valentine. say no more! i haven't said anything. may i ask whom i have the pleasure of entertaining? it's really quite impossible for me to lunch at the marine hotel with two perfect strangers. the young lady (flippantly). ooooh! what bosh! one patient in six weeks! what difference does it make to you? philip (maturely). no, dolly: my knowledge of human nature confirms mr. valentine's judgment. he is right. let me introduce miss dorothy clandon, commonly called dolly. (valentine bows to dolly. she nods to him.) i'm philip clandon. we're from madeira, but perfectly respectable, so far. valentine. clandon! are you related to-dolly (unexpectedly crying out in despair). yes, we are. valentine (astonished). i beg your pardon? dolly. oh, we are, we are. it's all over, phil: they know all about us in england. (to valentine.) oh, you can't think how maddening it is to be related to a celebrated person, and never be valued anywhere for our own sakes. valentine. but excuse me: the gentleman i was thinking of is not celebrated. dolly (staring at him). gentleman! (phil is also puzzled.) valentine. yes. i was going to ask whether you were by any chance a daughter of mr. densmore clandon of newbury hall. dolly (vacantly). no. philip. well come, dolly: how do you know you're not? dolly (cheered). oh, i forgot. of course. perhaps i am. valentine. don't you know? philip. not in the least. dolly. it's a wise child-philip (cutting her short). sh! (valentine starts nervously; for the sound made by philip, though but momentary, is like cutting a sheet of silk in two with a flash of lightning. it is the result of long practice in checking dolly's indiscretions.) the fact is, mr. valentine, we are the children of the celebrated mrs. lanfrey clandon, an authoress of great repute--in madeira. no household is complete without her works. we came to england to get away from them. the are called the twentieth century treatises. dolly. twentieth century cooking. philip. twentieth century creeds. dolly. twentieth century clothing. philip. twentieth century conduct. dolly. twentieth century children. philip. twentieth century parents. dolly. cloth limp, half a dollar. philip. or mounted on linen for hard family use, two dollars. no family should be without them. read them, mr. valentine: they'll improve your mind. dolly. but not till we've gone, please. philip. quite so: we prefer people with unimproved minds. our own minds are in that fresh and unspoiled condition. valentine (dubiously). hm! dolly (echoing him inquiringly). hm? phil: he prefers people whose minds are improved. philip. in that case we shall have to introduce him to the other member of the family: the woman of the twentieth century; our sister gloria! dolly (dithyrambically). nature's masterpiece! philip. learning's daughter! dolly. madeira's pride! philip. beauty's paragon! dolly (suddenly descending to prose). bosh! no complexion. valentine (desperately). may i have a word? philip (politely). excuse us. go ahead. dolly (very nicely). so sorry. valentine (attempting to take them paternally). i really must give a hint to you young people-dolly (breaking out again). oh, come: i like that. how old are you? philip. over thirty. dolly. he's not. philip (confidently). he is. dolly (emphatically). twenty-seven. philip (imperturbably). thirty-three. dolly. stuff! philip (to valentine). i appeal to you, mr. valentine. valentine (remonstrating). well, really--(resigning himself.) thirty-one. philip (to dolly). you were wrong. dolly. so were you. philip (suddenly conscientious). we're forgetting our manners, dolly. dolly (remorseful). yes, so we are. philip (apologetic). we interrupted you, mr. valentine. dolly. you were going to improve our minds, i think. valentine. the fact is, your-philip (anticipating him). our appearance? dolly. our manners? valentine (ad misericordiam). oh, do let me speak. dolly. the old story. we talk too much. philip. we do. shut up, both. (he seats himself on the arm of the opposing chair.) dolly. mum! (she sits down in the writing-table chair, and closes her lips tight with the tips of her fingers.) valentine. thank you. (he brings the stool from the bench in the corner; places it between them; and sits down with a judicial air. they attend to him with extreme gravity. he addresses himself first to dolly.) now may i ask, to begin with, have you ever been in an english seaside resort before? (she shakes her head slowly and solemnly. he turns to phil, who shakes his head quickly and expressively.) i thought so. well, mr. clandon, our acquaintance has been short; but it has been voluble; and i have gathered enough to convince me that you are neither of you capable of conceiving what life in an english seaside resort is. believe me, it's not a question of manners and appearance. in those respects we enjoy a freedom unknown in madeira. (dolly shakes her head vehemently.) oh, yes, i assure you. lord de cresci's sister bicycles in knickerbockers; and the rector's wife advocates dress reform and wears hygienic boots. (dolly furtively looks at her own shoe: valentine catches her in the act, and deftly adds) no, that's not the sort of boot i mean. (dolly's shoe vanishes.) we don't bother much about dress and manners in england, because, as a nation we don't dress well and we've no manners. but--and now will you excuse my frankness? (they nod.) thank you. well, in a seaside resort there's one thing you must have before anybody can afford to be seen going about with you; and that's a father, alive or dead. (he looks at them alternately, with emphasis. they meet his gaze like martyrs.) am i to infer that you have omitted that indispensable part of your social equipment? (they confirm him by melancholy nods.) them i'm sorry to say that if you are going to stay here for any length of time, it will be impossible for me to accept your kind invitation to lunch. (he rises with an air of finality, and replaces the stool by the bench.) philip (rising with grave politeness). come, dolly. (he gives her his arm.) dolly. good morning. (they go together to the door with perfect dignity.) valentine (overwhelmed with remorse). oh, stop, stop. (they halt and turn, arm in arm.) you make me feel a perfect beast. dolly. that's your conscience: not us. valentine (energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional manner). my conscience! my conscience has been my ruin. listen to me. twice before i have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in various parts of england. on both occasions i acted conscientiously, and told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be told. result, ruin. now i've set up as a dentist, a five shilling dentist; and i've done with conscience forever. this is my last chance. i spent my last sovereign on moving in; and i haven't paid a shilling of rent yet. i'm eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as a jew and as hard as nails; and i've made five shillings in six weeks. if i swerve by a hair's breadth from the straight line of the most rigid respectability, i'm done for. under such a circumstance, is it fair to ask me to lunch with you when you don't know your own father? dolly. after all, our grandfather is a canon of lincoln cathedral. valentine (like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon). what! have you a grandfather? dolly. only one. valentine. my dear, good young friends, why on earth didn't you tell me that before? a cannon of lincoln! that makes it all right, of course. just excuse me while i change my coat. (he reaches the door in a bound and vanishes. dolly and phil stare after him, and then stare at one another. missing their audience, they droop and become commonplace at once.) philip (throwing away dolly's arm and coming ill-humoredly towards the operating chair). that wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a compliment of allowing us to stand him a lunch--probably the first square meal he has had for months. (he gives the chair a kick, as if it were valentine.) dolly. it's too beastly. i won't stand it any longer, phil. here in england everybody asks whether you have a father the very first thing. philip. i won't stand it either. mamma must tell us who he was. dolly. or who he is. he may be alive. philip. i hope not. no man alive shall father me. dolly. he might have a lot of money, though. philip. i doubt it. my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that if he had a lot of money he wouldn't have got rid of his affectionate family so easily. anyhow, let's look at the bright side of things. depend on it, he's dead. (he goes to the hearth and stands with his back to the fireplace, spreading himself. the parlor maid appears. the twins, under observation, instantly shine out again with their former brilliancy.) the parlor maid. two ladies for you, miss. your mother and sister, miss, i think. mrs. clandon and gloria come in. mrs. clandon is between forty and fifty, with a slight tendency to soft, sedentary fat, and a fair remainder of good looks, none the worse preserved because she has evidently followed the old tribal matronly fashion of making no pretension in that direction after her marriage, and might almost be suspected of wearing a cap at home. she carries herself artificially well, as women were taught to do as a part of good manners by dancing masters and reclining boards before these were superseded by the modern artistic cult of beauty and health. her hair, a flaxen hazel fading into white, is crimped, and parted in the middle with the ends plaited and made into a knot, from which observant people of a certain age infer that mrs. clandon had sufficient individuality and good taste to stand out resolutely against the now forgotten chignon in her girlhood. in short, she is distinctly old fashioned for her age in dress and manners. but she belongs to the forefront of her own period (say 1860-80) in a jealously assertive attitude of character and intellect, and in being a woman of cultivated interests rather than passionately developed personal affections. her voice and ways are entirely kindly and humane; and she lends herself conscientiously to the occasional demonstrations of fondness by which her children mark their esteem for her; but displays of personal sentiment secretly embarrass her: passion in her is humanitarian rather than human: she feels strongly about social questions and principles, not about persons. only, one observes that this reasonableness and intense personal privacy, which leaves her relations with gloria and phil much as they might be between her and the children of any other woman, breaks down in the case of dolly. though almost every word she addresses to her is necessarily in the nature of a remonstrance for some breach of decorum, the tenderness in her voice is unmistakable; and it is not surprising that years of such remonstrance have left dolly hopelessly spoiled. gloria, who is hardly past twenty, is a much more formidable person than her mother. she is the incarnation of haughty highmindedness, raging with the impatience of an impetuous, dominative character paralyzed by the impotence of her youth, and unwillingly disciplined by the constant danger of ridicule from her lighter-handed juniors. unlike her mother, she is all passion; and the conflict of her passion with her obstinate pride and intense fastidiousness results in a freezing coldness of manner. in an ugly woman all this would be repulsive; but gloria is an attractive woman. her deep chestnut hair, olive brown skin, long eyelashes, shaded grey eyes that often flash like stars, delicately turned full lips, and compact and supple, but muscularly plump figure appeal with disdainful frankness to the senses and imagination. a very dangerous girl, one would say, if the moral passions were not also marked, and even nobly marked, in a fine brow. her tailor-made skirt-and-jacket dress of saffron brown cloth, seems conventional when her back is turned; but it displays in front a blouse of sea-green silk which upsets its conventionality with one stroke, and sets her apart as effectually as the twins from the ordinary run of fashionable seaside humanity. mrs. clandon comes a little way into the room, looking round to see who is present. gloria, who studiously avoids encouraging the twins by betraying any interest in them, wanders to the window and looks out with her thoughts far away. the parlor maid, instead of withdrawing, shuts the door and waits at it. mrs. clandon. well, children? how is the toothache, dolly? dolly. cured, thank heaven. i've had it out. (she sits down on the step of the operating chair. mrs. clandon takes the writing-table chair.) philip (striking in gravely from the hearth). and the dentist, a first-rate professional man of the highest standing, is coming to lunch with us. mrs. clandon (looking round apprehensively at the servant). phil! the parlor maid. beg pardon, ma'am. i'm waiting for mr. valentine. i have a message for him. dolly. who from? mrs. clandon (shocked). dolly! (dolly catches her lips with her finger tips, suppressing a little splutter of mirth.) the parlor maid. only the landlord, ma'am. valentine, in a blue serge suit, with a straw hat in his hand, comes back in high spirits, out of breath with the haste he has made. gloria turns from the window and studies him with freezing attention. philip. let me introduce you, mr. valentine. my mother, mrs. lanfrey clandon. (mrs. clandon bows. valentine bows, self-possessed and quite equal to the occasion.) my sister gloria. (gloria bows with cold dignity and sits down on the sofa. valentine falls in love at first sight and is miserably confused. he fingers his hat nervously, and makes her a sneaking bow.) mrs. clandon. i understand that we are to have the pleasure of seeing you at luncheon to-day, mr. valentine. valentine. thank you--er--if you don't mind--i mean if you will be so kind--(to the parlor maid testily) what is it? the parlor maid. the landlord, sir, wishes to speak to you before you go out. valentine. oh, tell him i have four patients here. (the clandons look surprised, except phil, who is imperturbable.) if he wouldn't mind waiting just two minutes, i--i'll slip down and see him for a moment. (throwing himself confidentially on her sense of the position.) say i'm busy, but that i want to see him. the parlor maid (reassuringly). yes, sir. (she goes.) mrs. clandon (on the point of rising). we are detaining you, i am afraid. valentine. not at all, not at all. your presence here will be the greatest help to me. the fact is, i owe six week's rent; and i've had no patients until to-day. my interview with my landlord will be considerably smoothed by the apparent boom in my business. dolly (vexed). oh, how tiresome of you to let it all out! and we've just been pretending that you were a respectable professional man in a first-rate position. mrs. clandon (horrified). oh, dolly, dolly! my dearest, how can you be so rude? (to valentine.) will you excuse these barbarian children of mine, mr. valentine? valentine. thank you, i'm used to them. would it be too much to ask you to wait five minutes while i get rid of my landlord downstairs? dolly. don't be long. we're hungry. mrs. clandon (again remonstrating). dolly, dear! valentine (to dolly). all right. (to mrs. clandon.) thank you: i shan't be long. (he steals a look at gloria as he turns to go. she is looking gravely at him. he falls into confusion.) i--er--er--yes--thank you (he succeeds at last in blundering himself out of the room; but the exhibition is a pitiful one). philip. did you observe? (pointing to gloria.) love at first sight. you can add his scalp to your collection, gloria. mrs. clandon. sh--sh, pray, phil. he may have heard you. philip. not he. (bracing himself for a scene.) and now look here, mamma. (he takes the stool from the bench; and seats himself majestically in the middle of the room, taking a leaf out of valentine's book. dolly, feeling that her position on the step of the operating chair is unworthy of the dignity of the occasion, rises, looking important and determined; crosses to the window; and stands with her back to the end of the writing-table, her hands behind her and on the table. mrs. clandon looks at them, wondering what is coming. gloria becomes attentive. philip straightens his back; places his knuckles symmetrically on his knees; and opens his case.) dolly and i have been talking over things a good deal lately; and i don't think, judging from my knowledge of human nature--we don't think that you (speaking very staccato, with the words detached) quite appreciate the fact-dolly (seating herself on the end of the table with a spring). that we've grown up. mrs. clandon. indeed? in what way have i given you any reason to complain? philip. well, there are certain matters upon which we are beginning to feel that you might take us a little more into your confidence. mrs. clandon (rising, with all the placidity of her age suddenly broken up; and a curious hard excitement, dignified but dogged, ladylike but implacable--the manner of the old guard of the women's rights movement--coming upon her). phil: take care. remember what i have always taught you. there are two sorts of family life, phil; and your experience of human nature only extends, so far, to one of them. (rhetorically.) the sort you know is based on mutual respect, on recognition of the right of every member of the household to independence and privacy (her emphasis on "privacy" is intense) in their personal concerns. and because you have always enjoyed that, it seems such a matter of course to you that you don't value it. but (with biting acrimony) there is another sort of family life: a life in which husbands open their wives' letters, and call on them to account for every farthing of their expenditure and every moment of their time; in which women do the same to their children; in which no room is private and no hour sacred; in which duty, obedience, affection, home, morality and religion are detestable tyrannies, and life is a vulgar round of punishments and lies, coercion and rebellion, jealousy, suspicion, recrimination--oh! i cannot describe it to you: fortunately for you, you know nothing about it. (she sits down, panting. gloria has listened to her with flashing eyes, sharing all her indignation.) dolly (inaccessible to rhetoric). see twentieth century parents, chapter on liberty, passim. mrs. clandon (touching her shoulder affectionately, soothed even by a gibe from her). my dear dolly: if you only knew how glad i am that it is nothing but a joke to you, though it is such bitter earnest to me. (more resolutely, turning to philip.) phil, i never ask you questions about your private concerns. you are not going to question me, are you? philip. i think it due to ourselves to say that the question we wanted to ask is as much our business as yours. dolly. besides, it can't be good to keep a lot of questions bottled up inside you. you did it, mamma; but see how awfully it's broken out again in me. mrs. clandon. i see you want to ask your question. ask it. dolly and philip (beginning simultaneously). who-(they stop.) philip. now look here, dolly: am i going to conduct this business or are you? dolly. you. philip. then hold your mouth. (dolly does so literally.) the question is a simple one. when the ivory snatcher-mrs. clandon (remonstrating). phil! philip. dentist is an ugly word. the man of ivory and gold asked us whether we were the children of mr. densmore clandon of newbury hall. in pursuance of the precepts in your treatise on twentieth century conduct, and your repeated personal exhortations to us to curtail the number of unnecessary lies we tell, we replied truthfully the we didn't know. dolly. neither did we. philip. sh! the result was that the gum architect made considerable difficulties about accepting our invitation to lunch, although i doubt if he has had anything but tea and bread and butter for a fortnight past. now my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that we had a father, and that you probably know who he was. mrs. clandon (her agitation returning). stop, phil. your father is nothing to you, nor to me (vehemently). that is enough. (the twins are silenced, but not satisfied. their faces fall. but gloria, who has been following the altercation attentively, suddenly intervenes.) gloria (advancing). mother: we have a right to know. mrs. clandon (rising and facing her). gloria! "we!" who is "we"? gloria (steadfastly). we three. (her tone is unmistakable: she is pitting her strength against her mother for the first time. the twins instantly go over to the enemy.) mrs. clandon (wounded). in your mouth "we" used to mean you and i, gloria. philip (rising decisively and putting away the stool). we're hurting you: let's drop it. we didn't think you'd mind. i don't want to know. dolly (coming off the table). i'm sure i don't. oh, don't look like that, mamma. (she looks angrily at gloria.) mrs. clandon (touching her eyes hastily with her handkerchief and sitting down again). thank you, my dear. thanks, phil. gloria (inexorably). we have a right to know, mother. mrs. clandon (indignantly). ah! you insist. gloria. do you intend that we shall never know? dolly. oh, gloria, don't. it's barbarous. gloria (with quiet scorn). what is the use of being weak? you see what has happened with this gentleman here, mother. the same thing has happened to me. mrs. clandon } (all { what do you mean? dolly } together). { oh, tell us. philip } { what happened to you? gloria. oh, nothing of any consequence. (she turns away from them and goes up to the easy chair at the fireplace, where she sits down, almost with her back to them. as they wait expectantly, she adds, over her shoulder, with studied indifference.) on board the steamer the first officer did me the honor to propose to me. dolly. no, it was to me. mrs. clandon. the first officer! are you serious, gloria? what did you say to him? (correcting herself) excuse me: i have no right to ask that. gloria. the answer is pretty obvious. a woman who does not know who her father was cannot accept such an offer. mrs. clandon. surely you did not want to accept it? gloria (turning a little and raising her voice). no; but suppose i had wanted to! philip. did that difficulty strike you, dolly? dolly. no, i accepted him. gloria } (all crying { accepted him! mrs. clandon } out { dolly! philip } together) { oh, i say! dolly (naively). he did look such a fool! mrs. clandon. but why did you do such a thing, dolly? dolly. for fun, i suppose. he had to measure my finger for a ring. you'd have done the same thing yourself. mrs. clandon. no, dolly, i would not. as a matter of fact the first officer did propose to me; and i told him to keep that sort of thing for women were young enough to be amused by it. he appears to have acted on my advice. (she rises and goes to the hearth.) gloria: i am sorry you think me weak; but i cannot tell you what you want. you are all too young. philip. this is rather a startling departure from twentieth century principles. dolly (quoting). "answer all your children's questions, and answer them truthfully, as soon as they are old enough to ask them." see twentieth century motherhood-philip. page one-dolly. chapter one-philip. sentence one. mrs. clandon. my dears: i did not say that you were too young to know. i said you were too young to be taken into my confidence. you are very bright children, all of you; but i am glad for your sakes that you are still very inexperienced and consequently very unsympathetic. there are some experiences of mine that i cannot bear to speak of except to those who have gone through what i have gone through. i hope you will never be qualified for such confidences. but i will take care that you shall learn all you want to know. will that satisfy you? philip. another grievance, dolly. dolly. we're not sympathetic. gloria (leaning forward in her chair and looking earnestly up at her mother). mother: i did not mean to be unsympathetic. mrs. clandon (affectionately). of course not, dear. do you think i don't understand? gloria (rising). but, mother-mrs. clandon (drawing back a little). yes? gloria (obstinately). it is nonsense to tell us that our father is nothing to us. mrs. clandon (provoked to sudden resolution). do you remember your father? gloria (meditatively, as if the recollection were a tender one). i am not quite sure. i think so. mrs. clandon (grimly). you are not sure? gloria. no. mrs. clandon (with quiet force). gloria: if i had ever struck you-(gloria recoils: philip and dolly are disagreeably shocked; all three start at her, revolted as she continues)--struck you purposely, deliberately, with the intention of hurting you, with a whip bought for the purpose! would you remember that, do you think? (gloria utters an exclamation of indignant repulsion.) that would have been your last recollection of your father, gloria, if i had not taken you away from him. i have kept him out of your life: keep him now out of mine by never mentioning him to me again. (gloria, with a shudder, covers her face with her hands, until, hearing someone at the door, she turns away and pretends to occupy herself looking at the names of the books in the bookcase. mrs. clandon sits down on the sofa. valentine returns.). valentine. i hope i've not kept you waiting. that landlord of mine is really an extraordinary old character. dolly (eagerly). oh, tell us. how long has he given you to pay? mrs. clandon (distracted by her child's bad manners). dolly, dolly, dolly dear! you must not ask questions. dolly (demurely). so sorry. you'll tell us, won't you, mr. valentine? valentine. he doesn't want his rent at all. he's broken his tooth on a brazil nut; and he wants me to look at it and to lunch with him afterwards. dolly. then have him up and pull his tooth out at once; and we'll bring him to lunch, too. tell the maid to fetch him along. (she runs to the bell and rings it vigorously. then, with a sudden doubt she turns to valentine and adds) i suppose he's respectable--really respectable. valentine. perfectly. not like me. dolly. honest injun? (mrs. clandon gasps faintly; but her powers of remonstrance are exhausted.) valentine. honest injun! dolly. then off with you and bring him up. valentine (looking dubiously at mrs. clandon). i daresay he'd be delighted if--er--? mrs. clandon (rising and looking at her watch). i shall be happy to see your friend at lunch, if you can persuade him to come; but i can't wait to see him now: i have an appointment at the hotel at a quarter to one with an old friend whom i have not seen since i left england eighteen years ago. will you excuse me? valentine. certainly, mrs. clandon. gloria. shall i come? mrs. clandon. no, dear. i want to be alone. (she goes out, evidently still a good deal troubled. valentine opens the door for her and follows her out.) philip (significantly--to dolly). hmhm! dolly (significantly to philip). ahah! (the parlor maid answers the bell.) dolly. show the old gentleman up. the parlor maid (puzzled). madam? dolly. the old gentleman with the toothache. philip. the landlord. the parlor maid. mr. crampton, sir? philip. is his name crampton? dolly (to philip). sounds rheumaticky, doesn't it? philip. chalkstones, probably. dolly (over her shoulder, to the parlor maid). show mr. crampstones up. (goes r. to writing-table chair). the parlor maid (correcting her). mr. crampton, miss. (she goes.) dolly (repeating it to herself like a lesson). crampton, crampton, crampton, crampton, crampton. (she sits down studiously at the writing-table.) i must get that name right, or heaven knows what i shall call him. gloria. phil: can you believe such a horrible thing as that about our father--what mother said just now? philip. oh, there are lots of people of that kind. old chalice used to thrash his wife and daughters with a cartwhip. dolly (contemptuously). yes, a portuguese! philip. when you come to men who are brutes, there is much in common between the portuguese and the english variety, doll. trust my knowledge of human nature. (he resumes his position on the hearthrug with an elderly and responsible air.) gloria (with angered remorse). i don't think we shall ever play again at our old game of guessing what our father was to be like. dolly: are you sorry for your father--the father with lots of money? dolly. oh, come! what about your father--the lonely old man with the tender aching heart? he's pretty well burst up, i think. philip. there can be no doubt that the governor is an exploded superstition. (valentine is heard talking to somebody outside the door.) but hark: he comes. gloria (nervously). who? dolly. chalkstones. philip. sh! attention. (they put on their best manners. philip adds in a lower voice to gloria) if he's good enough for the lunch, i'll nod to dolly; and if she nods to you, invite him straight away. (valentine comes back with his landlord. mr. fergus crampton is a man of about sixty, tall, hard and stringy, with an atrociously obstinate, ill tempered, grasping mouth, and a querulously dogmatic voice. withal he is highly nervous and sensitive, judging by his thin transparent skin marked with multitudinous lines, and his slender fingers. his consequent capacity for suffering acutely from all the dislike that his temper and obstinacy can bring upon him is proved by his wistful, wounded eyes, by a plaintive note in his voice, a painful want of confidence in his welcome, and a constant but indifferently successful effort to correct his natural incivility of manner and proneness to take offence. by his keen brows and forehead he is clearly a shrewd man; and there is no sign of straitened means or commercial diffidence about him: he is well dressed, and would be classed at a guess as a prosperous master manufacturer in a business inherited from an old family in the aristocracy of trade. his navy blue coat is not of the usual fashionable pattern. it is not exactly a pilot's coat; but it is cut that way, double breasted, and with stout buttons and broad lapels, a coat for a shipyard rather than a counting house. he has taken a fancy to valentine, who cares nothing for his crossness of grain and treats him with a sort of disrespectful humanity, for which he is secretly grateful.) valentine. may i introduce--this is mr. crampton--miss dorothy clandon, mr. philip clandon, miss clandon. (crampton stands nervously bowing. they all bow.) sit down, mr. crampton. dolly (pointing to the operating chair). that is the most comfortable chair, mr. ch--crampton. crampton. thank you; but won't this young lady--(indicating gloria, who is close to the chair)? gloria. thank you, mr. crampton: we are just going. valentine (bustling him across to the chair with good-humored peremptoriness). sit down, sit down. you're tired. crampton. well, perhaps as i am considerably the oldest person present, i-(he finishes the sentence by sitting down a little rheumatically in the operating chair. meanwhile, philip, having studied him critically during his passage across the room, nods to dolly; and dolly nods to gloria.) gloria. mr. crampton: we understand that we are preventing mr. valentine from lunching with you by taking him away ourselves. my mother would be very glad, indeed, if you would come too. crampton (gratefully, after looking at her earnestly for a moment). thank you. i will come with pleasure. gloria } (politely { thank you very much--er-dolly } murmuring).{ so glad--er-philip } { delighted, i'm sure--er-(the conversation drops. gloria and dolly look at one another; then at valentine and philip. valentine and philip, unequal to the occasion, look away from them at one another, and are instantly so disconcerted by catching one another's eye, that they look back again and catch the eyes of gloria and dolly. thus, catching one another all round, they all look at nothing and are quite at a loss. crampton looks about him, waiting for them to begin. the silence becomes unbearable.) dolly (suddenly, to keep things going). how old are you, mr. crampton? gloria (hastily). i am afraid we must be going, mr. valentine. it is understood, then, that we meet at half past one. (she makes for the door. philip goes with her. valentine retreats to the bell.) valentine. half past one. (he rings the bell.) many thanks. (he follows gloria and philip to the door, and goes out with them.) dolly (who has meanwhile stolen across to crampton). make him give you gas. it's five shillings extra: but it's worth it. crampton (amused). very well. (looking more earnestly at her.) so you want to know my age, do you? i'm fifty-seven. dolly (with conviction). you look it. crampton (grimly). i dare say i do. dolly. what are you looking at me so hard for? anything wrong? (she feels whether her hat is right.) crampton. you're like somebody. dolly. who? crampton. well, you have a curious look of my mother. dolly (incredulously). your mother!!! quite sure you don't mean your daughter? crampton (suddenly blackening with hate). yes: i'm quite sure i don't mean my daughter. dolly (sympathetically). tooth bad? crampton. no, no: nothing. a twinge of memory, miss clandon, not of toothache. dolly. have it out. "pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow:" with gas, five shillings extra. crampton (vindictively). no, not a sorrow. an injury that was done me once: that's all. i don't forget injuries; and i don't want to forget them. (his features settle into an implacable frown.) (re-enter philip: to look for dolly. he comes down behind her unobserved.) dolly (looking critically at crampton's expression). i don't think we shall like you when you are brooding over your sorrows. philip (who has entered the room unobserved, and stolen behind her). my sister means well, mr. crampton: but she is indiscreet. now dolly, outside! (he takes her towards the door.) dolly (in a perfectly audible undertone). he says he's only fifty-seven; and he thinks me the image of his mother; and he hates his daughter; and-(she is interrupted by the return of valentine.) valentine. miss clandon has gone on. philip. don't forget half past one. dolly. mind you leave mr. crampton with enough teeth to eat with. (they go out. valentine comes down to his cabinet, and opens it.) crampton. that's a spoiled child, mr. valentine. that's one of your modern products. when i was her age, i had many a good hiding fresh in my memory to teach me manners. valentine (taking up his dental mirror and probe from the shelf in front of the cabinet). what did you think of her sister? crampton. you liked her better, eh? valentine (rhapsodically). she struck me as being-(he checks himself, and adds, prosaically) however, that's not business. (he places himself behind crampton's right shoulder and assumes his professional tone.) open, please. (crampton opens his mouth. valentine puts the mirror in, and examines his teeth.) hm! you have broken that one. what a pity to spoil such a splendid set of teeth! why do you crack nuts with them? (he withdraws the mirror, and comes forward to converse with crampton.) crampton. i've always cracked nuts with them: what else are they for? (dogmatically.) the proper way to keep teeth good is to give them plenty of use on bones and nuts, and wash them every day with soap-plain yellow soap. valentine. soap! why soap? crampton. i began using it as a boy because i was made to; and i've used it ever since. and i never had toothache in my life. valentine. don't you find it rather nasty? crampton. i found that most things that were good for me were nasty. but i was taught to put up with them, and made to put up with them. i'm used to it now: in fact, i like the taste when the soap is really good. valentine (making a wry face in spite of himself). you seem to have been very carefully educated, mr. crampton. crampton (grimly). i wasn't spoiled, at all events. valentine (smiling a little to himself). are you quite sure? crampton. what d'y' mean? valentine. well, your teeth are good, i admit. but i've seen just as good in very self-indulgent mouths. (he goes to the ledge of cabinet and changes the probe for another one.) crampton. it's not the effect on the teeth: it's the effect on the character. valentine (placably). oh, the character, i see. (he recommences operations.) a little wider, please. hm! that one will have to come out: it's past saving. (he withdraws the probe and again comes to the side of the chair to converse.) don't be alarmed: you shan't feel anything. i'll give you gas. crampton. rubbish, man: i want none of your gas. out with it. people were taught to bear necessary pain in my day. valentine. oh, if you like being hurt, all right. i'll hurt you as much as you like, without any extra charge for the beneficial effect on your character. crampton (rising and glaring at him). young man: you owe me six weeks' rent. valentine. i do. crampton. can you pay me? valentine. no. crampton (satisfied with his advantage). i thought not. how soon d'y' think you'll be able to pay me if you have no better manners than to make game of your patients? (he sits down again.) valentine. my good sir: my patients haven't all formed their characters on kitchen soap. crampton (suddenly gripping him by the arm as he turns away again to the cabinet). so much the worse for them. i tell you you don't understand my character. if i could spare all my teeth, i'd make you pull them all out one after another to shew you what a properly hardened man can go through with when he's made up his mind to do it. (he nods at him to enforce the effect of this declaration, and releases him.) valentine (his careless pleasantry quite unruffled). and you want to be more hardened, do you? crampton. yes. valentine (strolling away to the bell). well, you're quite hard enough for me already--as a landlord. (crampton receives this with a growl of grim humor. valentine rings the bell, and remarks in a cheerful, casual way, whilst waiting for it to be answered.) why did you never get married, mr. crampton? a wife and children would have taken some of the hardness out of you. crampton (with unexpected ferocity). what the devil is that to you? (the parlor maid appears at the door.) valentine (politely). some warm water, please. (she retires: and valentine comes back to the cabinet, not at all put out by crampton's rudeness, and carries on the conversation whilst he selects a forceps and places it ready to his hand with a gag and a drinking glass.) you were asking me what the devil that was to me. well, i have an idea of getting married myself. crampton (with grumbling irony). naturally, sir, naturally. when a young man has come to his last farthing, and is within twenty-four hours of having his furniture distrained upon by his landlord, he marries. i've noticed that before. well, marry; and be miserable. valentine. oh, come, what do you know about it? crampton. i'm not a bachelor. valentine. then there is a mrs. crampton? crampton (wincing with a pang of resentment). yes--damn her! valentine (unperturbed). hm! a father, too, perhaps, as well as a husband, mr. crampton? crampton. three children. valentine (politely). damn them?--eh? crampton (jealously). no, sir: the children are as much mine as hers. (the parlor maid brings in a jug of hot water.) valentine. thank you. (he takes the jug from her, and brings it to the cabinet, continuing in the same idle strain) i really should like to know your family, mr. crampton. (the parlor maid goes out: and he pours some hot water into the drinking glass.) crampton. sorry i can't introduce you, sir. i'm happy to say that i don't know where they are, and don't care, so long as they keep out of my way. (valentine, with a hitch of his eyebrows and shoulders, drops the forceps with a clink into the glass of hot water.) you needn't warm that thing to use on me. i'm not afraid of the cold steel. (valentine stoops to arrange the gas pump and cylinder beside the chair.) what's that heavy thing? valentine. oh, never mind. something to put my foot on, to get the necessary purchase for a good pull. (crampton looks alarmed in spite of himself. valentine stands upright and places the glass with the forceps in it ready to his hand, chatting on with provoking indifference.) and so you advise me not to get married, mr. crampton? (he stoops to fit the handle on the apparatus by which the chair is raised and lowered.) crampton (irritably). i advise you to get my tooth out and have done reminding me of my wife. come along, man. (he grips the arms of the chair and braces himself.) valentine (pausing, with his hand on the lever, to look up at him and say). what do you bet that i don't get that tooth out without your feeling it? crampton. your six week's rent, young man. don't you gammon me. valentine (jumping at the bet and winding him aloft vigorously). done! are you ready? (crampton, who has lost his grip of the chair in his alarm at its sudden ascent, folds his arms: sits stiffly upright: and prepares for the worst. valentine lets down the back of the chair to an obtuse angle.) crampton (clutching at the arms of the chair as he falls back). take care man. i'm quite helpless in this po--valentine (deftly stopping him with the gag, and snatching up the mouthpiece of the gas machine). you'll be more helpless presently. (he presses the mouthpiece over crampton's mouth and nose, leaning over his chest so as to hold his head and shoulders well down on the chair. crampton makes an inarticulate sound in the mouthpiece and tries to lay hands on valentine, whom he supposes to be in front of him. after a moment his arms wave aimlessly, then subside and drop. he is quite insensible. valentine, with an exclamation of somewhat preoccupied triumph, throws aside the mouthpiece quickly: picks up the forceps adroitly from the glass: and--the curtain falls.) end of act i. act ii on the terrace at the marine hotel. it is a square flagged platform, with a parapet of heavy oil jar pilasters supporting a broad stone coping on the outer edge, which stands up over the sea like a cliff. the head waiter of the establishment, busy laying napkins on a luncheon table with his back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his left, in the corner nearest the sea, the flight of steps leading down to the beach. when he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees a little to his left a solitary guest, a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair of iron laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar and three wasps on it, reading the standard, with his umbrella up to defend him from the sun, which, in august and at less than an hour after noon, is toasting his protended insteps. just opposite him, at the hotel side of the terrace, there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern. access to the hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of its facade, reached by a couple of steps on a broad square of raised pavement. nearer the parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked by a little trellis porch. the table at which the waiter is occupied is a long one, set across the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two at each side and one at the end next the hotel. against the parapet another table is prepared as a buffet to serve from. the waiter is a remarkable person in his way. a silky old man, white-haired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that in his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of the actual. he has a certain expression peculiar to men who have been extraordinarily successful in their calling, and who, whilst aware of the vanity of success, are untouched by envy. the gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. he wears his london frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the table beside the sugar bowl. the excellent condition and quality of these garments, the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is reading the standard, and the times at his elbow overlaying the local paper, all testify to his respectability. he is about fifty, clean shaven, and close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down purposely, as if he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was determined not to let them have their way. he has large expansive ears, cod colored eyes, and a brow kept resolutely wide open, as if, again, he had resolved in his youth to be truthful, magnanimous, and incorruptible, but had never succeeded in making that habit of mind automatic and unconscious. still, he is by no means to be laughed at. there is no sign of stupidity or infirmity of will about him: on the contrary, he would pass anywhere at sight as a man of more than average professional capacity and responsibility. just at present he is enjoying the weather and the sea too much to be out of patience; but he has exhausted all the news in his papers and is at present reduced to the advertisements, which are not sufficiently succulent to induce him to persevere with them. the gentleman (yawning and giving up the paper as a bad job). waiter! waiter. sir? (coming down c.) the gentleman. are you quite sure mrs. clandon is coming back before lunch? waiter. quite sure, sir. she expects you at a quarter to one, sir. (the gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter's voice, looks at him with a lazy smile. it is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that gives sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks with the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing them, nor committing any other vulgarism. he looks at his watch as he continues) not that yet, sir, is it? 12:43, sir. only two minutes more to wait, sir. nice morning, sir? the gentleman. yes: very fresh after london. waiter. yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. very nice family, mrs. clandon's, sir. the gentleman. you like them, do you? waiter. yes, sir. they have a free way with them that is very taking, sir, very taking indeed, sir: especially the young lady and gentleman. the gentleman. miss dorothea and mr. philip, i suppose. waiter. yes, sir. the young lady, in giving an order, or the like of that, will say, "remember, william, we came to this hotel on your account, having heard what a perfect waiter you are." the young gentleman will tell me that i remind him strongly of his father (the gentleman starts at this) and that he expects me to act by him as such. (soothing, sunny cadence.) oh, very pleasant, sir, very affable and pleasant indeed! the gentleman. you like his father! (he laughs at the notion.) waiter. oh, we must not take what they say too seriously, sir. of course, sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the resemblance, too, sir. the gentleman. did she? waiter. no, sir. she thought me like the bust of shakespear in stratford church, sir. that is why she calls me william, sir. my real name is walter, sir. (he turns to go back to the table, and sees mrs. clandon coming up to the terrace from the beach by the steps.) here is mrs. clandon, sir. (to mrs. clandon, in an unobtrusively confidential tone) gentleman for you, ma'am. mrs. clandon. we shall have two more gentlemen at lunch, william. waiter. right, ma'am. thank you, ma'am. (he withdraws into the hotel. mrs. clandon comes forward looking round for her visitor, but passes over the gentleman without any sign of recognition.) the gentleman (peering at her quaintly from under the umbrella). don't you know me? mrs. clandon (incredulously, looking hard at him) are you finch mccomas? mccomas. can't you guess? (he shuts the umbrella; puts it aside; and jocularly plants himself with his hands on his hips to be inspected.) mrs. clandon. i believe you are. (she gives him her hand. the shake that ensues is that of old friends after a long separation.) where's your beard? mccomas (with humorous solemnity). would you employ a solicitor with a beard? mrs. clandon (pointing to the silk hat on the table). is that your hat? mccomas. would you employ a solicitor with a sombrero? mrs. clandon. i have thought of you all these eighteen years with the beard and the sombrero. (she sits down on the garden seat. mccomas takes his chair again.) do you go to the meetings of the dialectical society still? mccomas (gravely). i do not frequent meetings now. mrs. clandon. finch: i see what has happened. you have become respectable. mccomas. haven't you? mrs. clandon. not a bit. mccomas. you hold to your old opinions still? mrs. clandon. as firmly as ever. mccomas. bless me! and you are still ready to make speeches in public, in spite of your sex (mrs. clandon nods); to insist on a married woman's right to her own separate property (she nods again); to champion darwin's view of the origin of species and john stuart mill's essay on liberty (nod); to read huxley, tyndall and george eliot (three nods); and to demand university degrees, the opening of the professions, and the parliamentary franchise for women as well as men? mrs. clandon (resolutely). yes: i have not gone back one inch; and i have educated gloria to take up my work where i left it. that is what has brought me back to england: i felt that i had no right to bury her alive in madeira--my st. helena, finch. i suppose she will be howled at as i was; but she is prepared for that. mccomas. howled at! my dear good lady: there is nothing in any of those views now-a-days to prevent her from marrying a bishop. you reproached me just now for having become respectable. you were wrong: i hold to our old opinions as strongly as ever. i don't go to church; and i don't pretend i do. i call myself what i am: a philosophic radical, standing for liberty and the rights of the individual, as i learnt to do from my master herbert spencer. am i howled at? no: i'm indulged as an old fogey. i'm out of everything, because i've refused to bow the knee to socialism. mrs. clandon (shocked). socialism. mccomas. yes, socialism. that's what miss gloria will be up to her ears in before the end of the month if you let her loose here. mrs. clandon (emphatically). but i can prove to her that socialism is a fallacy. mccomas (touchingly). it is by proving that, mrs. clandon, that i have lost all my young disciples. be careful what you do: let her go her own way. (with some bitterness.) we're old-fashioned: the world thinks it has left us behind. there is only one place in all england where your opinions would still pass as advanced. mrs. clandon (scornfully unconvinced). the church, perhaps? mccomas. no, the theatre. and now to business! why have you made me come down here? mrs. clandon. well, partly because i wanted to see you-mccomas (with good-humored irony). thanks. mrs. clandon. --and partly because i want you to explain everything to the children. they know nothing; and now that we have come back to england, it is impossible to leave them in ignorance any longer. (agitated.) finch: i cannot bring myself to tell them. i-(she is interrupted by the twins and gloria. dolly comes tearing up the steps, racing philip, who combines a terrific speed with unhurried propriety of bearing which, however, costs him the race, as dolly reaches her mother first and almost upsets the garden seat by the precipitancy of her arrival.) dolly (breathless). it's all right, mamma. the dentist is coming; and he's bringing his old man. mrs. clandon. dolly, dear: don't you see mr. mccomas? (mr. mccomas rises, smilingly.) dolly (her face falling with the most disparagingly obvious disappointment). this! where are the flowing locks? philip (seconding her warmly). where the beard?--the cloak?--the poetic exterior? dolly. oh, mr. mccomas, you've gone and spoiled yourself. why didn't you wait till we'd seen you? mccomas (taken aback, but rallying his humor to meet the emergency). because eighteen years is too long for a solicitor to go without having his hair cut. gloria (at the other side of mccomas). how do you do, mr. mccomas? (he turns; and she takes his hand and presses it, with a frank straight look into his eyes.) we are glad to meet you at last. mccomas. miss gloria, i presume? (gloria smiles assent, and releases his hand after a final pressure. she then retires behind the garden seat, leaning over the back beside mrs. clandon.) and this young gentleman? philip. i was christened in a comparatively prosaic mood. my name is-dolly (completing his sentence for him declamatorily). "norval. on the grampian hills"-philip (declaiming gravely). "my father feeds his flock, a frugal swain"-mrs. clandon (remonstrating). dear, dear children: don't be silly. everything is so new to them here, finch, that they are in the wildest spirits. they think every englishman they meet is a joke. dolly. well, so he is: it's not our fault. philip. my knowledge of human nature is fairly extensive, mr. mccomas; but i find it impossible to take the inhabitants of this island seriously. mccomas. i presume, sir, you are master philip (offering his hand)? philip (taking mccomas's hand and looking solemnly at him). i was master philip--was so for many years; just as you were once master finch. (he gives his hand a single shake and drops it; then turns away, exclaiming meditatively) how strange it is to look back on our boyhood! (mccomas stares after him, not at all pleased.) dolly (to mrs. clandon). has finch had a drink? mrs. clandon (remonstrating). dearest: mr. mccomas will lunch with us. dolly. have you ordered for seven? don't forget the old gentleman. mrs. clandon. i have not forgotten him, dear. what is his name? dolly. chalkstones. he'll be here at half past one. (to mccomas.) are we like what you expected? mrs. clandon (changing her tone to a more earnest one). dolly: mr. mccomas has something more serious than that to tell you. children: i have asked my old friend to answer the question you asked this morning. he is your father's friend as well as mine: and he will tell you the story more fairly than i could. (turning her head from them to gloria.) gloria: are you satisfied? gloria (gravely attentive). mr. mccomas is very kind. mccomas (nervously). not at all, my dear young lady: not at all. at the same time, this is rather sudden. i was hardly prepared--er-dolly (suspiciously). oh, we don't want anything prepared. philip (exhorting him). tell us the truth. dolly (emphatically). bald headed. mccomas (nettled). i hope you intend to take what i have to say seriously. philip (with profound mock gravity). i hope it will deserve it, mr. mccomas. my knowledge of human nature teaches me not to expect too much. mrs. clandon (remonstrating). phil-philip. yes, mother, all right. i beg your pardon, mr. mccomas: don't mind us. dolly (in conciliation). we mean well. philip. shut up, both. (dolly holds her lips. mccomas takes a chair from the luncheon table; places it between the little table and the garden seat with dolly on his right and philip on his left; and settles himself in it with the air of a man about to begin a long communication. the clandons match him expectantly.) mccomas. ahem! your father-dolly (interrupting). how old is he? philip. sh! mrs. clandon (softly). dear dolly: don't let us interrupt mr. mccomas. mccomas (emphatically). thank you, mrs. clandon. thank you. (to dolly.) your father is fifty-seven. dolly (with a bound, startled and excited). fifty-seven! where does he live? mrs. clandon (remonstrating). dolly, dolly! mccomas (stopping her). let me answer that, mrs. clandon. the answer will surprise you considerably. he lives in this town. (mrs. clandon rises. she and gloria look at one another in the greatest consternation.) dolly (with conviction). i knew it! phil: chalkstones is our father. mccomas. chalkstones! dolly. oh, crampstones, or whatever it is. he said i was like his mother. i knew he must mean his daughter. philip (very seriously). mr. mccomas: i desire to consider your feelings in every possible way: but i warn you that if you stretch the long arm of coincidence to the length of telling me that mr. crampton of this town is my father, i shall decline to entertain the information for a moment. mccomas. and pray why? philip. because i have seen the gentleman; and he is entirely unfit to be my father, or dolly's father, or gloria's father, or my mother's husband. mccomas. oh, indeed! well, sir, let me tell you that whether you like it or not, he is your father, and your sister' father, and mrs. clandon's husband. now! what have you to say to that! dolly (whimpering). you needn't be so cross. crampton isn't your father. philip. mr. mccomas: your conduct is heartless. here you find a family enjoying the unspeakable peace and freedom of being orphans. we have never seen the face of a relative--never known a claim except the claim of freely chosen friendship. and now you wish to thrust into the most intimate relationship with us a man whom we don't know-dolly (vehemently). an awful old man! (reproachfully) and you began as if you had quite a nice father for us. mccomas (angrily). how do you know that he is not nice? and what right have you to choose your own father? (raising his voice.) let me tell you, miss clandon, that you are too young to-dolly (interrupting him suddenly and eagerly). stop, i forgot! has he any money? mccomas. he has a great deal of money. dolly (delighted). oh, what did i always say, phil? philip. dolly: we have perhaps been condemning the old man too hastily. proceed, mr. mccomas. mccomas. i shall not proceed, sir. i am too hurt, too shocked, to proceed. mrs. clandon (urgently). finch: do you realize what is happening? do you understand that my children have invited that man to lunch, and that he will be here in a few moments? mccomas (completely upset). what! do you mean--am i to understand--is it-philip (impressively). steady, finch. think it out slowly and carefully. he's coming--coming to lunch. gloria. which of us is to tell him the truth? have you thought of that? mrs. clandon. finch: you must tell him. dolly oh, finch is no good at telling things. look at the mess he has made of telling us. mccomas. i have not been allowed to speak. i protest against this. dolly (taking his arm coaxingly). dear finch: don't be cross. mrs. clandon. gloria: let us go in. he may arrive at any moment. gloria (proudly). do not stir, mother. i shall not stir. we must not run away. mrs. clandon (delicately rebuking her). my dear: we cannot sit down to lunch just as we are. we shall come back again. we must have no bravado. (gloria winces, and goes into the hotel without a word.) come, dolly. (as she goes into the hotel door, the waiter comes out with plates, etc., for two additional covers on a tray.) waiter. gentlemen come yet, ma'am? mrs. clandon. two more to come yet, thank you. they will be here, immediately. (she goes into the hotel. the waiter takes his tray to the service table.) philip. i have an idea. mr. mccomas: this communication should be made, should it not, by a man of infinite tact? mccomas. it will require tact, certainly. philip good! dolly: whose tact were you noticing only this morning? dolly (seizing the idea with rapture). oh, yes, i declare! william! philip. the very man! (calling) william! waiter. coming, sir. mccomas (horrified). the waiter! stop, stop! i will not permit this. i-waiter (presenting himself between philip and mccomas). yes, sir. (mccomas's complexion fades into stone grey; and all movement and expression desert his eyes. he sits down stupefied.) philip. william: you remember my request to you to regard me as your son? waiter (with respectful indulgence). yes, sir. anything you please, sir. philip. william: at the very outset of your career as my father, a rival has appeared on the scene. waiter. your real father, sir? well, that was to be expected, sooner or later, sir, wasn't it? (turning with a happy smile to mccomas.) is it you, sir? mccomas (renerved by indignation). certainly not. my children know how to behave themselves. philip. no, william: this gentleman was very nearly my father: he wooed my mother, but wooed her in vain. mccomas (outraged). well, of all the-philip. sh! consequently, he is only our solicitor. do you know one crampton, of this town? waiter. cock-eyed crampton, sir, of the crooked billet, is it? philip. i don't know. finch: does he keep a public house? mccomas (rising scandalized). no, no, no. your father, sir, is a well-known yacht builder, an eminent man here. waiter (impressed). oh, beg pardon, sir, i'm sure. a son of mr. crampton's! dear me! philip. mr. crampton is coming to lunch with us. waiter (puzzled). yes, sir. (diplomatically.) don't usually lunch with his family, perhaps, sir? philip (impressively). william: he does not know that we are his family. he has not seen us for eighteen years. he won't know us. (to emphasize the communication he seats himself on the iron table with a spring, and looks at the waiter with his lips compressed and his legs swinging.) dolly. we want you to break the news to him, william. waiter. but i should think he'd guess when he sees your mother, miss. (philip's legs become motionless at this elucidation. he contemplates the waiter raptly.) dolly (dazzled). i never thought of that. philip. nor i. (coming off the table and turning reproachfully on mccomas.) nor you. dolly. and you a solicitor! philip. finch: your professional incompetence is appalling. william: your sagacity puts us all to shame. dolly you really are like shakespear, william. waiter. not at all, sir. don't mention it, miss. most happy, i'm sure, sir. (goes back modestly to the luncheon table and lays the two additional covers, one at the end next the steps, and the other so as to make a third on the side furthest from the balustrade.) philip (abruptly). finch: come and wash your hands. (seizes his arm and leads him toward the hotel.) mccomas. i am thoroughly vexed and hurt, mr. clandon-philip (interrupting him). you will get used to us. come, dolly. (mccomas shakes him off and marches into the hotel. philip follows with unruffled composure.) dolly (turning for a moment on the steps as she follows them). keep your wits about you, william. there will be fire-works. waiter. right, miss. you may depend on me, miss. (she goes into the hotel.) (valentine comes lightly up the steps from the beach, followed doggedly by crampton. valentine carries a walking stick. crampton, either because he is old and chilly, or with some idea of extenuating the unfashionableness of his reefer jacket, wears a light overcoat. he stops at the chair left by mccomas in the middle of the terrace, and steadies himself for a moment by placing his hand on the back of it.) crampton. those steps make me giddy. (he passes his hand over his forehead.) i have not got over that infernal gas yet. (he goes to the iron chair, so that he can lean his elbows on the little table to prop his head as he sits. he soon recovers, and begins to unbutton his overcoat. meanwhile valentine interviews the waiter.) valentine. waiter! waiter (coming forward between them). yes, sir. valentine. mrs. lanfrey clandon. waiter (with a sweet smile of welcome). yes, sir. we're expecting you, sir. that is your table, sir. mrs. clandon will be down presently, sir. the young lady and young gentleman were just talking about your friend, sir. valentine. indeed! waiter (smoothly melodious). yes, sire. great flow of spirits, sir. a vein of pleasantry, as you might say, sir. (quickly, to crampton, who has risen to get the overcoat off.) beg pardon, sir, but if you'll allow me (helping him to get the overcoat off and taking it from him). thank you, sir. (crampton sits down again; and the waiter resumes the broken melody.) the young gentleman's latest is that you're his father, sir. crampton. what! waiter. only his joke, sir, his favourite joke. yesterday, i was to be his father. to-day, as soon as he knew you were coming, sir, he tried to put it up on me that you were his father, his long lost father--not seen you for eighteen years, he said. crampton (startled). eighteen years! waiter. yes, sir. (with gentle archness.) but i was up to his tricks, sir. i saw the idea coming into his head as he stood there, thinking what new joke he'd have with me. yes, sir: that's the sort he is: very pleasant, ve--ry off hand and affable indeed, sir. (again changing his tempo to say to valentine, who is putting his stick down against the corner of the garden seat) if you'll allow me, sir? (taking valentine's stick.) thank you, sir. (valentine strolls up to the luncheon table and looks at the menu. the waiter turns to crampton and resumes his lay.) even the solicitor took up the joke, although he was in a manner of speaking in my confidence about the young gentleman, sir. yes, sir, i assure you, sir. you would never imagine what respectable professional gentlemen from london will do on an outing, when the sea air takes them, sir. crampton. oh, there's a solicitor with them, is there? waiter. the family solicitor, sir--yes, sir. name of mccomas, sir. (he goes towards hotel entrance with coat and stick, happily unconscious of the bomblike effect the name has produced on crampton.) crampton (rising in angry alarm). mccomas! (calls to valentine.) valentine! (again, fiercely.) valentine!! (valentine turns.) this is a plant, a conspiracy. this is my family--my children--my infernal wife. valentine (coolly). on, indeed! interesting meeting! (he resumes his study of the menu.) crampton. meeting! not for me. let me out of this. (calling to the waiter.) give me that coat. waiter. yes, sir. (he comes back, puts valentine's stick carefully down against the luncheon table; and delicately shakes the coat out and holds it for crampton to put on.) i seem to have done the young gentleman an injustice, sir, haven't i, sir. crampton. rrrh! (he stops on the point of putting his arms into the sleeves, and turns to valentine with sudden suspicion.) valentine: you are in this. you made this plot. you-valentine (decisively). bosh! (he throws the menu down and goes round the table to look out unconcernedly over the parapet.) crampton (angrily). what d'ye-(mccomas, followed by philip and dolly, comes out. he vacillates for a moment on seeing crampton.) waiter (softly--interrupting crampton). steady, sir. here they come, sir. (he takes up the stick and makes for the hotel, throwing the coat across his arm. mccomas turns the corners of his mouth resolutely down and crosses to crampton, who draws back and glares, with his hands behind him. mccomas, with his brow opener than ever, confronts him in the majesty of a spotless conscience.) waiter (aside, as he passes philip on his way out). i've broke it to him, sir. philip. invaluable william! (he passes on to the table.) dolly (aside to the waiter). how did he take it? waiter (aside to her). startled at first, miss; but resigned--very resigned, indeed, miss. (he takes the stick and coat into the hotel.) mccomas (having stared crampton out of countenance). so here you are, mr. crampton. crampton. yes, here--caught in a trap--a mean trap. are those my children? philip (with deadly politeness). is this our father, mr. mccomas? mccomas. yes--er-(he loses countenance himself and stops.) dolly (conventionally). pleased to meet you again. (she wanders idly round the table, exchanging a smile and a word of greeting with valentine on the way.) philip. allow me to discharge my first duty as host by ordering your wine. (he takes the wine list from the table. his polite attention, and dolly's unconcerned indifference, leave crampton on the footing of the casual acquaintance picked up that morning at the dentist's. the consciousness of it goes through the father with so keen a pang that he trembles all over; his brow becomes wet; and he stares dumbly at his son, who, just conscious enough of his own callousness to intensely enjoy the humor and adroitness of it, proceeds pleasantly.) finch: some crusted old port for you, as a respectable family solicitor, eh? mccomas (firmly). apollinaris only. i prefer to take nothing heating. (he walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting temptation behind him.) philip. valentine--? valentine. would lager be considered vulgar? philip. probably. we'll order some. dolly takes it. (turning to crampton with cheerful politeness.) and now, mr. crampton, what can we do for you? crampton. what d'ye mean, boy? philip. boy! (very solemnly.) whose fault is it that i am a boy? (crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely pretends to read it. philip abandons it to him with perfect politeness.) dolly (looking over crampton's right shoulder). the whisky's on the last page but one. crampton. let me alone, child. dolly. child! no, no: you may call me dolly if you like; but you mustn't call me child. (she slips her arm through philip's; and the two stand looking at crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger.) crampton (mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even by their playing with him). mccomas: we are--ha!--going to have a pleasant meal. mccomas (pusillanimously). there is no reason why it should not be pleasant. (he looks abjectly gloomy.) philip. finch's face is a feast in itself. (mrs. clandon and gloria come from the hotel. mrs. clandon advances with courageous self-possession and marked dignity of manner. she stops at the foot of the steps to address valentine, who is in her path. gloria also stops, looking at crampton with a certain repulsion.) mrs. clandon. glad to see you again, mr. valentine. (he smiles. she passes on and confronts crampton, intending to address him with perfect composure; but his aspect shakes her. she stops suddenly and says anxiously, with a touch of remorse.) fergus: you are greatly changed. crampton (grimly). i daresay. a man does change in eighteen years. mrs. clandon (troubled). i--i did not mean that. i hope your health is good. crampton. thank you. no: it's not my health. it's my happiness: that's the change you meant, i think. (breaking out suddenly.) look at her, mccomas! look at her; and look at me! (he utters a half laugh, half sob.) philip. sh! (pointing to the hotel entrance, where the waiter has just appeared.) order before william! dolly (touching crampton's arm warningly with her finger). ahem! (the waiter goes to the service table and beckons to the kitchen entrance, whence issue a young waiter with soup plates, and a cook, in white apron and cap, with the soup tureen. the young waiter remains and serves: the cook goes out, and reappears from time to time bringing in the courses. he carves, but does not serve. the waiter comes to the end of the luncheon table next the steps.) mrs. clandon (as they all assemble about the table). i think you have all met one another already to-day. oh, no, excuse me. (introducing) mr. valentine: mr. mccomas. (she goes to the end of the table nearest the hotel.) fergus: will you take the head of the table, please. crampton. ha! (bitterly.) the head of the table! waiter (holding the chair for him with inoffensive encouragement). this end, sir. (crampton submits, and takes his seat.) thank you, sir. mrs. clandon. mr. valentine: will you take that side (indicating the side nearest the parapet) with gloria? (valentine and gloria take their places, gloria next crampton and valentine next mrs. clandon.) finch: i must put you on this side, between dolly and phil. you must protect yourself as best you can. (the three take the remaining side of the table, dolly next her mother, phil next his father, and mccomas between them. soup is served.) waiter (to crampton). thick or clear, sir? crampton (to mrs. clandon). does nobody ask a blessing in this household? philip (interposing smartly). let us first settle what we are about to receive. william! waiter. yes, sir. (he glides swiftly round the table to phil's left elbow. on his way he whispers to the young waiter) thick. philip. two small lagers for the children as usual, william; and one large for this gentleman (indicating valentine). large apollinaris for mr. mccomas. waiter. yes, sir. dolly. have a six of irish in it, finch? mccomas (scandalized). no--no, thank you. philip. number 413 for my mother and miss gloria as before; and-(turning enquiringly to crampton) eh? crampton (scowling and about to reply offensively). i-waiter (striking in mellifluously). all right, sir. we know what mr. crampton likes here, sir. (he goes into the hotel.) philip (looking gravely at his father). you frequent bars. bad habit! (the cook, accompanied by a waiter with a supply of hot plates, brings in the fish from the kitchen to the service table, and begins slicing it.) crampton. you have learnt your lesson from your mother, i see. mrs. clandon. phil: will you please remember that your jokes are apt to irritate people who are not accustomed to us, and that your father is our guest to-day. crampton (bitterly). yes, a guest at the head of my own table. (the soup plates are removed.) dolly (sympathetically). yes: it's embarrassing, isn't it? it's just as bad for us, you know. philip. sh! dolly: we are both wanting in tact. (to crampton.) we mean well, mr. crampton; but we are not yet strong in the filial line. (the waiter returns from the hotel with the drinks.) william: come and restore good feeling. waiter (cheerfully). yes, sir. certainly, sir. small lager for you, sir. (to crampton.) seltzer and irish, sir. (to mccomas.) apollinaris, sir. (to dolly.) small lager, miss. (to mrs. clandon, pouring out wine.) 413, madam. (to valentine.) large lager for you, sir. (to gloria.) 413, miss. dolly (drinking). to the family! philip. (drinking). hearth and home! (fish is served.) mccomas (with an obviously forced attempt at cheerful domesticity). we are getting on very nicely after all. dolly (critically). after all! after all what, finch? crampton (sarcastically). he means that you are getting on very nicely in spite of the presence of your father. do i take your point rightly, mr. mccomas? mccomas (disconcerted). no, no. i only said "after all" to round off the sentence. i--er--er--er--waiter (tactfully). turbot, sir? mccomas (intensely grateful for the interruption). thank you, waiter: thank you. waiter (sotto voce). don't mention it, sir. (he returns to the service table.) crampton (to phil). have you thought of choosing a profession yet? philip. i am keeping my mind open on that subject. william! waiter. yes, sir. philip. how long do you think it would take me to learn to be a really smart waiter? waiter. can't be learnt, sir. it's in the character, sir. (confidentially to valentine, who is looking about for something.) bread for the lady, sir? yes, sir. (he serves bread to gloria, and resumes at his former pitch.) very few are born to it, sir. philip. you don't happen to have such a thing as a son, yourself, have you? waiter. yes, sir: oh, yes, sir. (to gloria, again dropping his voice.) a little more fish, miss? you won't care for the joint in the middle of the day. gloria. no, thank you. (the fish plates are removed.) dolly. is your son a waiter, too, william? waiter (serving gloria with fowl). oh, no, miss, he's too impetuous. he's at the bar. mccomas (patronizingly). a potman, eh? waiter (with a touch of melancholy, as if recalling a disappointment softened by time). no, sir: the other bar--your profession, sir. a q.c., sir. mccomas (embarrassed). i'm sure i beg your pardon. waiter. not at all, sir. very natural mistake, i'm sure, sir. i've often wished he was a potman, sir. would have been off my hands ever so much sooner, sir. (aside to valentine, who is again in difficulties.) salt at your elbow, sir. (resuming.) yes, sir: had to support him until he was thirty-seven, sir. but doing well now, sir: very satisfactory indeed, sir. nothing less than fifty guineas, sir. mccomas. democracy, crampton!--modern democracy! waiter (calmly). no, sir, not democracy: only education, sir. scholarships, sir. cambridge local, sir. sidney sussex college, sir. (dolly plucks his sleeve and whispers as he bends down.) stone ginger, miss? right, miss. (to mccomas.) very good thing for him, sir: he never had any turn for real work, sir. (he goes into the hotel, leaving the company somewhat overwhelmed by his son's eminence.) valentine. which of us dare give that man an order again! dolly. i hope he won't mind my sending him for ginger-beer. crampton (doggedly). while he's a waiter it's his business to wait. if you had treated him as a waiter ought to be treated, he'd have held his tongue. dolly. what a loss that would have been! perhaps he'll give us an introduction to his son and get us into london society. (the waiter reappears with the ginger-beer.) crampton (growling contemptuously). london society! london society!! you're not fit for any society, child. dolly (losing her temper). now look here, mr. crampton. if you think-waiter (softly, at her elbow). stone ginger, miss. dolly (taken aback, recovers her good humor after a long breath and says sweetly). thank you, dear william. you were just in time. (she drinks.) mccomas (making a fresh effort to lead the conversation into dispassionate regions). if i may be allowed to change the subject, miss clandon, what is the established religion in madeira? gloria. i suppose the portuguese religion. i never inquired. dolly. the servants come in lent and kneel down before you and confess all the things they've done: and you have to pretend to forgive them. do they do that in england, william? waiter. not usually, miss. they may in some parts: but it has not come under my notice, miss. (catching mrs. clandon's eye as the young waiter offers her the salad bowl.) you like it without dressing, ma'am: yes, ma'am, i have some for you. (to his young colleague, motioning him to serve gloria.) this side, jo. (he takes a special portion of salad from the service table and puts it beside mrs. clandon's plate. in doing so he observes that dolly is making a wry face.) only a bit of watercress, miss, got in by mistake. (he takes her salad away.) thank you, miss. (to the young waiter, admonishing him to serve dolly afresh.) jo. (resuming.) mostly members of the church of england, miss. dolly. members of the church of england! what's the subscription? crampton (rising violently amid general consternation). you see how my children have been brought up, mccomas. you see it; you hear it. i call all of you to witness-(he becomes inarticulate, and is about to strike his fist recklessly on the table when the waiter considerately takes away his plate.) mrs. clandon (firmly). sit down, fergus. there is no occasion at all for this outburst. you must remember that dolly is just like a foreigner here. pray sit down. crampton (subsiding unwillingly). i doubt whether i ought to sit here and countenance all this. i doubt it. waiter. cheese, sir; or would you like a cold sweet? crampton (take aback). what? oh!--cheese, cheese. dolly. bring a box of cigarettes, william. waiter. all ready, miss. (he takes a box of cigarettes from the service table and places them before dolly, who selects one and prepares to smoke. he then returns to his table for a box of vestas.) crampton (staring aghast at dolly). does she smoke? dolly (out of patience). really, mr. crampton, i'm afraid i'm spoiling your lunch. i'll go and have my cigarette on the beach. (she leaves the table with petulant suddenness and goes down the steps. the waiter attempts to give her the matches; but she is gone before he can reach her.) crampton (furiously). margaret: call that girl back. call her back, i say. mccomas (trying to make peace). come, crampton: never mind. she's her father's daughter: that's all. mrs. clandon (with deep resentment). i hope not, finch. (she rises: they all rise a little.) mr. valentine: will you excuse me: i am afraid dolly is hurt and put out by what has passed. i must go to her. crampton. to take her part against me, you mean. mrs. clandon (ignoring him). gloria: will you take my place whilst i am away, dear. (she crosses to the steps. crampton's eyes follow her with bitter hatred. the rest watch her in embarrassed silence, feeling the incident to be a very painful one.) waiter (intercepting her at the top of the steps and offering her a box of vestas). young lady forgot the matches, ma'am. if you would be so good, ma'am. mrs. clandon (surprised into grateful politeness by the witchery of his sweet and cheerful tones). thank you very much. (she takes the matches and goes down to the beach. the waiter shepherds his assistant along with him into the hotel by the kitchen entrance, leaving the luncheon party to themselves.) crampton (throwing himself back in his chair). there's a mother for you, mccomas! there's a mother for you! gloria (steadfastly). yes: a good mother. crampton. and a bad father? that's what you mean, eh? valentine (rising indignantly and addressing gloria). miss clandon: i-crampton (turning on him). that girl's name is crampton, mr. valentine, not clandon. do you wish to join them in insulting me? valentine (ignoring him). i'm overwhelmed, miss clandon. it's all my fault: i brought him here: i'm responsible for him. and i'm ashamed of him. crampton. what d'y' mean? gloria (rising coldly). no harm has been done, mr. valentine. we have all been a little childish, i am afraid. our party has been a failure: let us break it up and have done with it. (she puts her chair aside and turns to the steps, adding, with slighting composure, as she passes crampton.) good-bye, father. (she descends the steps with cold, disgusted indifference. they all look after her, and so do not notice the return of the waiter from the hotel, laden with crampton's coat, valentine's stick, a couple of shawls and parasols, a white canvas umbrella, and some camp stools.) crampton (to himself, staring after gloria with a ghastly expression). father! father!! (he strikes his fist violently on the table.) now-waiter (offering the coat). this is yours, sir, i think, sir. (crampton glares at him; then snatches it rudely and comes down the terrace towards the garden seat, struggling with the coat in his angry efforts to put it on. mccomas rises and goes to his assistance; then takes his hat and umbrella from the little iron table, and turns towards the steps. meanwhile the waiter, after thanking crampton with unruffled sweetness for taking the coat, offers some of his burden to phil.) the ladies' sunshades, sir. nasty glare off the sea to-day, sir: very trying to the complexion, sir. i shall carry down the camp stools myself, sir. philip. you are old, father william; but you are the most considerate of men. no: keep the sunshades and give me the camp stools (taking them). waiter (with flattering gratitude). thank you, sir. philip. finch: share with me (giving him a couple). come along. (they go down the steps together.) valentine (to the waiter). leave me something to bring down--one of these. (offering to take a sunshade.) waiter (discreetly). that's the younger lady's, sir. (valentine lets it go.) thank you, sir. if you'll allow me, sir, i think you had better have this. (he puts down the sunshades on crampton's chair, and produces from the tail pocket of his dress coat, a book with a lady's handkerchief between the leaves, marking the page.) the eldest young lady is reading it at present. (valentine takes it eagerly.) thank you, sir. schopenhauer, sir, you see. (he takes up the sunshades again.) very interesting author, sir: especially on the subject of ladies, sir. (he goes down the steps. valentine, about to follow him, recollects crampton and changes his mind.) valentine (coming rather excitedly to crampton). now look here, crampton: are you at all ashamed of yourself? crampton (pugnaciously). ashamed of myself! what for? valentine. for behaving like a bear. what will your daughter think of me for having brought you here? crampton. i was not thinking of what my daughter was thinking of you. valentine. no, you were thinking of yourself. you're a perfect maniac. crampton (heartrent). she told you what i am--a father--a father robbed of his children. what are the hearts of this generation like? am i to come here after all these years--to see what my children are for the first time! to hear their voices!--and carry it all off like a fashionable visitor; drop in to lunch; be mr. crampton--m i s t e r crampton! what right have they to talk to me like that? i'm their father: do they deny that? i'm a man, with the feelings of our common humanity: have i no rights, no claims? in all these years who have i had round me? servants, clerks, business acquaintances. i've had respect from them--aye, kindness. would one of them have spoken to me as that girl spoke?--would one of them have laughed at me as that boy was laughing at me all the time? (frantically.) my own children! m i s t e r crampton! my-valentine. come, come: they're only children. the only one of them that's worth anything called you father. crampton (wildly). yes: "good-bye, father." oh, yes: she got at my feelings--with a stab! valentine (taking this in very bad part). now look here, crampton: you just let her alone: she's treated you very well. i had a much worse time of it at lunch than you. crampton. you! valentine (with growing impetuosity). yes: i. i sat next to her; and i never said a single thing to her the whole time--couldn't think of a blessed word. and not a word did she say to me. crampton. well? valentine. well? well??? (tackling him very seriously and talking faster and faster.) crampton: do you know what's been the matter with me to-day? you don't suppose, do you, that i'm in the habit of playing such tricks on my patients as i played on you? crampton. i hope not. valentine. the explanation is that i'm stark mad, or rather that i've never been in my real senses before. i'm capable of anything: i've grown up at last: i'm a man; and it's your daughter that's made a man of me. crampton (incredulously). are you in love with my daughter? valentine (his words now coming in a perfect torrent). love! nonsense: it's something far above and beyond that. it's life, it's faith, it's strength, certainty, paradise-crampton (interrupting him with acrid contempt). rubbish, man! what have you to keep a wife on? you can't marry her. valentine. who wants to marry her? i'll kiss her hands; i'll kneel at her feet; i'll live for her; i'll die for her; and that'll be enough for me. look at her book! see! (he kisses the handkerchief.) if you offered me all your money for this excuse for going down to the beach and speaking to her again, i'd only laugh at you. (he rushes buoyantly off to the steps, where he bounces right into the arms of the waiter, who is coming up form the beach. the two save themselves from falling by clutching one another tightly round the waist and whirling one another around.) waiter (delicately). steady, sir, steady. valentine (shocked at his own violence). i beg your pardon. waiter. not at all, sir, not at all. very natural, sir, i'm sure, sir, at your age. the lady has sent me for her book, sir. might i take the liberty of asking you to let her have it at once, sir? valentine. with pleasure. and if you will allow me to present you with a professional man's earnings for six weeks-(offering him dolly's crown piece.) waiter (as if the sum were beyond his utmost expectations). thank you, sir: much obliged. (valentine dashes down the steps.) very high-spirited young gentleman, sir: very manly and straight set up. crampton (in grumbling disparagement). and making his fortune in a hurry, no doubt. i know what his six weeks' earnings come to. (he crosses the terrace to the iron table, and sits down.) waiter (philosophically). well, sir, you never can tell. that's a principle in life with me, sir, if you'll excuse my having such a thing, sir. (delicately sinking the philosopher in the waiter for a moment.) perhaps you haven't noticed that you hadn't touched that seltzer and irish, sir, when the party broke up. (he takes the tumbler from the luncheon table, and sets if before crampton.) yes, sir, you never can tell. there was my son, sir! who ever thought that he would rise to wear a silk gown, sir? and yet to-day, sir, nothing less than fifty guineas, sir. what a lesson, sir! crampton. well, i hope he is grateful to you, and recognizes what he owes you. waiter. we get on together very well, very well indeed, sir, considering the difference in our stations. (with another of his irresistible transitions.) a small lump of sugar, sir, will take the flatness out of the seltzer without noticeably sweetening the drink, sir. allow me, sir. (he drops a lump of sugar into the tumbler.) but as i say to him, where's the difference after all? if i must put on a dress coat to show what i am, sir, he must put on a wig and gown to show what he is. if my income is mostly tips, and there's a pretence that i don't get them, why, his income is mostly fees, sir; and i understand there's a pretence that he don't get them! if he likes society, and his profession brings him into contact with all ranks, so does mine, too, sir. if it's a little against a barrister to have a waiter for his father, sir, it's a little against a waiter to have a barrister for a son: many people consider it a great liberty, sir, i assure you, sir. can i get you anything else, sir? crampton. no, thank you. (with bitter humility.) i suppose that's no objection to my sitting here for a while: i can't disturb the party on the beach here. waiter (with emotion). very kind of you, sir, to put it as if it was not a compliment and an honour to us, mr. crampton, very kind indeed. the more you are at home here, sir, the better for us. crampton (in poignant irony). home! waiter (reflectively). well, yes, sir: that's a way of looking at it, too, sir. i have always said that the great advantage of a hotel is that it's a refuge from home life, sir. crampton. i missed that advantage to-day, i think. waiter. you did, sir, you did. dear me! it's the unexpected that always happens, isn't it? (shaking his head.) you never can tell, sir: you never can tell. (he goes into the hotel.) crampton (his eyes shining hardly as he props his drawn, miserable face on his hands). home! home!! (he drops his arms on the table and bows his head on them, but presently hears someone approaching and hastily sits bolt upright. it is gloria, who has come up the steps alone, with her sunshade and her book in her hands. he looks defiantly at her, with the brutal obstinacy of his mouth and the wistfulness of his eyes contradicting each other pathetically. she comes to the corner of the garden seat and stands with her back to it, leaning against the end of it, and looking down at him as if wondering at his weakness: too curious about him to be cold, but supremely indifferent to their kinship.) well? gloria. i want to speak with you for a moment. crampton (looking steadily at her). indeed? that's surprising. you meet your father after eighteen years; and you actually want to speak to him for a moment! that's touching: isn't it? (he rests his head on his hands, and looks down and away from her, in gloomy reflection.) gloria. all that is what seems to me so nonsensical, so uncalled for. what do you expect us to feel for you--to do for you? what is it you want? why are you less civil to us than other people are? you are evidently not very fond of us--why should you be? but surely we can meet without quarrelling. crampton (a dreadful grey shade passing over his face). do you realize that i am your father? gloria. perfectly. crampton. do you know what is due to me as your father? gloria. for instance---? crampton (rising as if to combat a monster). for instance! for instance!! for instance, duty, affection, respect, obedience-gloria (quitting her careless leaning attitude and confronting him promptly and proudly). i obey nothing but my sense of what is right. i respect nothing that is not noble. that is my duty. (she adds, less firmly) as to affection, it is not within my control. i am not sure that i quite know what affection means. (she turns away with an evident distaste for that part of the subject, and goes to the luncheon table for a comfortable chair, putting down her book and sunshade.) crampton (following her with his eyes). do you really mean what you are saying? gloria (turning on him quickly and severely). excuse me: that is an uncivil question. i am speaking seriously to you; and i expect you to take me seriously. (she takes one of the luncheon chairs; turns it away from the table; and sits down a little wearily, saying) can you not discuss this matter coolly and rationally? crampton. coolly and rationally! no, i can't. do you understand that? i can't. gloria (emphatically). no. that i c a n n o t understand. i have no sympathy with-crampton (shrinking nervously). stop! don't say anything more yet; you don't know what you're doing. do you want to drive me mad? (she frowns, finding such petulance intolerable. he adds hastily) no: i'm not angry: indeed i'm not. wait, wait: give me a little time to think. (he stands for a moment, screwing and clinching his brows and hands in his perplexity; then takes the end chair from the luncheon table and sits down beside her, saying, with a touching effort to be gentle and patient) now, i think i have it. at least i'll try. gloria (firmly). you see! everything comes right if we only think it resolutely out. crampton (in sudden dread). no: don't think. i want you to feel: that's the only thing that can help us. listen! do you--but first--i forgot. what's your name? i mean you pet name. they can't very well call you sophronia. gloria (with astonished disgust). sophronia! my name is gloria. i am always called by it. crampton (his temper rising again). your name is sophronia, girl: you were called after your aunt sophronia, my sister: she gave you your first bible with your name written in it. gloria. then my mother gave me a new name. crampton (angrily). she had no right to do it. i will not allow this. gloria. you had no right to give me your sister's name. i don't know her. crampton. you're talking nonsense. there are bounds to what i will put up with. i will not have it. do you hear that? gloria (rising warningly). are you resolved to quarrel? crampton (terrified, pleading). no, no: sit down. sit down, won't you? (she looks at him, keeping him in suspense. he forces himself to utter the obnoxious name.) gloria. (she marks her satisfaction with a slight tightening of the lips, and sits down.) there! you see i only want to shew you that i am your father, my--my dear child. (the endearment is so plaintively inept that she smiles in spite of herself, and resigns herself to indulge him a little.) listen now. what i want to ask you is this. don't you remember me at all? you were only a tiny child when you were taken away from me; but you took plenty of notice of things. can't you remember someone whom you loved, or (shyly) at least liked in a childish way? come! someone who let you stay in his study and look at his toy boats, as you thought them? (he looks anxiously into her face for some response, and continues less hopefully and more urgently) someone who let you do as you liked there and never said a word to you except to tell you that you must sit still and not speak? someone who was something that no one else was to you--who was your father. gloria (unmoved). if you describe things to me, no doubt i shall presently imagine that i remember them. but i really remember nothing. crampton (wistfully). has your mother never told you anything about me? gloria. she has never mentioned your name to me. (he groans involuntarily. she looks at him rather contemptuously and continues) except once; and then she did remind me of something i had forgotten. crampton (looking up hopefully). what was that? gloria (mercilessly). the whip you bought to beat me with. crampton (gnashing his teeth). oh! to bring that up against me! to turn from me! when you need never have known. (under a grinding, agonized breath.) curse her! gloria (springing up). you wretch! (with intense emphasis.) you wretch!! you dare curse my mother! crampton. stop; or you'll be sorry afterwards. i'm your father. gloria. how i hate the name! how i love the name of mother! you had better go. crampton. i--i'm choking. you want to kill me. some--i-(his voice stifles: he is almost in a fit.) gloria (going up to the balustrade with cool, quick resourcefulness, and calling over to the beach). mr. valentine! valentine (answering from below). yes. gloria. come here a moment, please. mr. crampton wants you. (she returns to the table and pours out a glass of water.) crampton (recovering his speech). no: let me alone. i don't want him. i'm all right, i tell you. i need neither his help nor yours. (he rises and pulls himself together.) as you say, i had better go. (he puts on his hat.) is that your last word? gloria. i hope so. (he looks stubbornly at her for a moment; nods grimly, as if he agreed to that; and goes into the hotel. she looks at him with equal steadiness until he disappears, when she makes a gesture of relief, and turns to speak to valentine, who comes running up the steps.) valentine (panting). what's the matter? (looking round.) where's crampton? gloria. gone. (valentine's face lights up with sudden joy, dread, and mischief. he has just realized that he is alone with gloria. she continues indifferently) i thought he was ill; but he recovered himself. he wouldn't wait for you. i am sorry. (she goes for her book and parasol.) valentine. so much the better. he gets on my nerves after a while. (pretending to forget himself.) how could that man have so beautiful a daughter! gloria (taken aback for a moment; then answering him with polite but intentional contempt). that seems to be an attempt at what is called a pretty speech. let me say at once, mr. valentine, that pretty speeches make very sickly conversation. pray let us be friends, if we are to be friends, in a sensible and wholesome way. i have no intention of getting married; and unless you are content to accept that state of things, we had much better not cultivate each other's acquaintance. valentine (cautiously). i see. may i ask just this one question? is your objection an objection to marriage as an institution, or merely an objection to marrying me personally? gloria. i do not know you well enough, mr. valentine, to have any opinion on the subject of your personal merits. (she turns away from him with infinite indifference, and sits down with her book on the garden seat.) i do not think the conditions of marriage at present are such as any self-respecting woman can accept. valentine (instantly changing his tone for one of cordial sincerity, as if he frankly accepted her terms and was delighted and reassured by her principles). oh, then that's a point of sympathy between us already. i quite agree with you: the conditions are most unfair. (he takes off his hat and throws it gaily on the iron table.) no: what i want is to get rid of all that nonsense. (he sits down beside her, so naturally that she does not think of objecting, and proceeds, with enthusiasm) don't you think it a horrible thing that a man and a woman can hardly know one another without being supposed to have designs of that kind? as if there were no other interests--no other subjects of conversation--as if women were capable of nothing better! gloria (interested). ah, now you are beginning to talk humanly and sensibly, mr. valentine. valentine (with a gleam in his eye at the success of his hunter's guile). of course!--two intelligent people like us. isn't it pleasant, in this stupid, convention-ridden world, to meet with someone on the same plane--someone with an unprejudiced, enlightened mind? gloria (earnestly). i hope to meet many such people in england. valentine (dubiously). hm! there are a good many people here-nearly forty millions. they're not all consumptive members of the highly educated classes like the people in madeira. gloria (now full of her subject). oh, everybody is stupid and prejudiced in madeira--weak, sentimental creatures! i hate weakness; and i hate sentiment. valentine. that's what makes you so inspiring. gloria (with a slight laugh). am i inspiring? valentine yes. strength's infectious. gloria. weakness is, i know. valentine (with conviction). y o u're strong. do you know that you changed the world for me this morning? i was in the dumps, thinking of my unpaid rent, frightened about the future. when you came in, i was dazzled. (her brow clouds a little. he goes on quickly.) that was silly, of course; but really and truly something happened to me. explain it how you will, my blood got-(he hesitates, trying to think of a sufficiently unimpassioned word) --oxygenated: my muscles braced; my mind cleared; my courage rose. that's odd, isn't it? considering that i am not at all a sentimental man. gloria (uneasily, rising). let us go back to the beach. valentine (darkly--looking up at her). what! you feel it, too? gloria. feel what? valentine. dread. gloria. dread! valentine. as if something were going to happen. it came over me suddenly just before you proposed that we should run away to the others. gloria (amazed). that's strange--very strange! i had the same presentiment. valentine. how extraordinary! (rising.) well: shall we run away? gloria. run away! oh, no: that would be childish. (she sits down again. he resumes his seat beside her, and watches her with a gravely sympathetic air. she is thoughtful and a little troubled as she adds) i wonder what is the scientific explanation of those fancies that cross us occasionally! valentine. ah, i wonder! it's a curiously helpless sensation: isn't it? gloria (rebelling against the word). helpless? valentine. yes. as if nature, after allowing us to belong to ourselves and do what we judged right and reasonable for all these years, were suddenly lifting her great hand to take us--her two little children--by the scruff's of our little necks, and use us, in spite of ourselves, for her own purposes, in her own way. gloria. isn't that rather fanciful? valentine (with a new and startling transition to a tone of utter recklessness). i don't know. i don't care. (bursting out reproachfully.) oh, miss clandon, miss clandon: how could you? gloria. what have i done? valentine. thrown this enchantment on me. i'm honestly trying to be sensible--scientific--everything that you wish me to be. but--but-oh, don't you see what you have set to work in my imagination? gloria (with indignant, scornful sternness). i hope you are not going to be so foolish--so vulgar--as to say love. valentine (with ironical haste to disclaim such a weakness). no, no, no. not love: we know better than that. let's call it chemistry. you can't deny that there is such a thing as chemical action, chemical affinity, chemical combination--the most irresistible of all natural forces. well, you're attracting me irresistibly--chemically. gloria (contemptuously). nonsense! valentine. of course it's nonsense, you stupid girl. (gloria recoils in outraged surprise.) yes, stupid girl: t h a t's a scientific fact, anyhow. you're a prig--a feminine prig: that's what you are. (rising.) now i suppose you've done with me for ever. (he goes to the iron table and takes up his hat.) gloria (with elaborate calm, sitting up like a high-school-mistress posing to be photographed). that shows how very little you understand my real character. i am not in the least offended. (he pauses and puts his hat down again.) i am always willing to be told of my own defects, mr. valentine, by my friends, even when they are as absurdly mistaken about me as you are. i have many faults--very serious faults--of character and temper; but if there is one thing that i am not, it is what you call a prig. (she closes her lips trimly and looks steadily and challengingly at him as she sits more collectedly than ever.) valentine (returning to the end of the garden seat to confront her more emphatically). oh, yes, you are. my reason tells me so: my knowledge tells me so: my experience tells me so. gloria. excuse my reminding you that your reason and your knowledge and your experience are not infallible. at least i hope not. valentine. i must believe them. unless you wish me to believe my eyes, my heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me the most monstrous lies about you. gloria (the collectedness beginning to relax). lies! valentine (obstinately). yes, lies. (he sits down again beside her.) do you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman in the world? gloria. that is ridiculous, and rather personal. valentine. of course it's ridiculous. well, that's what my eyes tell me. (gloria makes a movement of contemptuous protest.) no: i'm not flattering. i tell you i don't believe it. (she is ashamed to find that this does not quite please her either.) do you think that if you were to turn away in disgust from my weakness, i should sit down here and cry like a child? gloria (beginning to find that she must speak shortly and pointedly to keep her voice steady). why should you, pray? valentine (with a stir of feeling beginning to agitate his voice). of course not: i'm not such an idiot. and yet my heart tells me i should--my fool of a heart. but i'll argue with my heart and bring it to reason. if i loved you a thousand times, i'll force myself to look the truth steadily in the face. after all, it's easy to be sensible: the facts are the facts. what's this place? it's not heaven: it's the marine hotel. what's the time? it's not eternity: it's about half past one in the afternoon. what am i? a dentist--a five shilling dentist! gloria. and i am a feminine prig. valentine. (passionately). no, no: i can't face that: i must have one illusion left--the illusion about you. i love you. (he turns towards her as if the impulse to touch her were ungovernable: she rises and stands on her guard wrathfully. he springs up impatiently and retreats a step.) oh, what a fool i am!--an idiot! you don't understand: i might as well talk to the stones on the beach. (he turns away, discouraged.) gloria (reassured by his withdrawal, and a little remorseful). i am sorry. i do not mean to be unsympathetic, mr. valentine; but what can i say? valentine (returning to her with all his recklessness of manner replaced by an engaging and chivalrous respect). you can say nothing, miss clandon. i beg your pardon: it was my own fault, or rather my own bad luck. you see, it all depended on your naturally liking me. (she is about to speak: he stops her deprecatingly.) oh, i know you mustn't tell me whether you like me or not; but-gloria (her principles up in arms at once). must not! why not? i am a free woman: why should i not tell you? valentine (pleading in terror, and retreating). don't. i'm afraid to hear. gloria (no longer scornful). you need not be afraid. i think you are sentimental, and a little foolish; but i like you. valentine (dropping into the iron chair as if crushed). then it's all over. (he becomes the picture of despair.) gloria (puzzled, approaching him). but why? valentine. because liking is not enough. now that i think down into it seriously, i don't know whether i like you or not. gloria (looking down at him with wondering concern). i'm sorry. valentine (in an agony of restrained passion). oh, don't pity me. your voice is tearing my heart to pieces. let me alone, gloria. you go down into the very depths of me, troubling and stirring me--i can't struggle with it--i can't tell you-gloria (breaking down suddenly). oh, stop telling me what you feel: i can't bear it. valentine (springing up triumphantly, the agonized voice now solid, ringing, and jubilant). ah, it's come at last--my moment of courage. (he seizes her hands: she looks at him in terror.) our moment of courage! (he draws her to him; kisses her with impetuous strength; and laughs boyishly.) now you've done it, gloria. it's all over: we're in love with one another. (she can only gasp at him.) but what a dragon you were! and how hideously afraid i was! philip's voice (calling from the beach). valentine! dolly's voice. mr. valentine! valentine. good-bye. forgive me. (he rapidly kisses her hands, and runs away to the steps, where he meets mrs. clandon, ascending. gloria, quite lost, can only start after him.) mrs. clandon. the children want you, mr. valentine. (she looks anxiously around.) is he gone? valentine (puzzled). he? (recollecting.) oh, crampton. gone this long time, mrs. clandon. (he runs off buoyantly down the steps.) gloria (sinking upon the seat). mother! mrs. clandon (hurrying to her in alarm). what is it, dear? gloria (with heartfelt, appealing reproach). why didn't you educate me properly? mrs. clandon (amazed). my child: i did my best. gloria. oh, you taught me nothing--nothing. mrs. clandon. what is the matter with you? gloria (with the most intense expression). only shame--shame-shame. (blushing unendurably, she covers her face with her hands and turns away from her mother.) end of act ii. act iii the clandon's sitting room in the hotel. an expensive apartment on the ground floor, with a french window leading to the gardens. in the centre of the room is a substantial table, surrounded by chairs, and draped with a maroon cloth on which opulently bound hotel and railway guides are displayed. a visitor entering through the window and coming down to this central table would have the fireplace on his left, and a writing table against the wall on his right, next the door, which is further down. he would, if his taste lay that way, admire the wall decoration of lincrusta walton in plum color and bronze lacquer, with dado and cornice; the ormolu consoles in the corners; the vases on pillar pedestals of veined marble with bases of polished black wood, one on each side of the window; the ornamental cabinet next the vase on the side nearest the fireplace, its centre compartment closed by an inlaid door, and its corners rounded off with curved panes of glass protecting shelves of cheap blue and white pottery; the bamboo tea table, with folding shelves, in the corresponding space on the other side of the window; the pictures of ocean steamers and landseer's dogs; the saddlebag ottoman in line with the door but on the other side of the room; the two comfortable seats of the same pattern on the hearthrug; and finally, on turning round and looking up, the massive brass pole above the window, sustaining a pair of maroon rep curtains with decorated borders of staid green. altogether, a room well arranged to flatter the occupant's sense of importance, and reconcile him to a charge of a pound a day for its use. mrs. clandon sits at the writing table, correcting proofs. gloria is standing at the window, looking out in a tormented revery. the clock on the mantelpiece strikes five with a sickly clink, the bell being unable to bear up against the black marble cenotaph in which it is immured. mrs. clandon. five! i don't think we need wait any longer for the children. the are sure to get tea somewhere. gloria (wearily). shall i ring? mrs. clandon. do, my dear. (gloria goes to the hearth and rings.) i have finished these proofs at last, thank goodness! gloria (strolling listlessly across the room and coming behind her mother's chair). what proofs? mrs. clandon the new edition of twentieth century women. gloria (with a bitter smile). there's a chapter missing. mrs. clandon (beginning to hunt among her proofs). is there? surely not. gloria. i mean an unwritten one. perhaps i shall write it for you--when i know the end of it. (she goes back to the window.) mrs. clandon. gloria! more enigmas! gloria. oh, no. the same enigma. mrs. clandon (puzzled and rather troubled; after watching her for a moment). my dear. gloria (returning). yes. mrs. clandon. you know i never ask questions. gloria (kneeling beside her chair). i know, i know. (she suddenly throws her arms about her mother and embraces her almost passionately.) mrs. clandon. (gently, smiling but embarrassed). my dear: you are getting quite sentimental. gloria (recoiling). ah, no, no. oh, don't say that. oh! (she rises and turns away with a gesture as if tearing herself.) mrs. clandon (mildly). my dear: what is the matter? what-(the waiter enters with the tea tray.) waiter (balmily). this was what you rang for, ma'am, i hope? mrs. clandon. thank you, yes. (she turns her chair away from the writing table, and sits down again. gloria crosses to the hearth and sits crouching there with her face averted.) waiter (placing the tray temporarily on the centre table). i thought so, ma'am. curious how the nerves seem to give out in the afternoon without a cup of tea. (he fetches the tea table and places it in front of mrs. cladon, conversing meanwhile.) the young lady and gentleman have just come back, ma'am: they have been out in a boat, ma'am. very pleasant on a fine afternoon like this--very pleasant and invigorating indeed. (he takes the tray from the centre table and puts it on the tea table.) mr. mccomas will not come to tea, ma'am: he has gone to call upon mr. crampton. (he takes a couple of chairs and sets one at each end of the tea table.) gloria (looking round with an impulse of terror). and the other gentleman? waiter (reassuringly, as he unconsciously drops for a moment into the measure of "i've been roaming," which he sang as a boy.) oh, he's coming, miss, he's coming. he has been rowing the boat, miss, and has just run down the road to the chemist's for something to put on the blisters. but he will be here directly, miss--directly. (gloria, in ungovernable apprehension, rises and hurries towards the door.) mrs. clandon. (half rising). glo-(gloria goes out. mrs. clandon looks perplexedly at the waiter, whose composure is unruffled.) waiter (cheerfully). anything more, ma'am? mrs. clandon. nothing, thank you. waiter. thank you, ma'am. (as he withdraws, phil and dolly, in the highest spirits, come tearing in. he holds the door open for them; then goes out and closes it.) dolly (ravenously). oh, give me some tea. (mrs. clandon pours out a cup for her.) we've been out in a boat. valentine will be here presently. philip. he is unaccustomed to navigation. where's gloria? mrs. clandon (anxiously, as she pours out his tea). phil: there is something the matter with gloria. has anything happened? (phil and dolly look at one another and stifle a laugh.) what is it? philip (sitting down on her left). romeo-dolly (sitting down on her right). --and juliet. philip (taking his cup of tea from mrs. clandon). yes, my dear mother: the old, old story. dolly: don't take all the milk. (he deftly takes the jug from her.) yes: in the spring-dolly. --a young man's fancy-philip. --lightly turns to--thank you (to mrs. clandon, who has passed the biscuits) --thoughts of love. it also occurs in the autumn. the young man in this case is-dolly. valentine. philip. and his fancy has turned to gloria to the extent of-dolly. --kissing her-philip. --on the terrace-dolly (correcting him). --on the lips, before everybody. mrs. clandon (incredulously). phil! dolly! are you joking? (they shake their heads.) did she allow it? philip. we waited to see him struck to earth by the lightning of her scorn;-dolly. --but he wasn't. philip. she appeared to like it. dolly. as far as we could judge. (stopping phil, who is about to pour out another cup.) no: you've sworn off two cups. mrs. clandon (much troubled). children: you must not be here when mr. valentine comes. i must speak very seriously to him about this. philip. to ask him his intentions? what a violation of twentieth century principles! dolly. quite right, mamma: bring him to book. make the most of the nineteenth century while it lasts. philip. sh! here he is. (valentine comes in.) valentine very sorry to be late for tea, mrs. clandon. (she takes up the tea-pot.) no, thank you: i never take any. no doubt miss dolly and phil have explained what happened to me. philip (momentously rising). yes, valentine: we have explained. dolly (significantly, also rising). we have explained very thoroughly. philip. it was our duty. (very seriously.) come, dolly. (he offers dolly his arm, which she takes. they look sadly at him, and go out gravely, arm in arm. valentine stares after them, puzzled; then looks at mrs. clandon for an explanation.) mrs. clandon (rising and leaving the tea table). will you sit down, mr. valentine. i want to speak to you a little, if you will allow me. (valentine sits down slowly on the ottoman, his conscience presaging a bad quarter of an hour. mrs. clandon takes phil's chair, and seats herself deliberately at a convenient distance from him.) i must begin by throwing myself somewhat at your consideration. i am going to speak of a subject of which i know very little--perhaps nothing. i mean love. valentine. love! mrs. clandon. yes, love. oh, you need not look so alarmed as that, mr. valentine: i am not in love with you. valentine (overwhelmed). oh, really, mrs.-(recovering himself.) i should be only too proud if you were. mrs. clandon. thank you, mr. valentine. but i am too old to begin. valentine. begin! have you never--? mrs. clandon. never. my case is a very common one, mr. valentine. i married before i was old enough to know what i was doing. as you have seen for yourself, the result was a bitter disappointment for both my husband and myself. so you see, though i am a married woman, i have never been in love; i have never had a love affair; and to be quite frank with you, mr. valentine, what i have seen of the love affairs of other people has not led me to regret that deficiency in my experience. (valentine, looking very glum, glances sceptically at her, and says nothing. her color rises a little; and she adds, with restrained anger) you do not believe me? valentine (confused at having his thought read). oh, why not? why not? mrs. clandon. let me tell you, mr. valentine, that a life devoted to the cause of humanity has enthusiasms and passions to offer which far transcend the selfish personal infatuations and sentimentalities of romance. those are not your enthusiasms and passions, i take it? (valentine, quite aware that she despises him for it, answers in the negative with a melancholy shake of the head.) i thought not. well, i am equally at a disadvantage in discussing those so-called affairs of the heart in which you appear to be an expert. valentine (restlessly). what are you driving at, mrs. clandon? mrs. clandon. i think you know. valentine. gloria? mrs. clandon. yes. gloria. valentine (surrendering). well, yes: i'm in love with gloria. (interposing as she is about to speak.) i know what you're going to say: i've no money. mrs. clandon. i care very little about money, mr. valentine. valentine. then you're very different to all the other mothers who have interviewed me. mrs. clandon. ah, now we are coming to it, mr. valentine. you are an old hand at this. (he opens his mouth to protest: she cuts him short with some indignation.) oh, do you think, little as i understand these matters, that i have not common sense enough to know that a man who could make as much way in one interview with such a woman as my daughter, can hardly be a novice! valentine. i assure you-mrs. clandon (stopping him). i am not blaming you, mr. valentine. it is gloria's business to take care of herself; and you have a right to amuse yourself as you please. but-valentine (protesting). amuse myself! oh, mrs. clandon! mrs. clandon (relentlessly). on your honor, mr. valentine, are you in earnest? valentine (desperately). on my honor i am in earnest. (she looks searchingly at him. his sense of humor gets the better of him; and he adds quaintly) only, i always have been in earnest; and yet--here i am, you see! mrs. clandon. this is just what i suspected. (severely.) mr. valentine: you are one of those men who play with women's affections. valentine. well, why not, if the cause of humanity is the only thing worth being serious about? however, i understand. (rising and taking his hat with formal politeness.) you wish me to discontinue my visits. mrs. clandon. no: i am sensible enough to be well aware that gloria's best chance of escape from you now is to become better acquainted with you. valentine (unaffectedly alarmed). oh, don't say that, mrs. clandon. you don't think that, do you? mrs. clandon. i have great faith, mr. valentine, in the sound training gloria's mind has had since she was a child. valentine (amazingly relieved). o-oh! oh, that's all right. (he sits down again and throws his hat flippantly aside with the air of a man who has no longer anything to fear.) mrs. clandon (indignant at his assurance). what do you mean? valentine (turning confidentially to her). come: shall i teach you something, mrs. clandon? mrs. clandon (stiffly). i am always willing to learn. valentine. have you ever studied the subject of gunnery--artillery--cannons and war-ships and so on? mrs. clandon. has gunnery anything to do with gloria? valentine. a great deal--by way of illustration. during this whole century, my dear mrs. clandon, the progress of artillery has been a duel between the maker of cannons and the maker of armor plates to keep the cannon balls out. you build a ship proof against the best gun known: somebody makes a better gun and sinks your ship. you build a heavier ship, proof against that gun: somebody makes a heavier gun and sinks you again. and so on. well, the duel of sex is just like that. mrs. clandon. the duel of sex! valentine. yes: you've heard of the duel of sex, haven't you? oh, i forgot: you've been in madeira: the expression has come up since your time. need i explain it? mrs. clandon (contemptuously). no. valentine. of course not. now what happens in the duel of sex? the old fashioned mother received an old fashioned education to protect her against the wiles of man. well, you know the result: the old fashioned man got round her. the old fashioned woman resolved to protect her daughter more effectually--to find some armor too strong for the old fashioned man. so she gave her daughter a scientific education--your plan. that was a corker for the old fashioned man: he said it wasn't fair--unwomanly and all the rest of it. but that didn't do him any good. so he had to give up his old fashioned plan of attack--you know--going down on his knees and swearing to love, honor and obey, and so on. mrs. clandon. excuse me: that was what the woman swore. valentine. was it? ah, perhaps you're right--yes: of course it was. well, what did the man do? just what the artillery man does-went one better than the woman--educated himself scientifically and beat her at that game just as he had beaten her at the old game. i learnt how to circumvent the women's rights woman before i was twentythree: it's all been found out long ago. you see, my methods are thoroughly modern. mrs. clandon (with quiet disgust). no doubt. valentine. but for that very reason there's one sort of girl against whom they are of no use. mrs. clandon. pray which sort? valentine. the thoroughly old fashioned girl. if you had brought up gloria in the old way, it would have taken me eighteen months to get to the point i got to this afternoon in eighteen minutes. yes, mrs. clandon: the higher education of women delivered gloria into my hands; and it was you who taught her to believe in the higher education of women. mrs. clandon (rising). mr. valentine: you are very clever. valentine (rising also). oh, mrs. clandon! mrs. clandon and you have taught me n o t h i n g. good-bye. valentine (horrified). good-bye! oh, mayn't i see her before i go? mrs. clandon. i am afraid she will not return until you have gone mr. valentine. she left the room expressly to avoid you. valentine (thoughtfully). that's a good sign. good-bye. (he bows and makes for the door, apparently well satisfied.) mrs. clandon (alarmed). why do you think it a good sign? valentine (turning near the door). because i am mortally afraid of her; and it looks as if she were mortally afraid of me. (he turns to go and finds himself face to face with gloria, who has just entered. she looks steadfastly at him. he stares helplessly at her; then round at mrs. clandon; then at gloria again, completely at a loss.) gloria (white, and controlling herself with difficulty). mother: is what dolly told me true? mrs. clandon. what did she tell you, dear? gloria. that you have been speaking about me to this gentleman. valentine (murmuring). this gentleman! oh! mrs. clandon (sharply). mr. valentine: can you hold your tongue for a moment? (he looks piteously at them; then, with a despairing shrug, goes back to the ottoman and throws his hat on it.) gloria (confronting her mother, with deep reproach). mother: what right had you to do it? mrs. clandon. i don't think i have said anything i have no right to say, gloria. valentine (confirming her officiously). nothing. nothing whatever. (gloria looks at him with unspeakable indignation.) i beg your pardon. (he sits down ignominiously on the ottoman.) gloria. i cannot believe that any one has any right even to think about things that concern me only. (she turns away from them to conceal a painful struggle with her emotion.) mrs. clandon. my dear, if i have wounded your pride-gloria (turning on them for a moment). my p r i d e! my pride!! oh, it's gone: i have learnt now that i have no strength to be proud of. (turning away again.) but if a woman cannot protect herself, no one can protect her. no one has any right to try--not even her mother. i know i have lost your confidence, just as i have lost this man's respect;-(she stops to master a sob.) valentine (under his breath). this man! (murmuring again.) oh! mrs. clandon (in an undertone). pray be silent, sir. gloria (continuing). --but i have at least the right to be left alone in my disgrace. i am one of those weak creatures born to be mastered by the first man whose eye is caught by them; and i must fulfill my destiny, i suppose. at least spare me the humiliation of trying to save me. (she sits down, with her handkerchief to her eyes, at the farther end of the table.) valentine (jumping up). look here-mrs. clandon. mr. va-valentine (recklessly). no: i will speak: i've been silent for nearly thirty seconds. (he goes up to gloria.) miss clandon-gloria (bitterly). oh, not miss clandon: you have found that it is quite safe to call me gloria. valentine. no, i won't: you'll throw it in my teeth afterwards and accuse me of disrespect. i say it's a heartbreaking falsehood that i don't respect you. it's true that i didn't respect your old pride: why should i? it was nothing but cowardice. i didn't respect your intellect: i've a better one myself: it's a masculine specialty. but when the depths stirred!--when my moment came!--when you made me brave!--ah, then, then, t h e n! gloria. then you respected me, i suppose. valentine. no, i didn't: i adored you. (she rises quickly and turns her back on him.) and you can never take that moment away from me. so now i don't care what happens. (he comes down the room addressing a cheerful explanation to nobody in particular.) i'm perfectly aware that i'm talking nonsense. i can't help it. (to mrs. clandon.) i love gloria; and there's an end of it. mrs. clandon (emphatically). mr. valentine: you are a most dangerous man. gloria: come here. (gloria, wondering a little at the command, obeys, and stands, with drooping head, on her mother's right hand, valentine being on the opposite side. mrs. clandon then begins, with intense scorn.) ask this man whom you have inspired and made brave, how many women have inspired him before (gloria looks up suddenly with a flash of jealous anger and amazement); how many times he has laid the trap in which he has caught you; how often he has baited it with the same speeches; how much practice it has taken to make him perfect in his chosen part in life as the duellist of sex. valentine. this isn't fair. you're abusing my confidence, mrs. clandon. mrs. clandon. ask him, gloria. gloria (in a flush of rage, going over to him with her fists clenched). is that true? valentine. don't be angry-gloria (interrupting him implacably). is it true? did you ever say that before? did you ever feel that before--for another woman? valentine (bluntly). yes. (gloria raises her clenched hands.) mrs. clandon (horrified, springing to her side and catching her uplifted arm). gloria!! my dear! you're forgetting yourself. (gloria, with a deep expiration, slowly relaxes her threatening attitude.) valentine. remember: a man's power of love and admiration is like any other of his powers: he has to throw it away many times before he learns what is really worthy of it. mrs. clandon. another of the old speeches, gloria. take care. valentine (remonstrating). oh! gloria (to mrs. clandon, with contemptuous self-possession). do you think i need to be warned now? (to valentine.) you have tried to make me love you. valentine. i have. gloria. well, you have succeeded in making me hate you-passionately. valentine (philosophically). it's surprising how little difference there is between the two. (gloria turns indignantly away from him. he continues, to mrs. clandon) i know men whose wives love them; and they go on exactly like that. mrs. clandon. excuse me, mr. valentine; but had you not better go? gloria. you need not send him away on my account, mother. he is nothing to me now; and he will amuse dolly and phil. (she sits down with slighting indifference, at the end of the table nearest the window.) valentine (gaily). of course: that's the sensible way of looking at it. come, mrs. clandon: you can't quarrel with a mere butterfly like me. mrs. clandon. i very greatly mistrust you, mr. valentine. but i do not like to think that your unfortunate levity of disposition is mere shamelessness and worthlessness;-gloria (to herself, but aloud). it is shameless; and it is worthless. mrs. clandon. --so perhaps we had better send for phil and dolly and allow you to end your visit in the ordinary way. valentine (as if she had paid him the highest compliment). you overwhelm me, mrs. clandon. thank you. (the waiter enters.) waiter. mr. mccomas, ma'am. mrs. clandon. oh, certainly. bring him in. waiter. he wishes to see you in the reception-room, ma'am. mrs. clandon. why not here? waiter. well, if you will excuse my mentioning it, ma'am, i think mr. mccomas feels that he would get fairer play if he could speak to you away from the younger members of your family, ma'am. mrs. clandon. tell him they are not here. waiter. they are within sight of the door, ma'am; and very watchful, for some reason or other. mrs. clandon (going). oh, very well: i'll go to him. waiter (holding the door open for her). thank you, ma'am. (she goes out. he comes back into the room, and meets the eye of valentine, who wants him to go.) all right, sir. only the tea-things, sir. (taking the tray.) excuse me, sir. thank you sir. (he goes out.) valentine (to gloria). look here. you will forgive me, sooner or later. forgive me now. gloria (rising to level the declaration more intensely at him). never! while grass grows or water runs, never, never, never!!! valentine (unabashed). well, i don't care. i can't be unhappy about anything. i shall never be unhappy again, never, never, never, while grass grows or water runs. the thought of you will always make me wild with joy. (some quick taunt is on her lips: he interposes swiftly.) no: i never said that before: that's new. gloria. it will not be new when you say it to the next woman. valentine. oh, don't, gloria, don't. (he kneels at her feet.) gloria. get up. get up! how dare you? (phil and dolly, racing, as usual, for first place, burst into the room. they check themselves on seeing what is passing. valentine springs up.) philip (discreetly). i beg your pardon. come, dolly. (he turns to go.) gloria (annoyed). mother will be back in a moment, phil. (severely.) please wait here for her. (she turns away to the window, where she stands looking out with her back to them.) philip (significantly). oh, indeed. hmhm! dolly. ahah! philip. you seem in excellent spirits, valentine. valentine. i am. (comes between them.) now look here. you both know what's going on, don't you? (gloria turns quickly, as if anticipating some fresh outrage.) dolly. perfectly. valentine. well, it's all over. i've been refused--scorned. i'm only here on sufferance. you understand: it's all over. your sister is in no sense entertaining my addresses, or condescending to interest herself in me in any way. (gloria, satisfied, turns back contemptuously to the window.) is that clear? dolly. serve you right. you were in too great a hurry. philip (patting him on the shoulder). never mind: you'd never have been able to call your soul your own if she'd married you. you can now begin a new chapter in your life. dolly. chapter seventeen or thereabouts, i should imagine. valentine (much put out by this pleasantry). no: don't say things like that. that's just the sort of thoughtless remark that makes a lot of mischief. dolly. oh, indeed. hmhm! philip. ahah! (he goes to the hearth and plants himself there in his best head-of-the-family attitude.) mccomas, looking very serious, comes in quickly with mrs. clandon, whose first anxiety is about gloria. she looks round to see where she is, and is going to join her at the window when gloria comes down to meet her with a marked air of trust and affection. finally, mrs. clandon takes her former seat, and gloria posts herself behind it. mccomas, on his way to the ottoman, is hailed by dolly. dolly. what cheer, finch? mccomas (sternly). very serious news from your father, miss clandon. very serious news indeed. (he crosses to the ottoman, and sits down. dolly, looking deeply impressed, follows him and sits beside him on his right.) valentine. perhaps i had better go. mccomas. by no means, mr. valentine. you are deeply concerned in this. (valentine takes a chair from the table and sits astride of it, leaning over the back, near the ottoman.) mrs. clandon: your husband demands the custody of his two younger children, who are not of age. (mrs. clandon, in quick alarm, looks instinctively to see if dolly is safe.) dolly (touched). oh, how nice of him! he likes us, mamma. mccomas. i am sorry to have to disabuse you of any such idea, miss dorothea. dolly (cooing ecstatically). dorothee-ee-ee-a! (nestling against his shoulder, quite overcome.) oh, finch! mccomas (nervously, moving away). no, no, no, no! mrs. clandon (remonstrating). d e a r e s t dolly! (to mccomas.) the deed of separation gives me the custody of the children. mccomas. it also contains a covenant that you are not to approach or molest him in any way. mrs. clandon. well, have i done so? mccomas. whether the behavior of your younger children amounts to legal molestation is a question on which it may be necessary to take counsel's opinion. at all events, mr. crampton not only claims to have been molested; but he believes that he was brought here by a plot in which mr. valentine acted as your agent. valentine. what's that? eh? mccomas. he alleges that you drugged him, mr. valentine. valentine. so i did. (they are astonished.) mccomas. but what did you do that for? dolly. five shillings extra. mccomas (to dolly, short-temperedly). i must really ask you, miss clandon, not to interrupt this very serious conversation with irrelevant interjections. (vehemently.) i insist on having earnest matters earnestly and reverently discussed. (this outburst produces an apologetic silence, and puts mccomas himself out of countenance. he coughs, and starts afresh, addressing himself to gloria.) miss clandon: it is my duty to tell you that your father has also persuaded himself that mr. valentine wishes to marry you-valentine (interposing adroitly). i do. mccomas (offended). in that case, sir, you must not be surprised to find yourself regarded by the young lady's father as a fortune hunter. valentine. so i am. do you expect my wife to live on what i earn? ten-pence a week! mccomas (revolted). i have nothing more to say, sir. i shall return and tell mr. crampton that this family is no place for a father. (he makes for the door.) mrs. clandon (with quiet authority). finch! (he halts.) if mr. valentine cannot be serious, you can. sit down. (mccomas, after a brief struggle between his dignity and his friendship, succumbs, seating himself this time midway between dolly and mrs. clandon.) you know that all this is a made up case--that fergus does not believe in it any more than you do. now give me your real advice--your sincere, friendly advice: you know i have always trusted your judgment. i promise you the children will be quiet. mccomas (resigning himself). well, well! what i want to say is this. in the old arrangement with your husband, mrs. clandon, you had him at a terrible disadvantage. mrs. clandon. how so, pray? mccomas. well, you were an advanced woman, accustomed to defy public opinion, and with no regard for what the world might say of you. mrs. clandon (proud of it). yes: that is true. (gloria, behind the chair, stoops and kisses her mother's hair, a demonstration which disconcerts her extremely.) mccomas. on the other hand, mrs. clandon, your husband had a great horror of anything getting into the papers. there was his business to be considered, as well as the prejudices of an old-fashioned family. mrs. clandon. not to mention his own prejudices. mccomas. now no doubt he behaved badly, mrs. clandon-mrs. clandon (scornfully). no doubt. mccomas. but was it altogether his fault? mrs. clandon. was it mine? mccomas (hastily). no. of course not. gloria (observing him attentively). you do not mean that, mr. mccomas. mccomas. my dear young lady, you pick me up very sharply. but let me just put this to you. when a man makes an unsuitable marriage (nobody's fault, you know, but purely accidental incompatibility of tastes); when he is deprived by that misfortune of the domestic sympathy which, i take it, is what a man marries for; when in short, his wife is rather worse than no wife at all (through no fault of his own, of course), is it to be wondered at if he makes matters worse at first by blaming her, and even, in his desperation, by occasionally drinking himself into a violent condition or seeking sympathy elsewhere? mrs. clandon. i did not blame him: i simply rescued myself and the children from him. mccomas. yes: but you made hard terms, mrs. clandon. you had him at your mercy: you brought him to his knees when you threatened to make the matter public by applying to the courts for a judicial separation. suppose he had had that power over you, and used it to take your children away from you and bring them up in ignorance of your very name, how would you feel? what would you do? well, won't you make some allowance for his feelings?--in common humanity. mrs. clandon. i never discovered his feelings. i discovered his temper, and his-(she shivers) the rest of his common humanity. mccomas (wistfully). women can be very hard, mrs. clandon. valentine. that's true. gloria (angrily). be silent. (he subsides.) mccomas (rallying all his forces). let me make one last appeal. mrs. clandon: believe me, there are men who have a good deal of feeling, and kind feeling, too, which they are not able to express. what you miss in crampton is that mere veneer of civilization, the art of shewing worthless attentions and paying insincere compliments in a kindly, charming way. if you lived in london, where the whole system is one of false good-fellowship, and you may know a man for twenty years without finding out that he hates you like poison, you would soon have your eyes opened. there we do unkind things in a kind way: we say bitter things in a sweet voice: we always give our friends chloroform when we tear them to pieces. but think of the other side of it! think of the people who do kind things in an unkind way--people whose touch hurts, whose voices jar, whose tempers play them false, who wound and worry the people they love in the very act of trying to conciliate them, and yet who need affection as much as the rest of us. crampton has an abominable temper, i admit. he has no manners, no tact, no grace. he'll never be able to gain anyone's affection unless they will take his desire for it on trust. is he to have none--not even pity--from his own flesh and blood? dolly (quite melted). oh, how beautiful, finch! how nice of you! philip (with conviction). finch: this is eloquence--positive eloquence. dolly. oh, mamma, let us give him another chance. let us have him to dinner. mrs. clandon (unmoved). no, dolly: i hardly got any lunch. my dear finch: there is not the least use in talking to me about fergus. you have never been married to him: i have. mccomas (to gloria). miss clandon: i have hitherto refrained from appealing to you, because, if what mr. crampton told me to be true, you have been more merciless even than your mother. gloria (defiantly). you appeal from her strength to my weakness! mccomas. not your weakness, miss clandon. i appeal from her intellect to your heart. gloria. i have learnt to mistrust my heart. (with an angry glance at valentine.) i would tear my heart and throw it away if i could. my answer to you is my mother's answer. (she goes to mrs. clandon, and stands with her arm about her; but mrs. clandon, unable to endure this sort of demonstrativeness, disengages herself as soon as she can without hurting gloria's feelings.) mccomas (defeated). well, i am very sorry--very sorry. i have done my best. (he rises and prepares to go, deeply dissatisfied.) mrs. clandon. but what did you expect, finch? what do you want us to do? mccomas. the first step for both you and crampton is to obtain counsel's opinion as to whether he is bound by the deed of separation or not. now why not obtain this opinion at once, and have a friendly meeting (her face hardens)--or shall we say a neutral meeting?--to settle the difficulty--here--in this hotel--to-night? what do you say? mrs. clandon. but where is the counsel's opinion to come from? mccomas. it has dropped down on us out of the clouds. on my way back here from crampton's i met a most eminent q.c., a man whom i briefed in the case that made his name for him. he has come down here from saturday to monday for the sea air, and to visit a relative of his who lives here. he has been good enough to say that if i can arrange a meeting of the parties he will come and help us with his opinion. now do let us seize this chance of a quiet friendly family adjustment. let me bring my friend here and try to persuade crampton to come, too. come: consent. mrs. clandon (rather ominously, after a moment's consideration). finch: i don't want counsel's opinion, because i intend to be guided by my own opinion. i don't want to meet fergus again, because i don't like him, and don't believe the meeting will do any good. however (rising), you have persuaded the children that he is not quite hopeless. do as you please. mccomas (taking her hand and shaking it). thank you, mrs. clandon. will nine o'clock suit you? mrs. clandon. perfectly. phil: will you ring, please. (phil rings the bell.) but if i am to be accused of conspiring with mr. valentine, i think he had better be present. valentine (rising). i quite agree with you. i think it's most important. mccomas. there can be no objection to that, i think. i have the greatest hopes of a happy settlement. good-bye for the present. (he goes out, meeting the waiter; who holds the door for him to pass through.) mrs. clandon. we expect some visitors at nine, william. can we have dinner at seven instead of half-past? waiter (at the door). seven, ma'am? certainly, ma'am. it will be a convenience to us this busy evening, ma'am. there will be the band and the arranging of the fairy lights and one thing or another, ma'am. dolly. the fairy lights! philip. the band! william: what mean you? waiter. the fancy ball, miss-dolly and philip (simultaneously rushing to him). fancy ball! waiter. oh, yes, sir. given by the regatta committee for the benefit of the life-boat, sir. (to mrs. clandon.) we often have them, ma'am: chinese lanterns in the garden, ma'am: very bright and pleasant, very gay and innocent indeed. (to phil.) tickets downstairs at the office, sir, five shillings: ladies half price if accompanied by a gentleman. philip (seizing his arm to drag him off). to the office, william! dolly (breathlessly, seizing his other arm). quick, before they're all sold. (they rush him out of the room between them.) mrs. clandon. what on earth are they going to do? (going out.) i really must go and stop this-(she follows them, speaking as she disappears. gloria stares coolly at valentine, and then deliberately looks at her watch.) valentine. i understand. i've stayed too long. i'm going. gloria (with disdainful punctiliousness). i owe you some apology, mr. valentine. i am conscious of having spoken somewhat sharply-perhaps rudely--to you. valentine. not at all. gloria. my only excuse is that it is very difficult to give consideration and respect when there is no dignity of character on the other side to command it. valentine (prosaically). how is a man to look dignified when he's infatuated? gloria (effectually unstilted). don't say those things to me. i forbid you. they are insults. valentine. no: they're only follies. i can't help them. gloria. if you were really in love, it would not make you foolish: it would give you dignity--earnestness--even beauty. valentine. do you really think it would make me beautiful? (she turns her back on him with the coldest contempt.) ah, you see you're not in earnest. love can't give any man new gifts. it can only heighten the gifts he was born with. gloria (sweeping round at him again). what gifts were you born with, pray? valentine. lightness of heart. gloria. and lightness of head, and lightness of faith, and lightness of everything that makes a man. valentine. yes, the whole world is like a feather dancing in the light now; and gloria is the sun. (she rears her head angrily.) i beg your pardon: i'm off. back at nine. good-bye. (he runs off gaily, leaving her standing in the middle of the room staring after him.) end of act iii act iv the same room. nine o'clock. nobody present. the lamps are lighted; but the curtains are not drawn. the window stands wide open; and strings of chinese lanterns are glowing among the trees outside, with the starry sky beyond. the band is playing dance-music in the garden, drowning the sound of the sea. the waiter enters, shewing in crampton and mccomas. crampton looks cowed and anxious. he sits down wearily and timidly on the ottoman. waiter. the ladies have gone for a turn through the grounds to see the fancy dresses, sir. if you will be so good as to take seats, gentlemen, i shall tell them. (he is about to go into the garden through the window when mccomas stops him.) mccomas. one moment. if another gentleman comes, shew him in without any delay: we are expecting him. waiter. right, sir. what name, sir? mccomas. boon. mr. boon. he is a stranger to mrs. clandon; so he may give you a card. if so, the name is spelt b.o.h.u.n. you will not forget. waiter (smiling). you may depend on me for that, sir. my own name is boon, sir, though i am best known down here as balmy walters, sir. by rights i should spell it with the aitch you, sir; but i think it best not to take that liberty, sir. there is norman blood in it, sir; and norman blood is not a recommendation to a waiter. mccomas. well, well: "true hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than norman blood." waiter. that depends a good deal on one's station in life, sir. if you were a waiter, sir, you'd find that simple faith would leave you just as short as norman blood. i find it best to spell myself b. double-o.n., and to keep my wits pretty sharp about me. but i'm taking up your time, sir. you'll excuse me, sir: your own fault for being so affable, sir. i'll tell the ladies you're here, sir. (he goes out into the garden through the window.) mccomas. crampton: i can depend on you, can't i? crampton. yes, yes. i'll be quiet. i'll be patient. i'll do my best. mccomas. remember: i've not given you away. i've told them it was all their fault. crampton. you told me that it was all my fault. mccomas. i told you the truth. crampton (plaintively). if they will only be fair to me! mccomas. my dear crampton, they won't be fair to you: it's not to be expected from them at their age. if you're going to make impossible conditions of this kind, we may as well go back home at once. crampton. but surely i have a right-mccomas (intolerantly). you won't get your rights. now, once for all, crampton, did your promises of good behavior only mean that you won't complain if there's nothing to complain of? because, if so-(he moves as if to go.) crampton (miserably). no, no: let me alone, can't you? i've been bullied enough: i've been tormented enough. i tell you i'll do my best. but if that girl begins to talk to me like that and to look at me like-(he breaks off and buries his head in his hands.) mccomas (relenting). there, there: it'll be all right, if you will only bear and forbear. come, pull yourself together: there's someone coming. (crampton, too dejected to care much, hardly changes his attitude. gloria enters from the garden; mccomas goes to meet her at the window; so that he can speak to her without being heard by crampton.) there he is, miss clandon. be kind to him. i'll leave you with him for a moment. (he goes into the garden. gloria comes in and strolls coolly down the middle of the room.) crampton (looking round in alarm). where's mccomas? gloria (listlessly, but not unsympathetically). gone out--to leave us together. delicacy on his part, i suppose. (she stops beside him and looks quaintly down at him.) well, father? crampton (a quaint jocosity breaking through his forlornness). well, daughter? (they look at one another for a moment, with a melancholy sense of humor.) gloria. shake hands. (they shake hands.) crampton (holding her hand). my dear: i'm afraid i spoke very improperly of your mother this afternoon. gloria. oh, don't apologize. i was very high and mighty myself; but i've come down since: oh, yes: i've been brought down. (she sits on the floor beside his chair.) crampton. what has happened to you, my child? gloria. oh, never mind. i was playing the part of my mother's daughter then; but i'm not: i'm my father's daughter. (looking at him funnily.) that's a come down, isn't it? crampton (angry). what! (her odd expression does not alter. he surrenders.) well, yes, my dear: i suppose it is, i suppose it is. (she nods sympathetically.) i'm afraid i'm sometimes a little irritable; but i know what's right and reasonable all the time, even when i don't act on it. can you believe that? gloria. believe it! why, that's myself--myself all over. i know what's right and dignified and strong and noble, just as well as she does; but oh, the things i do! the things i do! the things i let other people do!! crampton (a little grudgingly in spite of himself). as well as she does? you mean your mother? gloria (quickly). yes, mother. (she turns to him on her knees and seizes his hands.) now listen. no treason to her: no word, no thought against her. she is our superior--yours and mine--high heavens above us. is that agreed? crampton. yes, yes. just as you please, my dear. gloria (not satisfied, letting go his hands and drawing back from him). you don't like her? crampton. my child: you haven't been married to her. i have. (she raises herself slowly to her feet, looking at him with growing coldness.) she did me a great wrong in marrying me without really caring for me. but after that, the wrong was all on my side, i dare say. (he offers her his hand again.) gloria (taking it firmly and warningly). take care. that's a dangerous subject. my feelings--my miserable, cowardly, womanly feelings--may be on your side; but my conscience is on hers. crampton. i'm very well content with that division, my dear. thank you. (valentine arrives. gloria immediately becomes deliberately haughty.) valentine. excuse me; but it's impossible to find a servant to announce one: even the never failing william seems to be at the ball. i should have gone myself; only i haven't five shillings to buy a ticket. how are you getting on, crampton? better, eh? crampton. i am myself again, mr. valentine, no thanks to you. valentine. look at this ungrateful parent of yours, miss clandon! i saved him from an excruciating pang; and he reviles me! gloria (coldly). i am sorry my mother is not here to receive you, mr. valentine. it is not quite nine o'clock; and the gentleman of whom mr. mccomas spoke, the lawyer, is not yet come. valentine. oh, yes, he is. i've met him and talked to him. (with gay malice.) you'll like him, miss clandon: he's the very incarnation of intellect. you can hear his mind working. gloria (ignoring the jibe). where is he? valentine. bought a false nose and gone into the fancy ball. crampton (crustily, looking at his watch). it seems that everybody has gone to this fancy ball instead of keeping to our appointment here. valentine. oh, he'll come all right enough: that was half an hour ago. i didn't like to borrow five shillings from him and go in with him; so i joined the mob and looked through the railings until miss clandon disappeared into the hotel through the window. gloria. so it has come to this, that you follow me about in public to stare at me. valentine. yes: somebody ought to chain me up. gloria turns her back on him and goes to the fireplace. he takes the snub very philosophically, and goes to the opposite side of the room. the waiter appears at the window, ushering in mrs. clandon and mccomas. mrs. clandon (hurrying in). i am so sorry to have kept you waiting. a grotesquely majestic stranger, in a domino and false nose, with goggles, appears at the window. waiter (to the stranger). beg pardon, sir; but this is a private apartment, sir. if you will allow me, sir, i will shew you to the american bar and supper rooms, sir. this way, sir. he goes into the gardens, leading the way under the impression that the stranger is following him. the majestic one, however, comes straight into the room to the end of the table, where, with impressive deliberation, he takes off the false nose and then the domino, rolling up the nose into the domino and throwing the bundle on the table like a champion throwing down his glove. he is now seen to be a stout, tall man between forty and fifty, clean shaven, with a midnight oil pallor emphasized by stiff black hair, cropped short and oiled, and eyebrows like early victorian horsehair upholstery. physically and spiritually, a coarsened man: in cunning and logic, a ruthlessly sharpened one. his bearing as he enters is sufficiently imposing and disquieting; but when he speaks, his powerful, menacing voice, impressively articulated speech, strong inexorable manner, and a terrifying power of intensely critical listening raise the impression produced by him to absolute tremendousness. the stranger. my name is bohun. (general awe.) have i the honor of addressing mrs. clandon? (mrs. clandon bows. bohun bows.) miss clandon? (gloria bows. bohun bows.) mr. clandon? crampton (insisting on his rightful name as angrily as he dares). my name is crampton, sir. bohun. oh, indeed. (passing him over without further notice and turning to valentine.) are you mr. clandon? valentine (making it a point of honor not to be impressed by him). do i look like it? my name is valentine. i did the drugging. bohun. ah, quite so. then mr. clandon has not yet arrived? waiter (entering anxiously through the window). beg pardon, ma'am; but can you tell me what became of that-(he recognizes bohun, and loses all his self-possession. bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself together. after a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself sufficiently to address bohun weakly but coherently.) beg pardon, sir, i'm sure, sir. was--was it you, sir? bohun (ruthlessly). it was i. waiter (brokenly). yes, sir. (unable to restrain his tears.) you in a false nose, walter! (he sinks faintly into a chair at the table.) i beg pardon, ma'am, i'm sure. a little giddiness-bohun (commandingly). you will excuse him, mrs. clandon, when i inform you that he is my father. waiter (heartbroken). oh, no, no, walter. a waiter for your father on the top of a false nose! what will they think of you? mrs. clandon (going to the waiter's chair in her kindest manner). i am delighted to hear it, mr. bohun. your father has been an excellent friend to us since we came here. (bohun bows gravely.) waiter (shaking his head). oh, no, ma'am. it's very kind of you-very ladylike and affable indeed, ma'am; but i should feel at a great disadvantage off my own proper footing. never mind my being the gentleman's father, ma'am: it is only the accident of birth after all, ma'am. (he gets up feebly.) you'll all excuse me, i'm sure, having interrupted your business. (he begins to make his way along the table, supporting himself from chair to chair, with his eye on the door.) bohun. one moment. (the waiter stops, with a sinking heart.) my father was a witness of what passed to-day, was he not, mrs. clandon? mrs. clandon. yes, most of it, i think. bohun. in that case we shall want him. waiter (pleading). i hope it may not be necessary, sir. busy evening for me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir. bohun (inexorably). we shall want you. mrs. clandon (politely). sit down, won't you? waiter (earnestly). oh, if you please, ma'am, i really must draw the line at sitting down. i couldn't let myself be seen doing such a thing, ma'am: thank you, i am sure, all the same. (he looks round from face to face wretchedly, with an expression that would melt a heart of stone.) gloria. don't let us waste time. william only wants to go on taking care of us. i should like a cup of coffee. waiter (brightening perceptibly). coffee, miss? (he gives a little gasp of hope.) certainly, miss. thank you, miss: very timely, miss, very thoughtful and considerate indeed. (to mrs. clandon, timidly but expectantly.) anything for you, ma'am? mrs. clandon er--oh, yes: it's so hot, i think we might have a jug of claret cup. waiter (beaming). claret cup, ma'am! certainly, ma'am. gloria oh, well i'll have a claret cup instead of coffee. put some cucumber in it. waiter (delighted). cucumber, miss! yes, miss. (to bohun.) anything special for you, sir? you don't like cucumber, sir. bohun. if mrs. clandon will allow me--syphon--scotch. waiter. right, sir. (to crampton.) irish for you, sir, i think, sir? (crampton assents with a grunt. the waiter looks enquiringly at valentine.) valentine. i like the cucumber. waiter. right, sir. (summing up.) claret cup, syphon, one scotch and one irish? mrs. clandon. i think that's right. waiter (perfectly happy). right, ma'am. directly, ma'am. thank you. (he ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of human happiness, from the bottom to the top, in a little over two minutes.) mccomas. we can begin now, i suppose? bohun. we had better wait until mrs. clandon's husband arrives. crampton. what d'y' mean? i'm her husband. bohun (instantly pouncing on the inconsistency between this and his previous statement). you said just now your name was crampton. crampton. so it is. mrs. clandon } (all four { i-gloria } speaking { my-mccomas } simul{ mrs.-valentine } taneously). { you-bohun (drowning them in two thunderous words). one moment. (dead silence.) pray allow me. sit down everybody. (they obey humbly. gloria takes the saddle-bag chair on the hearth. valentine slips around to her side of the room and sits on the ottoman facing the window, so that he can look at her. crampton sits on the ottoman with his back to valentine's. mrs. clandon, who has all along kept at the opposite side of the room in order to avoid crampton as much as possible, sits near the door, with mccomas beside her on her left. bohun places himself magisterially in the centre of the group, near the corner of the table on mrs. clandon's side. when they are settled, he fixes crampton with his eye, and begins.) in this family, it appears, the husband's name is crampton: the wife's clandon. thus we have on the very threshold of the case an element of confusion. valentine (getting up and speaking across to him with one knee on the ottoman). but it's perfectly simple. bohun (annihilating him with a vocal thunderbolt). it is. mrs. clandon has adopted another name. that is the obvious explanation which you feared i could not find out for myself. you mistrust my intelligence, mr. valentine-(stopping him as he is about to protest.) no: i don't want you to answer that: i want you to think over it when you feel your next impulse to interrupt me. valentine (dazed). this is simply breaking a butterfly on a wheel. what does it matter? (he sits down again.) bohun. i will tell you what it matters, sir. it matters that if this family difference is to be smoothed over as we all hope it may be, mrs. clandon, as a matter of social convenience and decency, will have to resume her husband's name. (mrs. clandon assumes an expression of the most determined obstinacy.) or else mr. crampton will have to call himself mr. clandon. (crampton looks indomitably resolved to do nothing of the sort.) no doubt you think that an easy matter, mr. valentine. (he looks pointedly at mrs. clandon, then at crampton.) i differ from you. (he throws himself back in his chair, frowning heavily.) mccomas (timidly). i think, bohun, we had perhaps better dispose of the important questions first. bohun. mccomas: there will be no difficulty about the important questions. there never is. it is the trifles that will wreck you at the harbor mouth. (mccomas looks as if he considered this a paradox.) you don't agree with me, eh? mccomas (flatteringly). if i did-bohun (interrupting him). if you did, you would be me, instead of being what you are. mccomas (fawning on him). of course, bohun, your specialty-bohun (again interrupting him). my specialty is being right when other people are wrong. if you agreed with me i should be of no use here. (he nods at him to drive the point home; then turns suddenly and forcibly on crampton.) now you, mr. crampton: what point in this business have you most at heart? crampton (beginning slowly). i wish to put all considerations of self aside in this matter-bohun (interrupting him). so do we all, mr. crampton. (to mrs. clandon.) y o u wish to put self aside, mrs. clandon? mrs. clandon. yes: i am not consulting my own feelings in being here. bohun. so do you, miss clandon? gloria. yes. bohun. i thought so. we all do. valentine. except me. my aims are selfish. bohun. that's because you think an impression of sincerity will produce a better effect on miss clandon than an impression of disinterestedness. (valentine, utterly dismantled and destroyed by this just remark, takes refuge in a feeble, speechless smile. bohun, satisfied at having now effectually crushed all rebellion, throws himself back in his chair, with an air of being prepared to listen tolerantly to their grievances.) now, mr. crampton, go on. it's understood that self is put aside. human nature always begins by saying that. crampton. but i mean it, sir. bohun. quite so. now for your point. crampton. every reasonable person will admit that it's an unselfish one--the children. bohun. well? what about the children? crampton (with emotion). they have-bohun (pouncing forward again). stop. you're going to tell me about your feelings, mr. crampton. don't: i sympathize with them; but they're not my business. tell us exactly what you want: that's what we have to get at. crampton (uneasily). it's a very difficult question to answer, mr. bohun. bohun. come: i'll help you out. what do you object to in the present circumstances of the children? crampton. i object to the way they have been brought up. bohun. how do you propose to alter that now? crampton. i think they ought to dress more quietly. valentine. nonsense. bohun (instantly flinging himself back in his chair, outraged by the interruption). when you are done, mr. valentine--when you are quite done. valentine. what's wrong with miss clandon's dress? crampton (hotly to valentine). my opinion is as good as yours. gloria (warningly). father! crampton (subsiding piteously). i didn't mean you, my dear. (pleading earnestly to bohun.) but the two younger ones! you have not seen them, mr. bohun; and indeed i think you would agree with me that there is something very noticeable, something almost gay and frivolous in their style of dressing. mrs. clandon (impatiently). do you suppose i choose their clothes for them? really this is childish. crampton (furious, rising). childish! (mrs. clandon rises indignantly.) mccomas } (all ris} crampton, you promised-valentine } ing and } ridiculous. they dress } speaking } charmingly. gloria } together). } pray let us behave reasonably. tumult. suddenly they hear a chime of glasses in the room behind them. they turn in silent surprise and find that the waiter has just come back from the bar in the garden, and is jingling his tray warningly as he comes softly to the table with it. waiter (to crampton, setting a tumbler apart on the table). irish for you, sir. (crampton sits down a little shamefacedly. the waiter sets another tumbler and a syphon apart, saying to bohun) scotch and syphon for you, sir. (bohun waves his hand impatiently. the waiter places a large glass jug in the middle.) and claret cup. (all subside into their seats. peace reigns.) mrs. clandon (humbly to bohun). i am afraid we interrupted you, mr. bohun. bohun (calmly). you did. (to the waiter, who is going out.) just wait a bit. waiter. yes, sir. certainly, sir. (he takes his stand behind bohun's chair.) mrs. clandon (to the waiter). you don't mind our detaining you, i hope. mr. bohun wishes it. waiter (now quite at his ease). oh, no, ma'am, not at all, ma'am. it is a pleasure to me to watch the working of his trained and powerful mind--very stimulating, very entertaining and instructive indeed, ma'am. bohun (resuming command of the proceedings). now, mr. crampton: we are waiting for you. do you give up your objection to the dressing, or do you stick to it? crampton (pleading). mr. bohun: consider my position for a moment. i haven't got myself alone to consider: there's my sister sophronia and my brother-in-law and all their circle. they have a great horror of anything that is at all--at all--well-bohun. out with it. fast? loud? gay? crampton. not in any unprincipled sense of course; but--but-(blurting it out desperately) those two children would shock them. they're not fit to mix with their own people. that's what i complain of. mrs. clandon (with suppressed impatience). mr. valentine: do you think there is anything fast or loud about phil and dolly? valentine. certainly not. it's utter bosh. nothing can be in better taste. crampton. oh, yes: of course you say so. mrs. clandon. william: you see a great deal of good english society. are my children overdressed? waiter (reassuringly). oh, dear, no, ma'am. (persuasively.) oh, no, sir, not at all. a little pretty and tasty no doubt; but very choice and classy--very genteel and high toned indeed. might be the son and daughter of a dean, sir, i assure you, sir. you have only to look at them, sir, to-(at this moment a harlequin and columbine, dancing to the music of the band in the garden, which has just reached the coda of a waltz, whirl one another into the room. the harlequin's dress is made of lozenges, an inch square, of turquoise blue silk and gold alternately. his hat is gilt and his mask turned up. the columbine's petticoats are the epitome of a harvest field, golden orange and poppy crimson, with a tiny velvet jacket for the poppy stamens. they pass, an exquisite and dazzling apparition, between mccomas and bohun, and then back in a circle to the end of the table, where, as the final chord of the waltz is struck, they make a tableau in the middle of the company, the harlequin down on his left knee, and the columbine standing on his right knee, with her arms curved over her head. unlike their dancing, which is charmingly graceful, their attitudinizing is hardly a success, and threatens to end in a catastrophe.) the columbine (screaming). lift me down, somebody: i'm going to fall. papa: lift me down. crampton (anxiously running to her and taking her hands). my child! dolly (jumping down with his help). thanks: so nice of you. (phil, putting his hat into his belt, sits on the side of the table and pours out some claret cup. crampton returns to his place on the ottoman in great perplexity.) oh, what fun! oh, dear. (she seats herself with a vault on the front edge of the table, panting.) oh, claret cup! (she drinks.) bohun (in powerful tones). this is the younger lady, is it? dolly (slipping down off the table in alarm at his formidable voice and manner). yes, sir. please, who are you? mrs. clandon. this is mr. bohun, dolly, who has very kindly come to help us this evening. dolly. oh, then he comes as a boon and a blessing-philip. sh! crampton. mr. bohun--mccomas: i appeal to you. is this right? would you blame my sister's family for objecting to this? dolly (flushing ominously). have you begun again? crampton (propitiating her). no, no. it's perhaps natural at your age. dolly (obstinately). never mind my age. is it pretty? crampton. yes, dear, yes. (he sits down in token of submission.) dolly (following him insistently). do you like it? crampton. my child: how can you expect me to like it or to approve of it? dolly (determined not to let him off). how can you think it pretty and not like it? mccomas (rising, angry and scandalized). really i must say-(bohun, who has listened to dolly with the highest approval, is down on him instantly.) bohun. no: don't interrupt, mccomas. the young lady's method is right. (to dolly, with tremendous emphasis.) press your questions, miss clandon: press your questions. dolly (rising). oh, dear, you are a regular overwhelmer! do you always go on like this? bohun (rising). yes. don't you try to put me out of countenance, young lady: you're too young to do it. (he takes mccomas's chair from beside mrs. clandon's and sets it beside his own.) sit down. (dolly, fascinated, obeys; and bohun sits down again. mccomas, robbed of his seat, takes a chair on the other side between the table and the ottoman.) now, mr. crampton, the facts are before you--both of them. you think you'd like to have your two youngest children to live with you. well, you wouldn't-(crampton tries to protest; but bohun will not have it on any terms.) no, you wouldn't: you think you would; but i know better than you. you'd want this young lady here to give up dressing like a stage columbine in the evening and like a fashionable columbine in the morning. well, she won't--never. she thinks she will; but-dolly (interrupting him). no i don't. (resolutely.) i'll n e v e r give up dressing prettily. never. as gloria said to that man in madeira, never, never, never while grass grows or water runs. valentine (rising in the wildest agitation). what! what! (beginning to speak very fast.) when did she say that? who did she say that to? bohun (throwing himself back with massive, pitying remonstrance). mr. valentine-valentine (pepperily). don't you interrupt me, sir: this is something really serious. i i n s i s t on knowing who miss clandon said that to. dolly. perhaps phil remembers. which was it, phil? number three or number five? valentine. number five!!! philip. courage, valentine. it wasn't number five: it was only a tame naval lieutenant that was always on hand--the most patient and harmless of mortals. gloria (coldly). what are we discussing now, pray? valentine (very red). excuse me: i am sorry i interrupted. i shall intrude no further, mrs. clandon. (he bows to mrs. clandon and marches away into the garden, boiling with suppressed rage.) dolly. hmhm! philip. ahah! gloria. please go on, mr. bohun. dolly (striking in as bohun, frowning formidably, collects himself for a fresh grapple with the case). you're going to bully us, mr. bohun. bohun. i-dolly (interrupting him). oh, yes, you are: you think you're not; but you are. i know by your eyebrows. bohun (capitulating). mrs. clandon: these are clever children-clear headed, well brought up children. i make that admission deliberately. can you, in return, point out to me any way of inducting them to hold their tongues? mrs. clandon. dolly, dearest--! philip. our old failing, dolly. silence! (dolly holds her mouth.) mrs. clandon. now, mr. bohun, before they begin again-waiter (softer). be quick, sir: be quick. dolly (beaming at him). dear william! philip. sh! bohun (unexpectedly beginning by hurling a question straight at dolly). have you any intention of getting married? dolly. i! well, finch calls me by my christian name. mccomas. i will not have this. mr. bohun: i use the young lady's christian name naturally as an old friend of her mother's. dolly. yes, you call me dolly as an old friend of my mother's. but what about dorothee-ee-a? (mccomas rises indignantly.) crampton (anxiously, rising to restrain him). keep your temper, mccomas. don't let us quarrel. be patient. mccomas. i will not be patient. you are shewing the most wretched weakness of character, crampton. i say this is monstrous. dolly. mr. bohun: please bully finch for us. bohun. i will. mccomas: you're making yourself ridiculous. sit down. mccomas. i-bohun (waving him down imperiously). no: sit down, sit down. (mccomas sits down sulkily; and crampton, much relieved, follows his example.) dolly (to bohun, meekly). thank you. bohun. now, listen to me, all of you. i give no opinion, mccomas, as to how far you may or may not have committed yourself in the direction indicated by this young lady. (mccomas is about to protest.) no: don't interrupt me: if she doesn't marry you she will marry somebody else. that is the solution of the difficulty as to her not bearing her father's name. the other lady intends to get married. gloria (flushing). mr. bohun! bohun. oh, yes, you do: you don't know it; but you do. gloria (rising). stop. i warn you, mr. bohun, not to answer for my intentions. bohun (rising). it's no use, miss clandon: you can't put me down. i tell you your name will soon be neither clandon nor crampton; and i could tell you what it will be if i chose. (he goes to the other end of the table, where he unrolls his domino, and puts the false nose on the table. when he moves they all rise; and phil goes to the window. bohun, with a gesture, summons the waiter to help him in robing.) mr. crampton: your notion of going to law is all nonsense: your children will be of age before you could get the point decided. (allowing the waiter to put the domino on his shoulders.) you can do nothing but make a friendly arrangement. if you want your family more than they want you, you'll get the worse of the arrangement: if they want you more than you want them, you'll get the better of it. (he shakes the domino into becoming folds and takes up the false nose. dolly gazes admiringly at him.) the strength of their position lies in their being very agreeable people personally. the strength of your position lies in your income. (he claps on the false nose, and is again grotesquely transfigured.) dolly (running to him). oh, now you look quite like a human being. mayn't i have just one dance with you? c a n you dance? (phil, resuming his part of harlequin, waves his hat as if casting a spell on them.) bohun (thunderously). yes: you think i can't; but i can. come along. (he seizes her and dances off with her through the window in a most powerful manner, but with studied propriety and grace. the waiter is meanwhile busy putting the chairs back in their customary places.) philip. "on with the dance: let joy be unconfined." william! waiter. yes, sir. philip. can you procure a couple of dominos and false noses for my father and mr. mccomas? mccomas. most certainly not. i protest-crampton. no, no. what harm will it do, just for once, mccomas? don't let us be spoil-sports. mccomas. crampton: you are not the man i took you for. (pointedly.) bullies are always cowards. (he goes disgustedly towards the window.) crampton (following him). well, never mind. we must indulge them a little. can you get us something to wear, waiter? waiter. certainly, sir. (he precedes them to the window, and stands aside there to let them pass out before him.) this way, sir. dominos and noses, sir? mccomas (angrily, on his way out). i shall wear my own nose. waiter (suavely). oh, dear, yes, sir: the false one will fit over it quite easily, sir: plenty of room, sir, plenty of room. (he goes out after mccomas.) crampton (turning at the window to phil with an attempt at genial fatherliness). come along, my boy, come along. (he goes.) philip (cheerily, following him). coming, dad, coming. (on the window threshold, he stops; looking after crampton; then turns fantastically with his bat bent into a halo round his head, and says with a lowered voice to mrs. clandon and gloria) did you feel the pathos of that? (he vanishes.) mrs. clandon (left alone with gloria). why did mr. valentine go away so suddenly, i wonder? gloria (petulantly). i don't know. yes, i d o know. let us go and see the dancing. (they go towards the window, and are met by valentine, who comes in from the garden walking quickly, with his face set and sulky.) valentine (stiffly). excuse me. i thought the party had quite broken up. gloria (nagging). then why did you come back? valentine. i came back because i am penniless. i can't get out that way without a five shilling ticket. mrs. clandon. has anything annoyed you, mr. valentine? gloria. never mind him, mother. this is a fresh insult to me: that is all. mrs. clandon (hardly able to realize that gloria is deliberately provoking an altercation). gloria! valentine. mrs. clandon: have i said anything insulting? have i done anything insulting? gloria. you have implied that my past has been like yours. that is the worst of insults. valentine. i imply nothing of the sort. i declare that my past has been blameless in comparison with yours. mrs. clandon (most indignantly). mr. valentine! valentine. well, what am i to think when i learn that miss clandon has made exactly the same speeches to other men that she has made to me--when i hear of at least five former lovers, with a tame naval lieutenant thrown in? oh, it's too bad. mrs. clandon. but you surely do not believe that these affairs-mere jokes of the children's--were serious, mr. valentine? valentine. not to you--not to her, perhaps. but i know what the men felt. (with ludicrously genuine earnestness.) have you ever thought of the wrecked lives, the marriages contracted in the recklessness of despair, the suicides, the--the--the-gloria (interrupting him contemptuously). mother: this man is a sentimental idiot. (she sweeps away to the fireplace.) mrs. clandon (shocked). oh, my d e a r e s t gloria, mr. valentine will think that rude. valentine. i am not a sentimental idiot. i am cured of sentiment for ever. (he sits down in dudgeon.) mrs. clandon. mr. valentine: you must excuse us all. women have to unlearn the false good manners of their slavery before they acquire the genuine good manners of their freedom. don't think gloria vulgar (gloria turns, astonished): she is not really so. gloria. mother! you apologize for me to h i m! mrs. clandon. my dear: you have some of the faults of youth as well as its qualities; and mr. valentine seems rather too old fashioned in his ideas about his own sex to like being called an idiot. and now had we not better go and see what dolly is doing? (she goes towards the window. valentine rises.) gloria. do you go, mother. i wish to speak to mr. valentine alone. mrs. clandon (startled into a remonstrance). my dear! (recollecting herself.) i beg your pardon, gloria. certainly, if you wish. (she bows to valentine and goes out.) valentine. oh, if your mother were only a widow! she's worth six of you. gloria. that is the first thing i have heard you say that does you honor. valentine. stuff! come: say what you want to say and let me go. gloria. i have only this to say. you dragged me down to your level for a moment this afternoon. do you think, if that had ever happened before, that i should not have been on my guard--that i should not have known what was coming, and known my own miserable weakness? valentine (scolding at her passionately). don't talk of it in that way. what do i care for anything in you but your weakness, as you call it? you thought yourself very safe, didn't you, behind your advanced ideas! i amused myself by upsetting t h e m pretty easily. gloria (insolently, feeling that now she can do as she likes with him). indeed! valentine. but why did i do it? because i was being tempted to awaken your heart--to stir the depths in you. why was i tempted? because nature was in deadly earnest with me when i was in jest with her. when the great moment came, who was awakened? who was stirred? in whom did the depths break up? in myself--m y s e l f: i was transported: you were only offended--shocked. you were only an ordinary young lady, too ordinary to allow tame lieutenants to go as far as i went. that's all. i shall not trouble you with conventional apologies. good-bye. (he makes resolutely for the door.) gloria. stop. (he hesitates.) oh, will you understand, if i tell you the truth, that i am not making an advance to you? valentine. pooh! i know what you're going to say. you think you're not ordinary--that i was right--that you really have those depths in your nature. it flatters you to believe it. (she recoils.) well, i grant that you are not ordinary in some ways: you are a clever girl (gloria stifles an exclamation of rage, and takes a threatening step towards him); but you've not been awakened yet. you didn't care: you don't care. it was my tragedy, not yours. good-bye. (he turns to the door. she watches him, appalled to see him slipping from her grasp. as he turns the handle, he pauses; then turns again to her, offering his hand.) let us part kindly. gloria (enormously relieved, and immediately turning her back on him deliberately.) good-bye. i trust you will soon recover from the wound. valentine (brightening up as it flashes on him that he is master of the situation after all). i shall recover: such wounds heal more than they harm. after all, i still have my own gloria. gloria (facing him quickly). what do you mean? valentine. the gloria of my imagination. gloria (proudly). keep your own gloria--the gloria of your imagination. (her emotion begins to break through her pride.) the real gloria--the gloria who was shocked, offended, horrified--oh, yes, quite truly--who was driven almost mad with shame by the feeling that all her power over herself had been broken down at her first real encounter with--with-(the color rushes over her face again. she covers it with her left hand, and puts her right on his left arm to support herself.) valentine. take care. i'm losing my senses again. (summoning all her courage, she takes away her hand from her face and puts it on his right shoulder, turning him towards her and looking him straight in the eyes. he begins to protest agitatedly.) gloria: be sensible: it's no use: i haven't a penny in the world. gloria. can't you earn one? other people do. valentine (half delighted, half frightened). i never could--you'd be unhappy-my dearest love: i should be the merest fortune-hunting adventurer if-(her grip on his arms tightens; and she kisses him.) oh, lord! (breathless.) oh, i-(he gasps.) i don't know anything about women: twelve years' experience is not enough. (in a gust of jealousy she throws him away from her; and he reels her back into the chair like a leaf before the wind, as dolly dances in, waltzing with the waiter, followed by mrs. clandon and finch, also waltzing, and phil pirouetting by himself.) dolly (sinking on the chair at the writing-table). oh, i'm out of breath. how beautifully you waltz, william! mrs. clandon (sinking on the saddlebag seat on the hearth). oh, how could you make me do such a silly thing, finch! i haven't danced since the soiree at south place twenty years ago. gloria (peremptorily at valentine). get up. (valentine gets up abjectly.) now let us have no false delicacy. tell my mother that we have agreed to marry one another. (a silence of stupefaction ensues. valentine, dumb with panic, looks at them with an obvious impulse to run away.) dolly (breaking the silence). number six! philip. sh! dolly (tumultuously). oh, my feelings! i want to kiss somebody; and we bar it in the family. where's finch? mccomas (starting violently). no, positively-(crampton appears in the window.) dolly (running to crampton). oh, you're just in time. (she kisses him.) now (leading him forward) bless them. gloria. no. i will have no such thing, even in jest. when i need a blessing, i shall ask my mother's. crampton (to gloria, with deep disappointment). am i to understand that you have engaged yourself to this young gentleman? gloria (resolutely). yes. do you intend to be our friend or-dolly (interposing). --or our father? crampton. i should like to be both, my child. but surely--! mr. valentine: i appeal to your sense of honor. valentine. you're quite right. it's perfect madness. if we go out to dance together i shall have to borrow five shillings from her for a ticket. gloria: don't be rash: you're throwing yourself away. i'd much better clear straight out of this, and never see any of you again. i shan't commit suicide: i shan't even be unhappy. it'll be a relief to me: i--i'm frightened, i'm positively frightened; and that's the plain truth. gloria (determinedly). you shall not go. valentine (quailing). no, dearest: of course not. but--oh, will somebody only talk sense for a moment and bring us all to reason! i can't. where's bohun? bohun's the man. phil: go and summon bohun-philip. from the vastly deep. i go. (he makes his bat quiver in the air and darts away through the window.) waiter (harmoniously to valentine). if you will excuse my putting in a word, sir, do not let a matter of five shillings stand between you and your happiness, sir. we shall be only too pleased to put the ticket down to you: and you can settle at your convenience. very glad to meet you in any way, very happy and pleased indeed, sir. philip (re-appearing). he comes. (he waves his bat over the window. bohun comes in, taking off his false nose and throwing it on the table in passing as he comes between gloria and valentine.) valentine. the point is, mr. bohun-mccomas (interrupting from the hearthrug). excuse me, sir: the point must be put to him by a solicitor. the question is one of an engagement between these two young people. the lady has some property, and (looking at crampton) will probably have a good deal more. crampton. possibly. i hope so. valentine. and the gentleman hasn't a rap. bohun (nailing valentine to the point instantly). then insist on a settlement. that shocks your delicacy: most sensible precautions do. but you ask my advice; and i give it to you. have a settlement. gloria (proudly). he shall have a settlement. valentine. my good sir, i don't want advice for myself. give h e r some advice. bohun. she won't take it. when you're married, she won't take yours either-(turning suddenly on gloria) oh, no, you won't: you think you will; but you won't. he'll set to work and earn his living-(turning suddenly to valentine) oh, yes, you will: you think you won't; but you will. she'll make you. crampton (only half persuaded). then, mr. bohun, you don't think this match an unwise one? bohun. yes, i do: all matches are unwise. it's unwise to be born; it's unwise to be married; it's unwise to live; and it's unwise to die. waiter (insinuating himself between crampton and valentine). then, if i may respectfully put in a word in, sir, so much the worse for wisdom! (to valentine, benignly.) cheer up, sir, cheer up: every man is frightened of marriage when it comes to the point; but it often turns out very comfortable, very enjoyable and happy indeed, sir--from time to time. i never was master in my own house, sir: my wife was like your young lady: she was of a commanding and masterful disposition, which my son has inherited. but if i had my life to live twice over, i'd do it again, i'd do it again, i assure you. you never can tell, sir: you never can tell. philip. allow me to remark that if gloria has made up her mind-dolly. the matter's settled and valentine's done for. and we're missing all the dances. valentine (to gloria, gallantly making the best of it). may i have a dance-bohun (interposing in his grandest diapason). excuse me: i claim that privilege as counsel's fee. may i have the honor--thank you. (he dances away with gloria and disappears among the lanterns, leaving valentine gasping.) valentine (recovering his breath). dolly: may i-(offering himself as her partner)? dolly. nonsense! (eluding him and running round the table to the fireplace.) finch--my finch! (she pounces on mccomas and makes him dance.) mccomas (protesting). pray restrain--really--(he is borne off dancing through the window.) valentine (making a last effort). mrs. clandon: may i-philip (forestalling him). come, mother. (he seizes his mother and whirls her away.) mrs. clandon (remonstrating). phil, phil-(she shares mccomas's fate.) crampton (following them with senile glee). ho! ho! he! he! he! (he goes into the garden chuckling at the fun.) valentine (collapsing on the ottoman and staring at the waiter). i might as well be a married man already. (the waiter contemplates the captured duellist of sex with affectionate commiseration, shaking his head slowly.) curtain. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see 48363-h.htm or 48363-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/48363/48363-h/48363-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/48363/48363-h.zip) the little grey house * * * * * * other books by the same author [illustration: decoration] _loyal blue and royal scarlet_ _the wyndham girls_ _miss lochinvar_ * * * * * * [illustration: _so the mowing began, prue preceding._] the little grey house by marion ames taggart [illustration: logo] frontispiece by ethel franklin betts new york mcclure, phillips & co. mcmiv copyright, 1904, by mcclure, phillips & co. published, october, 1904 to anna wentworth hecker contents chapter page i. its children 3 ii. its neighbors 17 iii. its master 33 iv. its relatives 48 v. its blithe days 64 vi. its hard days 80 vii. its menace 98 viii. its makeshifts 115 ix. its burden 132 x. its possibilities 149 xi. its hope 166 xii. its tragic side 181 xiii. its danger 196 xiv. its brave daughter 208 xv. its rescue 224 xvi. its liberation 240 xvii. its sunshine 254 the little grey house chapter one its children "i am going to cut that grass--try to cut it, i mean--before i'm an hour older," said roberta grey, drawing on an old pair of her father's dog-skin gloves with a do-or-die-in-the-attempt air that was at once inspiring and convincing. "this whole place looks like an illustrated edition of 'how plants grow'--grey. we've got to cut the grass or put up a sign: to find the house walk northward through the prairie. signed, sylvester grey. will you help, wythie and prue?" oswyth, the eldest daughter, a year the senior of sixteen-year-old roberta, looked up with her pleasant smile. "help walk northward through the prairie, help find the house, or help cut the grass, rob?" she asked. "help cut the grass, and the rest won't be necessary," laughed rob. "come on! i've borrowed aunt azraella's lawn-mower, though i truly believe i might as well have borrowed the cheese-scoop--that grass is too old and tough to bow down to a mere lawn-mower." prue, being but fourteen, jumped up with alacrity to accept rob's invitation, but oswyth laid down her sewing and arose with a reluctant sigh--she was not fond of violent exercise, and the afternoon sun was still warm. the three girls stood a few moments on the low door-step, letting the breeze pleasantly flutter their gingham dresses and lift their ribbons, before setting to their difficult task. the same breeze blew the tall grass which roberta longed to lay low in undulating ripples like those in the blue and pink fabrics, which drifted into the picture like cornflowers and poppies. the feathery sprays of the millet and red-top, the wands of the timothy were so pretty as they bowed and swayed that, although they were so lawless and rank, it seemed almost a pity to cut them. oswyth thought so, but roberta felt no misgivings--except of her own strength. the little grey house stood well back from the street under splendid trees, set in the midst of a place so wholly disproportioned to its size that it looked in the present unkempt condition of the grounds not unlike a little island of grey rock, entirely surrounded by turbulent and billowy green water. everybody called it "the little grey house," and the name was doubly appropriate, since it did not matter whether one capitalized and emphasized the adjective, and spoke of it as "the little _grey_ house," or left to the adjective its natural function, and spoke of the tiny home as "the little grey _house_." for, as to color, it could not well have been greyer. it had once--not recently--been painted grey, but wind and weather had stripped it of its artificial greyness while tinting its clapboards into soft, indelible tints even more conformable to its title. and, for the rest, sylvester grey lived there, as had his forebears for three generations preceding him--all greys from the beginning. people said that it was "a good thing that sylvester grey had had a home left him, for he never could have earned one." it was true that mr. grey had never been able to make much money, nor to keep what little he did make. "he was as good a man as ever lived," people said again, "but he had no faculty." and to lack "faculty" was, indeed, to lack much. it puzzled and--of course--worried the community in which they lived to know "how the greys got on." mrs. grey could have enlightened it had she chosen, but she did not choose. she hardly realized, however, how much of the explanation lay in her own personality, her mere existence. for she--great-hearted, large-souled woman--had "faculty" enough for two; which was fortunate, as she had to contrive for five. there was a little income--very slender--of her own, and for the rest she "managed." she had been a winslow, of mayflower descent, and aunt azraella winslow, mrs. grey's brother's widow--herself a brown--said, with mingled approval and commiseration, that "when one of us, of the old stock, sets a hand to the plough the corn grows." sylvester grey was a dreamer, handsome, frail, sensitive, and clever. sometimes his teeming brain brought practical results to his family, but these crystallizations of genius were rarer than was comfortable. mr. grey was perfecting a machine for making bricquettes. there was not a very clear notion in his town--fayre--what this meant, but it was understood vaguely to be a machine which transformed the coal-dust and waste of the mines into solid little bricks for fuel. aunt azraella said "it was exactly like sylvester to moon over coal-dust while mary needed kindling-wood." oswyth, the oldest girl, whom he had named out of his delight in old saxon sounds, loved her father tenderly, without understanding him; prue, petted, pretty little prue, young for her years, loved him a trifle impatiently, but roberta, daring, ambitious, active roberta, loved the dreaming father passionately, and understood that he could not feel the present pinch when visions of a greater good lured him on, understood further that no personal pinch appealed to him very strongly when science led him into her fairyland, and he felt himself her servant. and roberta alone, of all who loved him, understood the invention to which he was giving his days and many nights, and she believed enthusiastically that some time the bricquette machine would make the family fortune and her father's glory. yet sometimes her high courage failed, and when the makeshifts and deprivations to which the greys were condemned bore most heavily upon her she could not help acknowledging--though only to herself--that the happy time was sadly long in coming. but it was not one of these disheartening days when she set out to cut the grass, and rob's heart was as gay within her as a sixteen-year-old heart should be, as she looked out on the field which she meant to make a field of victory. her bright, dark eyes, which were always flashing with as many changing expressions as there were minutes in the day, danced with mischief; her rippling mouth and chin--rob's face was all ripples--looked as though the july breeze were playing with them as it played with the lush grass. with both hands she pushed back her dark hair--full of gleams of red and gold in the sunshine--as she ran down the steps and around the corner to fetch the borrowed lawn-mower, for rob's hair was forever breaking its orderly braided bounds and turning into rakish odds and ends of curls about her brow and ears. she came back triumphantly, pushing the lawn-mower around the corner, and it rattled on the old flagged walk as she tipped it up on its rear wheels and dodged the box bordering the paths. "who's first?" she cried. "age and muscle, or beauty and babyhood?" "b. and b.," said prue, unblushingly owning up to both facts as one well acquainted with the value of her big dark eyes and contrasting veil of golden hair, and one made thoroughly to realize that she was the youngest. "give it to me, rob; i want the first cut." "'give me the dagger!' here you are, then, lady macbeth. you'll find the first cut anything but tender--you speak as if it were turkey." and rob gave the mower-handle into prue's eager fingers. prue ran lightly down the flagged walk with her prize. "i shall begin at the gate," she announced, "so if we don't quite finish it to-day people who go by can see we are beginning to get our grass cut." oswyth laughed and groaned. "finish it to-day! cut the whole place!" she exclaimed. oswyth, with her sweet, placid face, smooth, shining brown hair, calm blue eyes and quiet lips, was unlike either of the others. pretty she was in her demure way, and no one minded if her soft cheeks were a bit too plump, since their tint was really the "peaches and cream" of which we read. wythie was a most womanly and wholesome little woman, the sort of girl one sees at first glance must comfort the mother who possesses her. prue, undismayed by wythie's dismay, turned the lawn-mower sharply to the right for her first bold plunge into the grass--and stopped. the dry, stout stalks resisted her onslaught, and the little girl pushed, pulled back, pushed again, bending over the handle till her flying, golden hair fell forward into the yellowing grass, but the machine would not stir. prue dropped the handle, straightened her slender form, and, with one movement of both hands, disclosing a face already flushed and speckled by her efforts, threw back her hair and threw up the game. "i can't budge it, rob!" she panted. "no one could." "want to try, wythie, or shall i?" asked rob. "want to? i don't quite see why anyone should want to," said oswyth, "but i suppose we each must, so here goes." and she heroically came forward to take her turn, laying her dimpled and well-cushioned little pink palms on the cross-bar of the handle somewhat gingerly. she cut a glorious though short swath of four feet in length, happening on more tender grass, and having more strength than prue, but here she, too, met her waterloo, for the mower stood still, balking as effectually as all the donkeys in ireland. "there's no use in your taking it, rob," wythie gasped, after turning hither and thither with no result. "if you cut a few feet it would be the most that you could do, and what difference would it make out of so much?" "you don't suppose i'll yield without striking a blow?" cried roberta, darting at the lawn-mower as if she were no further removed from samson than his great-granddaughter at most. "i have meant to cut this grass for ages--it shows that," she added, laughing. "besides, it always matters a lot to me to be beaten. 'men o' harlech, in the hollow!'" rob began singing the splendid welsh battle-song as she in turn laid hold of the handle, as if she should not only succeed, but have breath to spare for a war-cry. roberta was slender, taller that oswyth, but her young muscles were strong and well-poised, and to whatever task she essayed she brought an excess of nerve-power that rarely failed to bear her to victory on the very crest of the wave. she attacked the tough grass now with such enthusiasm that the balking lawn-mower yielded to her as most things did, and ran along quite meekly for a little while. but then it stopped, and when it did stop not cleopatra's galley, buried under centuries of nile mud, was more motionless than was aunt azraella's lawn-mower. rob pushed and pulled as both her sisters had pushed and pulled, losing her patience as she did so. "no good, bobs," said prue, laconically and a trifle maliciously, for the family only nicknamed rob "bobs," after lord roberts, kipling's "bobs bahadur," in allusion to her indomitable pluck and generalship, and used the name in moments of triumph, of which this was scarcely one. roberta pushed away her rebellious locks with the back of a slightly grimy hand. "if i only had a scythe!" she murmured. "no machine can get through this jungle--i feared as much. i'd mow it if i had a scythe, though!" "now, rob, you mustn't so much as think of one!" said wythie, decidedly. "you know mardy would be frantic if you were to swing one just once--you're so reckless! promise you won't get one." "i solemnly pledge myself to abstain from all intoxicating and entirely inaccessible scythes," said rob, holding up both hands. "where in the world should i get one, wythie?" "you always get anything you set your heart on," said wythie, somewhat loosely, yet speaking from her knowledge of her sister. "do i? then it must be that i set my heart on very little," interjected rob. "would mr. flinders cut it?" suggested prue. "even an infant must realize how very sharey mr. flinders is in carrying on the place on shares, prudence, my child," said rob, gravely. "he may be honest in giving us our third of the vegetables for the use of the land, but i always suspect him of opening the lettuce-heads and rolling them up again to make sure ours haven't more leaves than his." "oh, you know mr. flinders won't do one thing extra, prue," said oswyth, hastily, fearing prue might resent being called an infant. "he could have the grass for his horse," said prue. "'a merciful man regardeth the life of his beast,' prudy," said rob. "our grass is half daisy-stalks, half chicory, half dandelions, half some other things--pigweed, probably--and the other half _may_ be grass." both her sisters laughed. "you always were strong in fractions, rob," said oswyth. "had to practise the most fractional fractions ever since i was born--why shouldn't i be? there come those new rutherford boys down the street," said rob, as three tall figures, arms locked, marching abreast at a good pace, swung into sight at the head of the street. "they seemed nice when we met them the other day; i wish they'd say they'd cut our grass." "i thought you scorned to admit boys' superiority in anything, rob," said wythie, slyly. "i don't admit it; i only act on it--if i have to," said rob. "why don't you wish we could afford to hire a man to keep the place decent, like other people, while you're wishing?" asked prue, rather bitterly. "because i don't see the use of wishing for what you can never have," said rob, quickly. "we can't be rich--not till patergrey gets the bricquette machine done--and since it's impossible, why, it's impossible. but it would be perfectly possible for those big creatures to swing scythes and get this grass mown in short order--it would be rather a lark for them. and if it ever does get cut, and i don't keep it short with aunt azraella's mower, then it will be because i've forgotten the art of wheedling that beloved lady into lending it." "how did you get it this time?" asked oswyth. "talked mayflower and pilgrim rock--it never fails," said rob. "she thinks now there was a brewster in her family, and that probably through him she goes back to glory. and you know what mardy let slip one day about the parental brown and his remarkably good cobbling! poor aunt azraella! it must be painful to miss the dead in the way she does! miss having had ancestors to die. though i don't know why good honest cobbling isn't as good as lots of things they did in colonial days--better than the spelling, for instance. mercy, those boys are almost here! is my hair too crazy, and have i grass stains on my nose, wythie?" "i don't think it's right to run down our posterity," said prue, pulling her ribbons and spreading her hair rapidly. "i'm very proud of my descent." and before oswyth could suggest that she did not mean posterity, three straw hats arose in the air, revealing three flushed, handsome, boyish faces, and three cheery voices called: "good-afternoon, miss oswyth, miss rob, miss prue." and the oldest rutherford boy--he looked nearly eighteen--added: "are you farming?" "we're harming--our tempers," cried rob. "also a borrowed lawn-mower." "won't you come in and rest?" added oswyth. "you look warm." "we've been up to the river swimming; it's pretty warm in the sun, walking fast. what's wrong with your tempers? maybe we'd better keep out." but as he spoke the eldest boy opened the low gate, and they all came in. oswyth led the way to the house, and prue and the youngest rutherford were dispatched for chairs to set on the lawn, for the little grey house had been built before the day of piazzas. before the six young people were fairly settled a figure in white appeared in the doorway, smiling invitingly over a big tray laden with glasses, some plain cookies, and the beautiful old glass pitcher, of which the greys were so proud, full of lemonade and tinkling with ice. "oh, that's mardy all over--always thinking of something for us!" cried oswyth, as she and rob sprang forward to relieve their mother of her burden. chapter two its neighbors "won't you come and see the new rutherford boys, mardy? we met them at frances silsby's the other night," said roberta, as she took the tray from her mother, while oswyth took the pitcher. the three tall lads arose as mrs. grey came toward them. "dear me!" she smiled. "i never would dream you were _new_ rutherford boys if i espied you at a distance, but quite old ones. i am glad to see you." "we are glad to be here," said the oldest boy, shaking heartily the motherly hand held out to him, and smiling back into the kindly eyes which always won young things, quadruped or biped, and were especially attractive to a motherless lad. "i am basil rutherford, this is my second mate, bruce, and this my little baby brother bartlemy. stand up straight, tom thumb, and ask mrs. grey if she doesn't think you ought to be put in an incubator. we're so afraid we won't be able to raise him," added basil, with a tragic glance at the girls. fifteen-year-old bartlemy stood erect to his full six feet one of height, and grinned with the helpless good-nature of a frequent victim. the rutherfords were very much alike, brown-skinned, brown-haired, blue-eyed boys, with honesty and kindliness shining from their fine faces. mrs. grey made up her mind about them on the spot--as she usually did on meeting strangers. "nice creatures!" she thought, and laughed as she surveyed bartlemy. "i doubt that you could raise him--unaided," she said. and the boys, in their turn, mentally labelled her: "nice woman." "but none of you is precisely stunted," added mrs. grey, looking up from her own considerable altitude into basil's, and then into bruce's face, both of which topped her by several inches. "bruce is five feet eleven, good measure, and i am five feet ten," said basil. "all the rutherfords grow rank." "like our grass," added roberta, who had been quiet as long as she could be. "there's nothing but length--and poor quality--to the grass, though," she added, with a wicked look, to which she served an immediate antidote by pouring lemonade into the three rapidly emptying glasses. "you are new neighbors, i think," said mrs. grey, calmly removing a caterpillar from her cuff, and thereby rising high in bartlemy's estimation, who was an embryo naturalist and scorned nerves. "we're here for a time--we came three weeks ago. we've taken the caldwell place, and our guardian put us here with a tutor to get ready for college," said basil. "i'm in my eighteenth year, but i'd like to wait for bart if i could. and he's not as stupid as he looks--we think we can enter together in a year; we'd like to keep on side by side as long as we can--we've done it so far." "how pleasant that is to hear!" cried mrs. grey, heartily. "i'm sure you'll gain far more than you lose by waiting. you speak as though you were alone; are you boys all there are in the family?" "our father is alive," said basil, "but he is in the navy, and he's usually about the farthest father i know--just now he's in japan for two years more. our mother died when bart was six. we wish she hadn't--" basil stopped short. he had no idea that he was going to say this, but the look that sprang into mrs. grey's eyes when he alluded to his mother's loss had slightly upset him. mrs. grey understood. "i wish that she could have stayed to be proud of her three tall sons," she said. "but perhaps wythie and rob and prue can coax you here to share in the mother feeling. we're fond of motherliness in the little grey house, basil, and we do have good times in it. i must run away, or there will be a sad time in it when the girls come in hungry. they will tell you about our little grey house and its grey denizens. will you come often, and help us have good times?" she included the three lads in her warm glance, and quick affection leaped back at her from the three pairs of dark blue eyes. mrs. grey mothered everything that came near her, being one of the sort of women with a genuine talent for loving. she longed to bless and protect all creation, and fell to planning as she spoke how to give these motherless lads the womanly sympathy they must want in their setting out on the battle of life. "indeed, we will come," said bruce, speaking suddenly and for the first time. "you're very good, mrs. grey," said basil, quietly, but he pressed her hand till it ached, and she knew that he had read aright and would accept her invitation. "the greys," began roberta, in a perfectly dispassionate, narrative tone, as her mother went toward the house, "are exceedingly nice people--i can truly say i know none whom i like better. they are of most ancient, trailing arbutus descent----" "rob!" ejaculated oswyth, reproachfully, not knowing how their new acquaintances would take this nonsense. "fact! isn't the trailing arbutus the mayflower?" said rob, unabashed. "it's a more appropriate name, too, because the descendants of the pilgrims have 'trailed clouds of glory as they came,' like the soul in wordsworth's intimations of immortality--i trust you have heard of wordsworth, little boys? if you doubt that the greys are of mayflower descent on the maternal side, just go ask their aunt-in-law, azraella winslow." "oh, rob; how can you?" cried oswyth, distressed. "why, that's true, wythie; they won't have to ask her, will they?" said rob, innocently. "no, don't ask; just listen. well, the greys are poor, but respectable. i hope that they are very respectable, for i can testify from accurate knowledge that they are very poor. they have lots of books, worn shabby, but as good as ever, and the two oldest girls study hard at home--as well as they can--but the youngest they contrive to keep at school. the second daughter is digging away at german alone, and she wishes that everything wasn't divided off into masculine and feminine genders, like a quaker meeting. however, my brethren, this is not history--only natural history, maybe. to return to the grey annals: the dear father grey is a genius, and he is inventing something so clever and valuable that one day the greys will be rich. the darling mother grey is perfect, and a heroine, and nobody on earth could love her enough. the grey girls help her do the housework, and they economize--economize _terrific_! but they do have fun, and they're happy, and when you came along they were economically trying to cut their own grass, under the rash leadership of the second daughter, and the grass would not succumb to a mower. and that brings my story right up to date--it may be continued in our next issue." the rutherford boys evidently understood perfectly how to take roberta; there was no occasion for oswyth's anxiously puckered brow, nor prue's flushed cheeks and mortified look. all three boys recognized pluck and admired it in the brief outline sketch of the greys which rob had given them. bruce especially, rob's senior by half a year, as basil was wythie's, liked the spirit which she displayed, and which was largely his own sort of courage. "our next issue is now ready for the press," he said. "the three rutherfords--all b's, and so naturally inclined to be busy--were coming down the road as the grey girls struggled with the stalled mower, and resolved to rescue the brave damsels. high and low they sought till they had found three scythes, or scythes and sickles. armed with these they marched down upon the grey house, cut the grass with wild hallos, and returned triumphant to the caldwell place. come on, bas; hurry up, bart; we'll shave the grey place clean." "oh, you three long angels!" cried rob, starting up rapturously as the three rutherfords arose to carry out bruce's suggestion with prompt enthusiasm. "i said when i saw you coming that i wished you'd cut this tough grass for us, but i never thought of it again. wait a minute; i want to speak to mardy." she darted to the house and came flying back again from around the rear corner before the others had time to wonder why she had gone. "it's all right; i knew she'd say yes," rob panted. "come to-morrow afternoon, if you really want to do it, and we'll ask frances down, and have some sort of supper on the newly shaved lawn, among the sweet-smelling grass--even this weedy grass will be fragrant, newly mown. will you do that?" "it will be great!" said the boys, heartily. "of course we'll come." and they bade the grey girls good-by, with much satisfaction in their first call. "nice girls," said basil, as they swung up the road, the tallest, bartlemy, in the middle, an arm resting on each tall brother's shoulder. "which is the nicest?" "hard to say," began bartlemy, but bruce cut him short with decision, saying: "prue's as pretty as a picture; oswyth's pretty, too, though not as pretty, and she's a lady, but rob's a dandy! she's got go and pluck, and did you ever see such a face for crinkling up? i had to watch it; you couldn't tell what it would do next--pretty, she is too--splendid eyes and hair." the girls echoed the boys' favorable opinion of them, and it was re-echoed that night at bedtime between the large room which oswyth and roberta shared and the small one prue occupied in solitary dignity. the greys were early astir on the following morning, for "the mowing-bee of the b's," as rob called it, entailed extra labor, well worth it though it was. supper, when one does not consider expense, is a simple enough problem, but supper when there is little to spend means expenditure of strength instead of money. mrs. grey cut the thinnest slices of her own famous bread, buttered it perfectly, and set it away in the ice-chest while she made egg sandwiches and chopped crispy lettuce out of the garden--lettuce which did not look--in spite of rob's suspicion--as though the farmer who carried on the grey garden on shares had "unrolled it to count its leaves." "jenny lind cake," quite good enough for anyone--provided it is eaten very fresh--may be made with one egg. oswyth beat up two of these cakes, and into one stirred juicy blueberries, while the other she baked in jelly-tins, and iced and filled with caramel filling. rob and prue carried out the table and set it on the lawn. the little grey house was well filled with old blue and white china, odds and ends of pink and white also, queer, dainty sprigged cups and saucers, and rare old pewter which it was oswyth's joy to keep bright. so the table when decked looked really beautiful, and the girls surveyed it with pride, knowing that more sumptuous suppers than theirs there might be, but few more attractive, and they trusted to their own gayety to secure it one of the jolliest. frances silsby came down early. she was oswyth's and rob's--more particularly rob's--one intimate friend; the grey girls were too sufficient to themselves to need outsiders. she found them hurrying over their dressing, having scrambled the dinner dishes away, for the laborers were sure to arrive early. the gowns the girls wore were not only simple in themselves, but had done good service and showed in many places their mother's artistic darning. but they were becoming lawns, and when the laughing young faces came up through their fresh ruffles, and the soft, gathered waists settled around the young figures, oswyth was as sweet in her pale blue, roberta as brilliant in her rose pink, and prue as pretty in her snowy white as new gowns could have made them--and, fortunately, were quite as happy. the strains of the anvil-chorus floated down the street before rob and prue were ready--oswyth managed always to be ready--and the clash of anvils was marked by the click of scythes. looking out, the girls saw the rutherfords, three abreast, as usual, implements over shoulders and flashing in the sunshine, bearing down on the little grey house. "oh, hurry, rob; give me my stick-pin, wythie--they're coming!" cried prue. "don't wear your stick-pin, prue; you're sure to lose it out of that thin stuff. take my bow-knot-pin," said wythie, proffering it. "oh, that old-fashioned thing! well, i suppose boys won't know--i'll take it, wythie. ready, rob?" cried prue. "would be if my shoe-lacing hadn't come untied, and i stepped on it and broke it. i wouldn't dare tell anyone what i thought of shoe-lacings!" cried rob, trying to tie the broken string with fingers that quivered with impatience. "let me, rob; you're too crazy," said frances, kneeling before her friend. rob resigned herself with a sigh. "blessings on thee, little fan," she said. "please go down, wythie and prue. tell the boys we'll be there just as soon as we finish singing 'blest be the tie that binds.'" wythie and prue departed laughing, and rob and frances followed very soon. "where shall we begin?" asked bruce, after greetings were over. "at the beginning," said rob, but wythie, with a glance at her irrepressible sister, said: "wherever you like; it really doesn't matter. and we girls are going to rake after you." "_you are little boazes, following your noazes; we are gleaners, like to ruth, raking hay while in our youth, which we think a better line than making hay in the sunshine,_" sang rob, with one of her sudden inspirations. "is this going to be a comic-opera, and are we taking part as stage peasants, or really working?" demanded basil, sternly, though he looked surprised, and his eyes danced. bruce threw up his hat in applause, and bart stared open-mouthed. "rob is demented, but not dangerous," said frances, who had known the boys some time. "you know i warned you." "well, now at it," said bruce. "be sure you don't kill any young ground sparrows," said wythie, anxiously. "oh, let me go ahead and scare up the mothers if there are any nests, then we'll see where they fly up," cried prue. "go ahead, paula revere; rouse the inhabitants," said bartlemy. so the mowing began, prue preceding, her cloud of yellow hair floating over her white gown as she scuffed her feet through the long grass, the boys in their white-flannel shirts, turned away at the necks, swinging their long scythes in their strong, long arms, and oswyth, frances, and rob fluttering after them in their floating summer gowns, raking industriously. it was as pretty a picture as any figure in the cotillon and quite as much fun. presently they all began to sing, prue and frances in their high sopranos, oswyth in her sweet, low soprano, rob in her soft alto, basil a high tenor, bruce, a barytone, and bart something he sincerely believed was a heavy bass. people driving by stopped to look and listen, and mr. grey sat over his models in a happy dream, as the sound wafted in to him, while mrs. grey could hardly keep her mind on the cold meat she was slicing and the biscuits she was making for tea. "bless their dear, happy hearts!" she thought. "how little it takes to rejoice them. they won't know if i go without some little things to make up the trifling cost of their bee." the work was only too short, it seemed to the girls, though perhaps the boys were glad to stop when mrs. grey came out on the steps at five and struck the brass-bowl, which was the greys' japanese way of summoning the family. they had not attempted to mow the orchard, nor the land running down toward the back road, out of sight, but all that showed from the street was gloriously shaven, and rob had run the lawn-mower over it, enjoying its speed. the supper was not merely pretty. "it was distinguished," frances told her friends later; she had a feminine instinct for old china. "but it was not merely distinguished--it was extinguished--they ate every crumb," rob retorted. "and so it must have been good." it _was_ good; even in a community of skilful housewives, mrs. grey's cooking was famous. the dishes were tucked away in a big wash-tub till morning--an indulgence the greys sometimes allowed themselves--and "the little busy b's bee," as the name was now abbreviated, ended with the girls nestled together on the steps, while the boys disposed of their length of limb lower down, and they sang again while the little july moon dipped down before them, and disappeared in the west, and the stars came out. then frances arose to go, and the rutherford boys arose, too, to take her safely home, and then go their own ways. "we're no end grateful to you for giving us the very nicest party we ever went to," said basil to mrs. grey as he bade her good-night. "oh, as to that," rob remarked, "one good cut deserves another." "come as often as you like, my dears; we shall love to have you," said mrs. grey, who, on this second, longer seeing, had taken the rutherfords quite into her motherly heart. "did you have a good time, children?" she asked as the girls kissed her good-night, oswyth last of all, as she always contrived to be. "beautiful, mardy," said wythie. "i really think, as basil said, it was as nice a party as i ever went to." "and i think they are glorious boys," said prue. "i'm so glad we've found such nice new friends." "so am i; it's as fortunate for the three lassies as it is for the three lads," said mrs. grey. "and i am glad the grass is cut, you unpractical little girls, mardy, wythie, and prudy, all three of you," said rob, looking out with much satisfaction on the smooth lawn as she pulled down the shade and lighted her bedtime candle. chapter three its master the morning after the bee oswyth was washing dishes and prue was wiping them, while roberta polished the stove, whistling in cheerful oblivion of the large polka-dot of blacking adorning her cheek. mrs. grey came in from the dining-room, which she had been brushing up, her dust-pan in one hand, her whisk-broom in the other, held straight out like parentheses, and said, without preliminary, out of her busy thoughts: "i don't see, dear girls, what we shall do this fall unless we have an extra hundred dollars. and still less do i see where we are to get even an extra five dollars. i have been lying awake nights contriving, but no suggestion comes. the coal money went to repair the roof, and bought the flour and other things--all necessities--but it must be made up, and i cannot see how. besides, you need, each of you, warm coats this winter. i suppose prue can wear wythie's old one, but wythie and rob must have something." prue made a wry face, but rob cried: "sufficient to the season is the coating thereof, mardy. winter coats don't appeal to me strongly this sultry morning." "don't worry, mardy; i am sure we can manage," said wythie, lovingly. "but coal--well, i don't see how that can be dodged." "no, nor paid for," sighed her mother. "ah, well! we have lived for a good many years, and through several crises which in prospective looked impenetrable, so i suppose we shall find a way." "like sentimental tommy," added rob. "i'm sure of it." "perhaps papa will get into business by that time," suggested prue. "and throw up the invention?" cried rob, quickly. "that _would_ be foolish!" "i wish i could do something to help," said oswyth, sadly. "i wonder if i ought not to go in town this fall, even if i could only get a place in a store." "and earn but six dollars a week, out of which you would have to pay your board? we have gone over that many times, dearie, and decided you are more useful here, even if i could allow a young girl like you to go alone into a city boarding-house," said her mother. "you are such a help to me, daughter, that i could not spare you, and you must frame your wish another way." oswyth looked pensively at her dimpled hands as she held them up over the dish-pan and let the water drip off of each of her ten fingers. "i am going to do something perfectly original right here in fayre; it is going to bring us money, and be a triumph of several sorts. i have no idea what it will be, but that's my plan," announced rob. and as her family laughed at a "plan" so very loosely constructed, she waved her brush dramatically for further elucidation, and upset the saucer of blacking, spattering its contents broadcast over the spotless, though worn, oil-cloth covering the floor. "now, that's just like you, rob," said prue, severely. "you're more likely to do mischief with your schemes than to help much." "that is hardly kind or true, prudy," said her mother. "rob's schemes usually come to something practically helpful. she's a daring girl, but not a rash one. never mind, rob dear; the blacking will easily wipe up. i shouldn't be at all surprised if you hit on a way to get us into a land flowing with milk and honey some day. but you are only sixteen now, and we must find a way to keep us alive in the desert while you finish growing up." a long shadow fell across the door, and the four feminine members of the family looked up to greet its head with a smile. clad in dark blue serge that hung loosely on his thin frame, mr. grey stood surveying the group, smiling back, but not entering. he was tall, handsome, his eyes dark and dreamy, yet with an eager expression in them, as if they had vainly sought that on which they could never rest. he was startlingly pale, except for a bright red spot high on each hollow cheek. roberta more closely resembled him than either of the other girls, but in expression her rippling, alert brilliancy was wholly unlike the far-off, vague look of the father she worshipped. "oh, patergrey," cried roberta, springing to meet him, forgetful of her recent disaster and blackened hands, and giving him the caressing title--pronounced as one word--which she had long ago conferred upon him. "where have you been 'one morning, oh, so early, my beloved, my beloved?'" rob ended in the refrain of a song she loved. "i went to the post-office, and i stopped at mrs. bonell's--she waylaid me," said mr. grey. "you're keeping back something!" cried rob, holding up her forefinger in a reproach that would have been more impressive if the forefinger had been whiter. "he has a basket behind him," cried prue, darting upon him. "what's in the basket, papa?" "'ware, prue! marked: fragile. don't handle," teased her father, holding prue off with one hand. "mrs. bonell is going away." "where? for long?" asked mrs. grey, as wythie exclaimed: "oh, i am sorry." "to europe, for many months," said mr. grey. "and i've told her we would take a boarder." "a boarder! why, sylvester!" cried his wife. "i really thought you would like this one," said mr. grey. "it seemed very hard to say no. you see mrs. bonell said there was no one else in whom she would feel sufficient confidence to intrust this boarder to them, and when such a pretty young creature as she is flatters a weak man so, how can he resist? she says she knows we would never fail to the very end of his life to take care of him. she feels sure we are not the cruel sort of folk who would go away and leave him to shift for himself, nor put him out in the cold on winter nights when he had been in the warm house all day, and if he were sick that we would nurse him lovingly, and if he were suffering and past recovery we would chloroform him still more lovingly--in short, that we were ideal guardians of a cat. so i felt obliged to accept a rã´le nature had evidently designed us to fill." "a cat! oh, bless you!" cried three rapturous girl voices, and wythie added: "it isn't her lovely, white little billee?" "we have only seven cats taking their meals here now," suggested mrs. grey. "my dear, those are humble dependents; of those i hope we shall always have a store, for i want the little grey house to be the asylum for homeless creatures it was in my mother's day," said mr. grey, busying himself with the basket-strap. "but a cat, all our own, and one of the family, we have lacked since the day when poor old nellie grey went to the reward of cats of blameless character. yes, oswyth; this is, indeed, snow-white billy, and i consider it a great honor that his mistress will intrust us with her pet." mr. grey had unfastened the strap by this time, and, lifting the basket-cover, displayed a half-grown kitten, snowy white and odorous of violet sachet, cowering, trembling, with dilated eyes, on the pale blue knitted shawl with which his loving mistress had tried to soften his departure. "now, don't jump at him," said mr. grey, who understood and loved all animals. "remember, a cat is the most nervous creature on earth, and this one is dreadfully frightened." "i've often petted him at mrs. bonell's; he may remember me," said oswyth. "let me take him." very gently she raised the downy creature, who immediately put his forepaws around her neck and clung to her, his poor little heart thumping wildly against wythie's throat. "dear billy, you gentle, sweet, little kitten," wythie murmured, sitting down to rock him, while rob and prue looked on longingly. "you don't object, lady grey?" said mr. grey. "he's so much of a pet already, and so very white, he can't bother you." "why, you know, sylvester, i'm quite as much of a goose about pets as the children--or as you are," laughed mrs. grey, and so billy was adopted. "i'd like to call him kiku--that's japanese for chrysanthemum. i wonder if mrs. bonell would mind? it would be so lovely to say: 'o kiku-san,' when we called him," said rob. "she would never mind," said prue, while wythie began to sing to the old lullaby tune of greenville: "o billy-san, o kiku-billy-san; o kiku-san, o kiku-billy-san." as she rocked to and fro in perfect content, frightened, puzzled little billy shut his eyes and clung to her, his heart beating less tumultuously as he began to realize that here, too, were gentle hearts and hands. "i want you when you can come, rob, my son," said mr. grey, going toward the room which had been set apart for his special uses. it was a well-worn, but well-wearing, joke between roberta and her father that she was his son rob, his mainstay and dependence. "and i'd like to be able to see you when you come," he added, as a parting shot. "just now you are in partial eclipse from blacking." rob laughed and ran upstairs. presently she returned, and went to her father's room, carefully closing the door behind her. it was a curious place, a mixture of study, library, workshop, and laboratory. it had been built for the kitchen of the little grey house when it was new, a hundred years ago. its walls were wainscoted to half their height in panels of grained and varnished wood. the fireplace was made of narrow panels, with little cupboards above the high, narrow, wooden mantelpiece, and the handles of these cupboard-doors were tiny brass knobs. the old rush-bottomed chairs sitting around the walls, and the tables as well, were littered with papers. between the windows, where the light was strongest, sat a common kitchen table, and on it stood a model of the bricquette machine, and models of its component parts. two tall bookcases, one filled with scientific and mechanical books, the other with novels, essays, and poetry, stood opposite these models, and across the room on another table standing close to the sink and small portable stove, were scattered chemical apparatus. rob was perfectly at home in these queer surroundings; among them she had spent a great deal of her childhood, creeping, "mousy-quiet," to sit on a stool by her oblivious father, her chattering tongue silenced and her busy brain full of loving awe. her father looked up now as she entered. "ah, rob, come in," he said. "i want to go over this with you. you read to me what i have written here, while i move the model according to those directions, and see if i have made it clear and correct." "yes, patergrey," said rob, taking the closely written manuscript which he handed her, well used to this sort of service. and then she began to read. sometimes, not fully understanding what she read, rob paused and watched her father manipulate the model, and refer to its sections, until she comprehended perfectly what the words were intended to convey. so far from this interest on her part annoying the inventor, it delighted him, and largely explained what was unquestionably true--that rob was his favorite daughter. "you will be as well able to exhibit this as i shall when it is done, rob, my son," mr. grey laughed, well pleased, as, her point cleared up, roberta read on, pausing only at a word from her father. "wait a moment, rob; this isn't quite right." "mark that with the blue pencil, rob; i'll say that more briefly." "slowly, rob; my fingers won't move as fast as your tongue." at last they were through, and mr. grey threw himself into his big chair with the shabby cushions, sighing contentedly. "that's all right, rob," he said. "next autumn will see the machine completed--december at the latest, i hope. what a help you are, rob, my son!" "it's a comfort to hear you say that, like a sort of grace, every time we get through, patergrey," said rob. "but if i am a help to you, i wonder if i can get you to do something for me?" "yes, you know you can," said mr. grey, anticipating a request to be taken fishing, or to go for a long stroll in the twilight. but rob, who would never allow anyone to insinuate that her father could accomplish more than he did, had other plans in her teeming brain. with a sensitive flush, fearing to wound her father, she said: "didn't you tell me, patergrey, that a magazine had asked you to write a special article for it on something or other scientific, and offered you quite a sum of money if you'd do it?" "why, yes," said mr. grey, startled into animation by the unexpected question. "on fuels and means of heating and lighting in the future, and the world's storage of such fuel; they thought i should be prepared for such an article--as i am. yes, they asked me--why?" "because dear mardy is worried over present prospects; she lies awake planning, and can't see her way out--she told us so this morning," said rob, bravely. "she says we must have an extra hundred dollars--and she has no idea where it can come from. we've used up the coal money--you know she divides her poor little pennies into piles for different things--and if we get coal late it will cost more, besides, how can we get it later any better than now? so i never said a word to the rest, but i thought of the article, and i made up my mind i'd get the dear daddy to put a wee bit of his cleverness on paper, and surprise the blessed lady grey by giving her her hundred--do you suppose it could be as much as that, patergrey?" "they offered me a hundred dollars for three thousand words," said her father, adding quickly, as rob clapped her hands rapturously: "but it will take my mind off the invention, rob, and i don't want to delay that a day. something seems to impel me--compel me is better--to finish it as soon as i can, and anything that retards it is a mistake, my dear." "but you are all prepared--you said so, patergrey--and you are so clever you can do it in a week," coaxed rob, getting up to kneel beside her father, and crinkling her flexible face into a maze of irresistible puckers, as if he were a little child. her father laughed. "a week, you silly puss! three days, at the outside," he said. rob cried out triumphantly: "then you can't say no! only three days! it can't make much difference with the machine, and isn't it worth three days' delay to relieve mardy darling's mind? poor mardy! she's so brave and cheerful, but, oh, she does have to squeeze hard to keep us all fed and housed." to rob's distress her father dropped his head on his arms, laid over the back of the chair, and groaned. "you're right, roberta. it makes me sick at heart to think of what it has cost her to be so faithfully, patiently loving with me all these years. poor, bright, pretty mary winslow, who might have shone in any setting! yes, child, i'll do the article--set about it to-day. i know i make life hard for her, but i do my best. some day you'll all see, rob, i did my best." tears were raining down roberta's cheeks. "papa, patergrey, i know, i know all about it! why do you say that to me?" she cried. "and mardy doesn't have a hard time--she'd never forgive me if i let you say that! she loves you so much that it would have been cruel to have given her all the world, without you." "how can you understand that, roberta?" asked her father, startled by the girl's insight. "because anyone feels that way when they love someone," replied rob. "wouldn't i rather be roberta grey, your daughter, than the richest girl in the world with another father? don't grieve, patergrey. it's all right for all the greys, and we'll show all those people who talk and don't know what they're talking about, we'll show them--you and i and the bricquette machine--some day, won't we?" "i hope so, rob, i hope so," said her father. "but i can't help wondering, little daughter. i sometimes feel as though i were losing my hold. but, yes; we will prove ourselves right, rob, my son," he added, straightening himself, the red spot burning under his glowing eyes. "and in the meantime you shall have the article this week, rob. tell your mother not to worry; my article on fuel shall give us ours. tell her you woke me up to my duty." "i'll tell her nothing about it, patergrey," said rob. "you shall hand her the hundred dollars and surprise her when it comes. and don't say i woke you up to your duty. it makes me sound perfectly horrid, and feel worse than i sound. now i must go help get dinner. thank you, patergrey." and rob kissed her father, and slipped away, glad to have succeeded, yet with the vague pain at her heart which of late she often carried with her from one of these pleasant mornings with the dear, pathetic father. chapter four its relatives although fayre was a small connecticut town not two hours away from new york, the greys followed the simple country practice of dining at mid-day. it was much pleasanter, when the mistress of the house and its daughters constituted also its service, for them to be able to draw a long breath when the forenoon's labors were over, and feel that nothing more onerous and damaging to gowns than preparations for tea lay before them. the last dish had been put away, and the delicate towels hung out in the sunshine to dry. most human lots have their compensations, and mrs. grey found the remembrance of her sweet, fine dish-cloths consolatory to her amid the hardships of household drudgery. rob's brief depression in parting from her father that morning had passed away. rob's heart had not been fashioned to sink under weight; she refused to believe in trouble until it forced itself upon her, and then she still refused to salute it by its proper name. now the girls and their mother had dropped into chairs around the dining-room table, and were enjoying that most restful stolen rest, to which one has no right at that particular moment. no one in the family was quite presentable if anyone should come, and it was already two o'clock; they all felt that they had no right to linger there, still they lingered. yet what they called their "uniform" was pretty and becoming. each sister wore a plain, dark blue gingham, straight-hemmed skirt and blouse waist, with a deep sailor collar, feather-stitched in white, as were the cuffs. the collars opened low, and were tied with a narrow white-linen knotted tie, and the fresh young faces and white throats rose from the dark cotton, looking prettier than usual for the plainness of their setting. the duplicates of these gowns hung, fresh and newly ironed, upstairs; it was the greys' working regalia, "the badge of their labor union," rob said. the warmth of the day, and of getting and clearing away dinner, had made every one of rob's unruly locks stray out over neck and brow, and curl up at their ends. she sat with her elbows on the table, her face in her hands, and prue sat in precisely the same position opposite her, both enjoying the unconventional pose, as they did loitering in their working dresses when the old dining-room clock had struck two. oswyth leaned back in her chair, her small, slippered feet thrust out before her, one arm dangling over the chair-back. mrs. grey rocked cosily by the window on the breeze side, and white kiku-san, who was beginning to adjust himself to his new home, though he still approached strange objects with body elongated and with many nervous backward starts, sat now with his head on one side, watching the shadows on the floor of the swaying tendrils of the honeysuckle around the window. "oh, my heart, the angel!" exclaimed rob, suddenly, in panic-stricken tones. they all looked up. across the newly shorn grass approached a figure, not very tall, but exceedingly awesome, and the greys knew that they were caught. "aunt azraella!" murmured wythie, uncrossing and drawing in her feet, and bringing her arm to the front to join its mate. with some incomprehensible notion of endowing her daughter with a celestial name aunt azraella's mother, the late mrs. brown, had christened her by a feminine form, of her own invention, of the name of the dread angel of death. prue had once caustically suggested that it must have been because mrs. brown had foreseen "that she was going to turn out so deadly." there were a great many hard points about the greys' life, but if any one of them was asked suddenly which was her greatest trial she would probably have answered unhesitatingly: "living so near aunt azraella." the girls speculated privately on what she could have been in her youth to have made their mother's brother--the uncle horace whom they did not remember--marry her. she was one of those persons born with a sure conviction of their fitness and mission to set the world right. she oversaw the greys' expenditures, commented unfavorably on their methods of economy, condemned severely almost all their pleasures as extravagant, was wholly intolerant of what she called "sylvester grey's shiftlessness," and was thoroughly convinced that she could bring up three girls far more strictly, and far better than her sister-in-law--and as to the first half of her proposition she was doubtless correct. yet she was not an ill-intentioned woman--rob said that was the worst of it, "because if she meant to be horrid you could bid her to go to"--and in her peculiar way she really admired and was fond of her late husband's sister. "i wonder what we've done now," said rob, out of her past experience, and taking a rapid mental survey of events since her aunt had visited them, in a vain attempt to discover a peg on which she could hang blame. mrs. winslow appeared in the doorway before anyone could reply, revealing herself portly, with a nose that dented in at the tip sharply on each side above its widespread nostrils; the hair, eyes, and skin of this estimable lady were of a uniform drabness. "good-afternoon," she said, entering. "do you mean to say you aren't dressed? it's quarter--no, seventeen minutes after two! i make it a point to have myself and my house in perfect order every day at half-past one--elvira understands that i demand that of her." "we can't get our girls to grasp the idea, aunt," said rob, a remark her mother hastily covered by saying: "it was so pleasant here we loitered, yielding weakly to temptation, azraella. take this chair; there's a refreshing little breeze at this window." "what's that? not a new cat! now, mary, how can you be so indulgent to these girls? don't you know it costs something to feed animals? it may not be much, but you must often give them scraps you could use. it's just in those small leakages that your management fails--they keep you poor," said aunt azraella, sinking into the rocking-chair and removing her severe garden-hat. "we have a third of a cow, you know, aunt," said rob, gravely, "and none of us likes milk. we get more than three quarts a day, so it leaves us enough for charity. and there are crumbs that fall from a poor man's table as well as from a rich one's, aunt azraella. they're smaller, and not such fat crumbs, but our loving and grateful friends take them in the spirit in which they're given." "they ought to go to the chickens," said mrs. winslow. "our arrangement with mr. flinders in regard to the chickens was that he was to feed them, and we provide only the space for them--and grasshoppers in summer," added mrs. grey, with a smile. "we have all the eggs we need, but not nearly as many as he keeps for his own use. i think this little white kitten won't impoverish us." "you had a party yesterday, i noticed," said aunt azraella, dropping the subject of pets and pouncing on the one which she had come over especially to discuss, in what rob felt was rather like a feline way of pouncing on a mouse. "yes. did you see what a pleasant one it was?" asked mrs. grey. "we had a good time, and accomplished something besides." "i saw three tall men here and a girl--i supposed it was the silsby girl," said aunt azraella. "and i saw you had tea on the lawn." "'the three men' were the three rutherford lads--aren't they tall creatures?" laughed mrs. grey. "but they are only about six months older, each, than our girls. such nice, kindly, well-bred lads they seem to be!" "where were you, aunt azraella? why didn't you come in? we didn't see you," said rob, with apparent innocence. "i was at home, too busy to gad," said her aunt. "i got a few late currants, mary, and i put them up--they made nine glasses of jelly. i was short this year. you did not see me, roberta, because i was not in sight. i have no time to waste. but i saw you had a party, and i made out the tea on your lawn with my field-glasses." rob had known this quite well before she was told, but she dearly loved to extract the information for the benefit of the others each time that their aunt came to reproach them for misdeeds which she had discovered by a method of which she seemed never to be ashamed, but which filled the grey girls with wrath or amusement, according to their mood at the moment. now prue choked, and oswyth's lips twitched, but roberta looked aunt azraella straight in the eyes, her own brilliant dark ones blankly quiet. "oh!" she exclaimed, as if enlightened. "jelly-glasses and field-glasses, currants with an a, and currents with an e--currant jelly and current news! didn't we look pretty, aunt? we had out lots of the old china and pewter." this was pure malice on rob's part, for mrs. winslow coveted the winslow heirlooms, to which as a childless widow, winslow but by marriage, she had no claim. mrs. grey glanced at her second daughter. "if some of us don't make ourselves presentable we shall be caught in our uniforms by someone whom we mind seeing more than we do aunty, children," she said. "suppose we take turns in dressing, and rob and prue go first?" roberta arose. "shall i wear my bridle, mardy?" she inquired. "not very hard to see through, the lady grey, is she?" she added to her younger sister when they were in the hall. "i really don't see, mary, i do _not_ see, how, situated as you are, you can reconcile it with your conscience to give lawn-parties," said aunt azraella, severely. "these girls ought to understand that they cannot expect the sort of youth they would have if their father were other than he is. they ought to help you; not waste money in entertaining." "azraella, azraella," cried mrs. grey, stung to impatience by this double thrust at her husband and her children. "you really should acquire the habit of learning facts before you form opinions. no girls were ever more cheerfully helpful and ready to do without the good times other girls have than mine are. roberta tried--dear child, she is always trying something desperate--to cut the overgrown grass, since we had no man to do it. she borrowed your lawn-mower for it, but the grass was too long to use it. the rutherford boys volunteered to the rescue, and mowed all this great lawn. what you took for an extravagant lawn-party was in reality a mowing-bee. "i hope roberta did not ruin my lawn-mower; i had no idea she wanted it for that tough grass, or i would never have lent it--she ought to have known better," said aunt azraella, shifting her attack. "we didn't hurt it at all, aunt; we tried it, and when it wouldn't work we gave up at once," said oswyth, beginning to tremble. she never could vent her wrath in lingual fireworks, as rob did, and was sorely torn by the necessity of bottling it up. now she longed to say that they would have been glad if their aunt had lent her burly aaron, who was a great friend to the grey girls, and would have come willingly, to cut the grass, but even rob would hardly have ventured this. "i need someone to help elvira," said mrs. winslow, going off on a tangent--she had "irruptions of the brain," rob said. "i have been thinking that i would take one of your girls, mary. i would give her twelve dollars a month, and she could come home every night, and it would be time enough if she got up on the hill by half-past eight each morning. it would give you a little extra income. prue would answer, if you can't spare oswyth--i won't have roberta." before mrs. grey could reply oswyth sprang up, her face dark red to her hair, and saying in a choking voice, "excuse me, mother; i must dress," ran upstairs without waiting for a dismissal. "goodness, wythie, what is it now?" cried rob, as her sister flung open the chamber-door with a bang. "you look mad." "mad? mad?" echoed gentle wythie. "i'm furious! don't you go back there, either of you. she's more maddening than ever. she wants me or prue for a servant to help elvira--she won't have rob." "why, i don't believe she will," drawled rob, with a flash of her bright eyes. "yet i would be good for her; a discipline, not unlike a scourge." prue thrust her head through the door between her room and the girls' chamber. she could not raise it because she was combing her fly-away locks over her face, forward from the neck, having heard that this treatment made the hair more fluffy. from the golden veil in which this enveloped her she spoke: "wants me for a servant to help elvira? did you say that, wythie? what did mardy say?" "i didn't wait to hear--i didn't dare. i felt as though i should have apoplexy," said wythie. "she had been saying things before that." "she's always saying things--and seeing things," remarked rob. "the worst of the little grey house is that it stands where the hill-house overlooks it." prue, inarticulate for a moment from the indignity offered the pretty self which she did not underestimate, found her voice. "well, let her wait till she gets me," she said, in a tone so sarcastic as to make up for the feebleness of the retort. "we've made a 'sloka' since we came upstairs--prue and i," said rob. "we are going to sing it when aunt azraella gets too unbearable; it's better to sing things about her than to preserve your rage, as she does her sharp currants." "i'm afraid it isn't very nice," said wythie, doubtfully. "yes, it is; it's a lovely 'sloka.' of course, you can't be sure it's nice till you've heard it. just listen." and rob sang softly: "_there is a queer person in fayre, who trails fury and wrath everywhere; she's a dragon-like breath, so they named her for death, and when she comes calling: beware! we love our dear aunt azraella, for she lectures us--every grey feller!_ _and she spies with her glass what does not come to pass, while our feelings we scarcely dare tell her._" wythie could not help laughing, and felt better for it. "now, you and prue, sit under the tree where you can warn mardy if anyone comes to see her. i'm going for a stroll," announced rob, and before wythie could object she had disappeared without wasting time on the empty ceremonial of donning a hat. straight through the old orchard she went, climbed the fence, and took her course down the back road. she had a definite end in view. three-quarters of a mile away lived a second cousin of her father, a blind woman, whom the greys had from their childhood called "cousin peace," though her name was charlotte. often, when life and herself got too tumultuous for rob, she ran down for a breath of cousin peace's atmosphere. she saw the pale, calm face she sought at the window as she drew near the house, and, opening the gate, she went up and leaned on the sill without speaking. miss charlotte grey's thin right hand went out to touch her head. "ah, roberta dear, how are you to-day?" she said, as she felt the soft tendrils of curls which she had never seen. "pretty horrid, thank you, cousin peace," said rob, penitently, "but very well." "anything wrong?" asked "cousin peace." "nothing new, nothing much, and everything," said rob, with delphic ambiguity. "we're not any richer, and mardy's been worried, but we've found some nice new boy friends. still, aunt azraella's there this afternoon, rather more trying than ordinarily--she even made wythie furiously mad. so you can see whether good or bad prevails." "your aunt azraella must not prevail--to anger you, dearie," said cousin peace, gently. "she is one of those unfortunate souls that can't see any difference in size between her mountains and her mole-hills. she always reminds me of the old fable of the astronomer who had a fly in his telescope, and thought a new world had rolled into space in the field his glass swept. it is quite as bad as being totally blind to lack perspective, i sometimes think, robin. if you once grasp the fact that only essentials are essential, dear, you will have mastered the secret of good and happy living. and your aunt azraella is not essential," she added, with a merry twist of her lips, as she turned her closed eyes toward rob, and laughed so blithely that it was evident that she did not want to preach, and that all rob's visits to her distant cousin were not serious ones. "she is certainly not essential to my happiness, dear, peaceful cousin," said rob. "you haven't heard the iliad of how the grass was cut. let me relate it." and, seating herself on the upper step, just outside the window, rob began to tell in her most dramatic manner the story of their new acquaintances and how they had befriended the greys. as she listened miss charlotte's pale face flushed with laughing, and she grew so much younger that it was perfectly clear that rob not only received, but gave in these visits to the blind woman. when she arose to go miss grey held out both hands and kissed rob, who had to hold aside the syringa bushes growing unchecked before the window, in order to reach her cousin. "dear robin, come soon again; you do me as much good as your blithe feathered namesake," said cousin peace, holding the strong, brown hands a moment between her white ones. "i'll come; you couldn't keep me away, cousin peace," said rob. "you do _me_ more good than an organ and a stained-glass window, and they help me to feel angelic more than anything i know. oh, why aren't all relations like you?" and rob departed, soothed and heartened as she always was by blind cousin peace, who saw so clearly. she went up the pretty back road as the shadows were beginning to lengthen, and reached home to find aunt azraella gone, and the kitchen of the little grey house filled with the song of the kettle, and the homely, but comforting odor of toast, as her mother and wythie stepped briskly about getting tea, and prue in the dining-room sang as cheerily as the kettle while she was setting the table. chapter five its blithe days mr. grey fulfilled his promise to roberta. he wrote the article which had been requested of him by the magazine, and read it to its prime instigator before sending it off. she found it one of the most remarkable productions of the human pen, nor was shaken, but rather strengthened in her opinion by the fact that she understood very little of what it was all about. then followed a ten days of waiting for the result, which seemed--to one of the conspirators, at least--the longest ten days she had ever passed. it was so hard not to drop a hint of the great expectations to wythie and prue, still harder not to suggest to mardy that the anxious line between her eyes had no especial reason for being there, since deliverance and the equivalent of the winter supply of coal was at hand. at last prue brought up the longed-for letter from her early morning expedition to the post-office, and gave it, quite unsuspectingly, to her father. "rob, roberta, come here," called mr. grey, in a few moments, and, feeling quite sure of the reason for her summons, rob flew to him, nearly upsetting little white kiku-san on the way. her father looked boyishly delighted as she entered his quarters--mr. grey would not allow the word "den" to be applied to his room. "see, rob, my son," he cried, triumphantly brandishing aloft the magic slip of paper. "your worthless father is not quite useless, is he? they shall find out some day that sylvester grey is not the drone they think him." rob had seized the check, and was gloating over it ecstatically. "take that to your mother, child, and tell her to cease worrying; that there is the money she needed, and that when the machine is finished she shall never again know what anxiety is," continued the dreamer, magnificently. "and it will be done soon--in a few months, rob--and while it is getting placed i will turn my attention to this sort of thing, and we shall be very comfortable while waiting to be rich. why, when my mind is free, roberta, it is a low estimate to reckon that i can make a hundred dollars a month by my pen." "of course you can, patergrey," echoed inexperienced rob, confidently. "will it take long to place the bricquette machine when it is done?" "oh, as to that, no one can tell--probably not, but there are delays always liable to occur in the disposing of a patent. but this one is in such demand--no, i think there will hardly be much delay. not that it matters seriously--the important thing is to get it off my mind; that will leave me free, as i said. but run along and take this check to your mother, rob; she must be gladdened as soon as possible. just wait till i make it payable to her order," added mr. grey, seating himself at the table. "indeed, i am not going to take it to her, patergrey," declared rob. "you must give it to her yourself; what have i to do with it?" "oh, i can't," said mr. grey, flushing and hanging back like a school-boy. "you have a great deal to do with it. take it, and tell her you got me to write the article, there's a good fellow!" "isn't it queer how almost all american little boys are ashamed to do nice things? but this little boy must do as he's bid," laughed rob, feeling, as she often did, as though this tall, unpractical, lovable dreamer were actually a little child. "i'll tell you what we'll do: you go out and sit on the steps, patergrey, and i'll go tell mardy there are several tons of coal and some other things outside, and send her out to see. and she'll find you there. and when she comes, you'll hand her the check, and after she gets her breath we'll have a jubilation. run along, little patergrey; we don't get hundred-dollar checks often enough to take this one in a commonplace, every-day way--we must make a celebration of it." without giving her father time for further demur, roberta bundled him out of the door, putting her hands on his shoulders and pushing him before her like a particularly active motor-engine. laughing and breathless, she got him into the ancient wooden arm-chair which stood on the tiny stoop, and ran away in triumph to fetch her mother. "mardy, mardy," she cried, rapturously, "coal and other vitals are here--just come out! go look, and 'drive that shadow from thy brow!'" "rob, my dear, are you quite crazy?" cried mrs. grey. "only go see! this time it is not the patient you must examine for her sanity, but the front stoop. drop your duster and obey, lady grey!" cried rob, seizing her mother around the waist and waltzing her irresistibly toward the door. "rob, you're a scamp," gasped mrs. grey--all that she had breath to say--as she kissed rob's glowing cheek, and yielded. "wait a minute, wythie; don't go out there, prue. let mardy see the luck first alone, and then we'll all go, and make a time of it," cried rob, getting between the other girls and the door. "what is it all about, rob?" cried wythie. "is there really coal there?" added prue. "the equivalent of much coal. patergrey wrote an article--by request, mind you--for a magazine, and they have sent him a check for a hundred dollars," cried rob. "i guess there are people outside of fayre with brains enough to appreciate our father!" "oh, how beautiful!" cried oswyth, while prue caught her breath in delight. then, as mrs. grey's voice reached them in a happy laugh, the three made a stampede to join her outside. "did you ever know anything so splendumphant?" cried rob, once more catching her mother around the waist in one of her mad onslaughts. "i'm so glad, mardy! you've looked so troubled," said oswyth, kissing her mother with a tenderness so maternal that it almost seemed as though their relation was reversed. prue beamed on them all impartially. "i think it is quite awful that money can make people so happy and unhappy," she remarked. "that is an opinion held by all philosophers--all _other_ philosophers, prudence," observed her father. "let's make a tucked-in for dinner," said rob. "it's the only way i can express my joy." a "tucked-in" was rob's name for a fruit-pudding, into which one tucked whatever fruit might chance to be in season at its making. "blueberry!" cried prue, enthusiastically. "i'll go back to the store and get them--they had beauties this morning when i went for the mail." "what a lovely day!" said wythie, but, though she gazed afar over the tree-tops as she spoke, they knew that she did not refer to the weather, nor the fleckless sky above them. "i feel as though an inexpressible weight had been lifted from my shoulders; i'm very happy, dear," said mrs. grey. but though she laid her hand on her husband's arm as she spoke, and looked at him, only rob, who loved him so protectingly, understood that over and above the relief of having the means to provide necessities for her family, her mother rejoiced that her husband, for whose sake her sensitive pride was always up in arms, had aroused himself to give them to her. dinner was scarcely over when prue, looking out of the window, called to her sisters: "here comes battalion b." this was rob's final christening of the three rutherfords, who rarely appeared separately. the friendship between them and the girls had progressed sufficiently for the greys not to mind being caught by "battalion b" in their uniforms, and rob leaned out of the window now to hail them with wild wavings of a dish-towel. "how are you, grey ladies?" cried basil, as they entered. "we have come to demand of you an afternoon in the orchard, beneath whose spreading appletrees the village chestnut wishes to paint prue's portrait." "my portrait?" cried prue, starting up in a rapture. "who, may i ask, is the village chestnut?" inquired wythie. "bartlemy rutherford, whose talents as an artist are great, though unrecognized," said bruce. "does bartlemy paint?" cried wythie, surprised. "and powders and tints his eyebrows," whispered bruce behind his hand, in a stage aside. "but he doesn't want it known." "can you really paint, bart? and will you do my portrait?" asked prue, much impressed, for she had caught a sufficient glimpse of an easel and paint-box outside to convince her there was something behind basil's opening statement besides a jest. "oh, well, i can paint some--i always liked to. i'd like to try to do you, if you wouldn't mind, down in the orchard, under the trees, you know," stammered bartlemy, getting embarrassed. "he doesn't do so badly," added basil. "you'd be surprised. we've got canvases at home representing our tutor's brow, bruce's mouth, my nose, quite marvellously. of course, there are other features in each of these portraits, but those are the ones faithfully limned, so we always politely allude to the portraits by their successful points. in private we call bartlemy fra bartolomeo. you observe its suitability; he is already bartlemy; he is a brother--twice a brother--so the _fra_ part is o. k., and he is a painter. we think it kind and complimentary to call him fra bartolomeo." "oh, let up on your nonsense, bas," growled bartlemy, even his long-suffering patience beginning to give way. "will you let me try a portrait of you, or won't you, prue?" "i'd be perfectly delighted," cried prue. "only you must wait for me to put on a white dress and let my hair down." "and wash your face, little goldilocks," added rob. "however beautiful blueberry juice may be as a temporary decoration, i shouldn't like it perpetuated in a portrait." prue ran away, not deigning to notice this piece of advice, and came back as quickly as was consistent with the attainment of perfect beauty, looking really lovely in her snowy muslin gown, and her big brown eyes alight under her masses of sunny hair. "i'm going to take my darning," announced wythie. "oh, dear," sighed rob. "if only you good people didn't shame others into being good, too! i suppose i ought to take some work--i'll shell the peas!" this was a heroic resolve, for aunt azraella, in an unwonted fit of generosity, had sent the greys half a bushel of peas from her abundance, to be canned for winter use, and the shelling them was a formidable undertaking. rob pulled out the big basket of peas, and basil and bruce, each seizing a handle, bore it forth. rob followed with her big pan; prue, in the glory of her spotless raiment and the importance of sitting for her portrait, could not be expected to carry more than her own weight, so rob had to hang the basket intended for pods across her shoulders, and walked immediately behind basil and bruce, beating wildly on her pan. prue, holding up her skirts daintily, walked beside bartlemy, with his artist's paraphernalia, as oswyth, with her pretty sweet-grass work-basket, brought up the rear, as calm and fair as always. down to the orchard they went, and to bartlemy, as the one it concerned, was left the selection of place. finally he placed prue to his satisfaction--and greatly to her own--in the fork of a picturesquely shaped old appletree, and fell back to regard her in approved artist fashion, head on one side, and with one eye closed. then he set up his easel, and the rest disposed of themselves on the grass, regardless of creatures that crawled. basil and bruce--as perhaps she had expected--volunteered to help rob in her task, and sitting opposite each other, placed the empty basket between their knees, while rob sat beside them, where she could reach supplies, with the bright pan in her lap, into which the peas were soon hailing under the swift work of thirty fingers. oswyth began to darn, sitting a little apart, but almost forgetting her work in the interest of watching bartlemy sketch in the outline of the appletree and prue's slender figure, with swift, sure strokes. whatever bartlemy might prove as a colorist, he unmistakably could draw. "_when the little busy b's turn their minds to shelling peas,_" began rob in a cheerful sing-song, but got no further, for bruce interrupted her, carrying on her stanza, "_'neath the leadership of rob, what's a half-bushel job?_" he sang. "you are such nice boys," cried rob, approvingly. "just as big geese as we are ourselves." "bigger, physically, but mentally we yield to you," said basil, with a bow. "do you expect to be a painter, bart?" asked wythie. the sketch he was making was really full of talent. "i'd like to be; they say i can't tell what i want till i finish college, but i think i know," said bartlemy. "i want to go off to europe and live in galleries for a few years, and then try my own hand." "i mean to teach school," said pretty prue, looking as picturesquely unlike such a career as was possible. "i'm the only one that is getting a regular school training; wythie and rob did lessons at home, but i'm to be properly educated. so i shall teach. unless i sing," she added, as an after-thought. "bruce has been a doctor, according to his own verdict, ever since he could speak," said basil. "and basil doesn't care what he does, provided it puts a pen between his fingers, and encloses him in four walls lined with books," added bruce. "i think i shall be a motorman," said rob, gravely. "i get so deadly tired sometimes of hearing no clang or rattle! there is a monotony about my youth that will drive me to trolleys, or a ferris wheel when i grow up. i'd like to see things hum." now a seventh member of the party had been adding himself to it, unseen of the others, and in easy approaches. this was a grey goat belonging to the greys for some years, whose intimacy with the family was fully established, and whose manners were of the pleasantest. but whether he regarded bartlemy's easel as a personal affront, or whether he resented his daring to paint the pretty youngest girl, to whom the goat belonged in a particular manner, no one was ever sufficiently in his confidence to say, but just as rob announced her desire to see things hum, they hummed, for the grey goat, kicking up his heels, charged head down, full at artist and easel. neither was prepared. bartlemy was stooping, brush in teeth, to look for a palette-knife, and two of the easel's three legs rested on tufts of grass. as the goat charged bartlemy went head over heels down a slope below him; the canvas flew up and lighted full on oswyth's smooth head; the easel fell with a clatter, and paints danced broadcast over the grass. prue screamed, and so did oswyth, not recognizing the assailant in the first confusion. basil and bruce fell prone on their backs, one in each direction, like max and maurice in the old pictures, perfectly convulsed with laughter, while rob, after the pause of a startled instant, fell on her face and nearly went into hysterics. the goat, seeing that he was, after all, in the midst of friends, and seeming to fear that he might have estranged them, looked around on the company with a vacuous and conciliatory expression, while bartlemy, sitting erect, and pulling his collar up and his belt down, returned the goat's gaze with a horrible scowl that sent his brothers and the girls off into fresh spasms of laughter. "what is he?" demanded bartlemy, and added, shaking his fist at the goat: "you old sign of the zodiac, i wasn't interfering with you, was i?" "that's our--our nice--gentle--oh, dear me!--our nice, gentle, old ben bolt," gasped rob, sitting up and wiping her eyes. "gentle!" ejaculated bartlemy. "he's our little pet," said rob. "come here, ben, dear. why did you go for to do it? bowling over a harmless boy who was painting of your missus!" ben bolt meekly obeyed, and took the chance to seize a mouthful of peas, as he gazed with his light-barred eyes at the wreck he had made. "can you hold him, rob? is he likely to go off again?" asked bartlemy. "never," said rob, confidently. "i think he may not like art." "probably suspects camel-hair brushes of being made of goat-hair," suggested basil, pulling bruce into shape, who was quite weak from laughing. "where did you get the little angel, rob?" "why, when prue was only eight years old she found some boys abusing a little grey kid--probably she felt for him because she was a little grey kid herself. at any rate, she purchased him for all her wealth--a quarter--and brought him home. he's been a good goat, and used to drag prue in her wagon until she outgrew it. we named him ben bolt because he bolted everything in sight, but though i used to sing to him, inquiring if he didn't 'remember sweet alice, ben bolt,' it never affected him visibly." "painting is over for to-day," announced bartlemy. "my easel has a fractured limb, and my palette is broken." "oh, can't you go on?" cried prue, so mournfully that they all laughed. "not to-day. we'll try again--sans ben bolt--soon," said bartlemy. "it's such a pity; my dress is so clean," sighed prue. "she finds it a world of stains and pains," observed rob. "never mind, prue; you aren't losing your hair yet." "come on, kid; help with these peas, since you can't paint," said basil. "meaning me, or the goat?" asked bartlemy, accepting the invitation. "give ben bolt the pods, and let's sing to him; then he'll be ashamed of himself," said rob, who dearly loved the sextettes the greys and battalion b carolled. "or ashamed of us," suggested bruce, but obediently lifted up his voice in song. the peas were done much too soon, with so many shelling. long before the young people were tired the last pod had yielded its five plump fellows to the green-filled pan, under the pressure of wythie's thumb. shouldering their burdens the six returned to the house. "it has been a dear day," said wythie, as she and rob stood for a moment on the steps before closing the little grey house for the night. "beautiful!" assented rob, promptly. "in spite of our trials and drawbacks we do have some blithe days in the grey house." chapter six its hard days "julius has abdicated, and augustus reigns in his stead," remarked prue, as she tore off the leaf of her calendar, which marked the first day of the eighth month. prue was fond of making what she considered neatly erudite allusions. matters had not been going well in the little grey house. mrs. grey found herself looking forward to the winter with dread, a dread she tried to stifle, for it was contrary to this brave woman's temperament and principles to look apprehensively toward the future. mr. grey was working feverishly on his bricquette machine, more than ever absorbed in it; it seemed to his anxious wife as if he were putting into it his own vitality, that it was consuming something far more precious than its inventor had ever dreamed would feed it. but, since she could not prevent the harm--if harm were being done--mrs. grey strove to drive the thought of it from her, and bear her immediate burden, which was not too light. it was a humid, sultry day, and many trying household tasks loomed ahead threateningly on the morning when prue made her classic allusion as she tore off her calendar-leaf. oswyth looked pale and tired. she was an expert little needle-woman and had been sewing hard through the heat to make old as good as new--which it never was and never will be--for prue's return to school. prue was very particular as to her raiment; poor child, it was hard to be the prettiest girl, and at the same time the poorest one, in the school. wythie sympathetically thought and wrought to make her gowns as pretty and becoming as possible to offset their many reappearances, and the hardship of wearing the clothes one's elders had outgrown. even rob, though she scoffed at prue's little vanities, in her heart was sorry for the child who alone of the three was forced out among her contemporaries, and could not hide her deficiencies within the friendly walls of the little grey house. mrs. grey had been waiting an opportunity to cover the two big arm-chairs in the parlor. there was nothing that this energetic woman could not do with her hands, and rob said: "give mardy a package of dyes, a paper of tacks, and a hammer, and you may look for anything, from a wedding-gown to a coach-and-four." a certain faded poplin gown, in many pieces, and an old silk with brocaded stripes had long haunted mrs. grey as a hopeful source of new chair-covers. all the previous afternoon she had spent dipping the poplin into a big iron pot bubbling over the fire and bringing it up on the end of her "witch stick," as the girls called it, dripping and dark, to be hung out to dry. here appeared mrs. grey's generalship, for though the poplin had turned out a fine, uniform green, the pieces were much too narrow for upholstery. so she had cut out the brocade stripes from the old silk; the ancient sewing-machine, which made such a dreadful clatter and was one of the greys' grievances, yet which was still capable of good service, rattled and hummed under mrs. grey's feet, as she stitched the brocade bands at regular intervals on the dyed poplin, covering its many joinings. and behold, the result was a fine upholsterer's tapestry of wool, with a silken stripe, and not a piecing to be seen! "there's glory for you!" cried rob. "anyone would believe that we paid any amount a yard for that beautiful stuff." "put up your sewing, wythie, and you and rob stretch it and hold it in place for me while i tack," said mrs. grey. "i flatter myself these chairs are going to radiate splendor over the entire room." "come, then, mardy; we'll help it radiate," said rob. "mercy, how dreadful it is to-day--worse than hot--so sticky and horrid! cat days are nicer than dog days, aren't they, kiku-san? now look at that catlet!" she added. kiku-san had sprung from the table to the top of the door, on the narrow space of which he sat, head on one side, in his usual bird-like attitude, his white fur all streaks of dust. he was quite unable to get down as he had got up, and rob said with a sigh: "oh, dear; this means going to fetch a kitchen-chair to take him down! i wonder how many times a day we do this? and a grasshopper's a burden to-day, not to mention a heavy wooden chair. i never saw such a mischievous cat! and only look at him! regular stained-glass expression; doesn't look as if he ever thought of anything but watts's hymns! he does this just to keep us trotting, the demure villain!" and rob shook a forefinger at kiku, who only tipped his head a little more to one side, and puckered his mouth a little tighter, knowing perfectly that he was about to be rescued. rob came back dragging the chair disconsolately on its rear legs, and placing it under the doorway, mounted it, seized kiku-san by his forepaws, and pulled him down, giving him an admonitory and chastising pat as she set him free. "you've got to take the chair back, prue; i'm going to help mardy, and i can't do all the fetching and carrying," said rob, as she descended. "indeed, i won't," said prue, promptly. "you feel as much like it as i do." rob tossed her head and went toward the parlor without another word, and prue departed upstairs, leaving the object of dissension where it stood. wythie patiently picked it up and bore it away, and followed rob to the parlor, where she and her mother were already fitting the beautiful new covering on the chair. "it's splendid, mardy; what a genius you are!" cried wythie, dropping on her knees at her side of the chair. for a while they pulled and cut, and mrs. grey tacked in silence, except for the necessary directions. no one felt quite cheerful, nor had superfluous energy to spend in speech. just as one chair was nearly finished a shadow fell across its arm, and mrs. grey and the girls looked up to see aunt azraella, who had entered unheard, watching them with her sternest look of disapproval. "ah, good-morning, azraella," said mrs. grey, noting this and trying to speak brightly enough to avert its expression. "we are trying to forget the heat in the interest of hard labor." "so i see. aren't you forgetting something besides the heat, mary?" said this inflexible lady. "why, no; are we?" asked mrs. grey, surprised into a hasty mental inventory of possible duties unfulfilled or engagements broken. "aren't you forgetting that there are more necessary things than chair-covers?" demanded aunt azraella. "aren't you forgetting the state of your finances, and that you can't afford the least extravagance? how much did you pay a yard for that material?" rob, foreseeing this question, had been engaged in a hasty mental estimate of the original cost of the poplin and the silk. "dollar and a quarter for the woollen stuff--one seventy-five, surely, for the brocade, when mardy married, just--it cost precisely three dollars a yard, aunt azraella," she said aloud, before her mother could reply. mrs. winslow held up her hands in horror, and mrs. grey said, reproachfully: "rob, how can you?" "i've no doubt the child speaks the truth," said aunt azraella, quickly. "thanks, aunt; i do try to," said rob. "mardy, you know it must have cost at least three dollars--both of it." "and you don't think that disgraceful, as you are situated?" began mrs. winslow, but her sister-in-law interrupted her. "azraella," she cried--it was indicative of aunt azraella's character that on the hottest day, and under the stress of physical weariness, no one ever thought of abbreviating her name--"azraella, aren't you used to rob's pranks yet? this is my old grey poplin, dyed, and run together with the stripes of a handsome brocade i had when i was married. this scamp of a girl is giving you the original cost of both materials; i am very glad it looks well enough to deceive even your keen eyes." but aunt azraella was not to be diverted from expressing the wrath which had been gathering on her brow since mrs. grey had begun explaining. "roberta is distinctly a trial," she said, severely. "an unmannerly, impertinent girl. she may consider it funny to give me such a misleading answer, but i consider it most disrespectful." "i was only trying to be cheerful, aunt," said rob, her face crimson, and struggling not only to speak quietly, but to speak at all. "i didn't intend to deceive you, but only to--well, to have a little fun before you found out the truth." "i know perfectly that you always object to my interest in your affairs, but i consider your good more important than your likings. i shall always tell all of you--from your indolent father and your indulgent mother down--precisely what i think. it is my duty to be perfectly candid and truthful," said mrs. winslow with the air of a martyr. "perfect candor is rather dangerous, azraella," said mrs. grey, and rob saw that she was having as much difficulty in speaking calmly as her inflammable self. "one should wait until it is sought, and then not indulge in its full expression, especially when one's opinions are offensive--such as an allusion to the head of a house as indolent, for instance. mr. grey has been working so hard of late that i am anxious about him. and you see that you judged rashly in pronouncing us extravagant. we were rather priding ourselves on our clever thrift. it is such a very humid, trying day, that it is not favorable to too great zeal for others." when her gentle sister-in-law spoke with a certain calm deliberation, and a slight lowering of lids and lifting of eyebrows, mrs. winslow was apt to read it as a danger-signal and retreat. at heart she stood in awe of her better-bred, better-born sister-in-law, and dared not press her too far. aunt azraella had a habit of seeking the little grey house as a lecture-field when affairs in her larger house went wrong. "well, mary," she now began more mildly, "you know who it was that asked if he were his brother's keeper. i think it is our duty to exert ourselves for our neighbors, especially for our misguided kindred, and never to shrink from the utterance of a truth, however unwelcome. but you hold yourself entirely aloof from the affairs of others, and i suppose we shall never see the question alike. i want to tell you about elvira--she is such a trial! and in this case you must advise me." "very well," said mrs. grey, with a sigh, seeing that rob's tears of nervous wrath were falling, as she pretended to busy herself with the lining under the chair-seat, and resigning herself to listen for the unnumbered time to a recital of the wrong-doings of faithful elvira, mrs. winslow's long-suffering "help," in the old-fashioned sense. it would all end as it always did; elvira only failed in the small ways incident to humanity, and aunt azraella was wholly dependent upon her. for a long time mrs. winslow recounted her woes, while mrs. grey and wythie and rob pulled and tacked. how elvira had insisted on placing the glasses on the second shelf of the cupboard when mrs. winslow had always kept them on the third; how she had resolutely clung to a cheesecloth duster where her mistress preferred silk, and a cloth-covered broom for cornices, where mrs. winslow, and her mother before her, had used a feather-duster, etc., etc., through the whole long list of pettiness which meant only that the august day was sultry and aunt azraella out of sorts. at last she paused, and mrs. grey saw that she had talked herself into a better frame of mind, her troubles remedied in their recital. "i wonder what would become of poor elvira if mrs. winslow hadn't the little grey house as a safety-valve?" thought mrs. grey, but what she said aloud was what she always said under these circumstances: "after all, elvira is a good, devoted creature, azraella." "yes; i suppose i can't do better in fayre than to keep her," said aunt azraella, responding in the set form to this liturgical remark. "i must go back, or she will have a chicken broiled for my supper. i told her i didn't want it, but she always does something of that sort when i have been annoyed. send prue up for some blackberries to-morrow, mary. i have enough to let you have some for jam--possibly for cordial, too." "thank you; good-by, azraella," said mrs. grey, and rob arose to say good-by a trifle grimly, as wythie escorted their relative to the door. "oh, dear," said wythie, coming back and sitting flat on the floor beside the chair, now nearly done, in an attitude eloquent of exhaustion, if not despair. "i really think, mardy, if we could emigrate, we ought to; it's enough to turn a saint into a tiger to have such visits so often." "they used to turn saints into tigers in the colosseum very frequently in the early christian era," said rob, whose spirits always rose a few points when wythie's went down. "i think i'll leave the gimp till another day," said mrs. grey, straightening herself with difficulty, and drawing a long breath as she put her hand to her aching back. "as to emigrating, wythie, you will have to emigrate to heaven to escape annoyances. we have often agreed, you know, that aunt azraella is not wholly a trial; we shall enjoy her blackberries, for instance. i wish rob could remember that she is utterly devoid of a sense of humor, and that people of that unfortunate sort usually resent nonsense as a personal affront. mercy! what's that?" a crash of crockery and a scream echoed through the quiet house, bringing its master to his door to inquire what was wrong, and sending rob upstairs in a rush, ejaculating but the one word: "prue!" mrs. grey and wythie followed as fast as they could, and a mournful sight met their eyes. in the middle of wythie and rob's room stood prue, dripping, and on the floor, in an absolutely unmendable wreck, lay the water-pitcher, with an ugly scar on the front of the wash-stand to mark the course of its fall, while the matting was soaked in water. "quick! it will go through to the dining-room ceiling," cried rob, snatching a towel and dropping on her knees to mop as though her life depended upon it, an example wythie instantly followed. "what were you doing, prudence?" asked her mother. prue's tears were fast adding themselves to the general dampness. "kiku was so black i thought i'd wash him," she sighed. "he struggled, and i really don't know what happened, but i knocked the pitcher off with my elbow, and--well, you see!" "rather!" said rob, from her humble attitude. "feel, too. my dress is getting as wet as the towel. there's one comfort: between them the dining-room ceiling will be safe; but oh, i did love that toilet-set!" "and so did i," said mrs. grey, sadly, as she picked up one of the largest fragments and regarded it mournfully. "i bought it when i was married. i remember how proud i was of my new dignity when i made the purchase. ah, well, prue; accidents must befall; but i can't help wishing that you had left kiku to his dusty little self." "so do i, mardy," said prue. "and now wythie and i have no pitcher," observed rob, too tired and warm to find forgiveness easy. "you needn't complain if mardy doesn't," said prue, sharply. "go change your dress, prue; no one has complained nor blamed you," said her mother. prue retreated with bad grace, but in a moment called pleasantly from her room: "here comes mr. flinders, mardy. he looks glummer than usual." "go down, one of you girls; i'm really too tired to encounter him now," said mrs. grey, wearily. she had had many sore experiences of the farmer who carried on their garden on shares, and who was always ready to cut down their share to the minimum. rob arose with a sigh. there was a tacit understanding that in any matter of business it should be she, and not wythie, who came to the front. "something has failed," she said, laconically, speaking from past experience and the pessimism of a humid, tiresome day. "good day, roberta," said mr. flinders, when rob appeared at the door. "i'm afraid i've got to say what you won't want to hear." "very likely, mr. flinders," said rob, drearily. "i am so tired to-night there are few things i should want to hear." "well, the pertaters is doing bad--your pertaters," said mr. flinders. "i thought mebbe you'd want to know in time to engage some." "are they spoiled?" asked roberta, aghast, for the failure of that particular crop meant serious misfortune for the winter. "well, what with dry-rot and bugs, i guess you're not goin' to git many," said mr. flinders. "i thought mebbe you'd want to know," he ended, breaking down under the sternness of roberta's dark eyes. "did the bugs and dry-rot attack only our potatoes?" she demanded. "it's kinder diffused, so to say," admitted the farmer, "but i guess it's fair to subtract the loss from yours mostly, because i've got to be made good for my trouble." this was farmer flinders's invariable response, and rob flashed fire. "mr. flinders," she said, "you can't share only profits--you've got to share losses, too. we're getting tired of it. we'll send for someone to look over the garden, and decide the question of the proportion of loss on the spoiled crop, and we will settle exactly on the basis of one-third loss for us and two-thirds for you, just as we share profits." "i wasn't aware, roberta, you was runnin' the place. if you're managin', i'd like to be notified," said farmer flinders, rigid with offence. "i'm the business one of the family," said poor rob, with sudden inspiration, "and it will be as i say. i represent the greys. we shall not accept less than our third of the good vegetables, and that notification will be all you need, mr. flinders." she had never encountered the old fellow before, and she felt that he recognized and objected to the fact that here was youthful fire and determination to deal with, unlike her mother's gentleness or her father's easy methods. "i'll see your father later," said the farmer, turning away ill at ease. "good-day, roberta." "good-day," said rob, briefly, and retraced her steps heavily upstairs. she found wythie lying across the foot of their bed, and threw herself on her face beside her. "what luck?" asked oswyth, sleepily. rob punched and poked a pillow into shape, and looked morosely out of the window at the thunder-clouds piling up in the west, the result of the hot, sultry day. "oh, i barked at him. i think i shall have to see him in future; i believe i have more effect than mild mardy and patient patergrey," rob said. "but, oh, i'm tired--tired of being vivacious and snappy and go-ahead. i'm tired, dead tired, of fighting, oswyth. i'd like to lie down and be taken care of, like a little ewe lamb. there are two robs in me; one is sneakingly cowardly, and wants only to curl up in a hole and hide; and the other says: 's't, boy! sic 'em, rob!' and i'm up and at it again--at fate, and hard times, and aunt azraella, and house-work, and mr. flinders, and all those horrors. and then the tired, meek rob tears around obediently, and no one dreams it's all like thumb-screws and rack to her. i'm tired of my rã´le of snapping-turtle, wythie." "poor rob!" said oswyth, gently running her fingers in and out of rob's beautiful, gleaming rings of hair, and stroking the mobile face, now twisting hard in its effort to laugh when the tears were very near falling. "don't mind me," said rob, succeeding in forcing a feeble laugh. "i'm tired, and it's been a fearfully humid, trying, tiresome, crooked day. besides, we're going to have a thunder-storm, and electricity always makes me sick. don't mind me." chapter seven its menace miss charlotte grey was spending the day with her cousins. two of august's weeks had slipped away, and the air was fresh and pleasant. it seemed to the grey girls as if it were always refreshing weather when "cousin peace" came. all unpleasant tasks were laid aside; the blinds in the cosey upstairs sitting-room were closed, with the slats turned to admit the breeze and the droning sound of the bees humming in the old garden. this old garden was left to its own sweet will, and by august it was a thoroughly sweet will; its varied-shaped beds were lush with a profusion of honey-laden blossoms, whose fragrance permeated everywhere. every taint of annoyance seemed banished from the little grey house when cousin peace came to spend the day. mrs. grey was hemming delicately cool linen to be divided into family collars, and feather-stitched. wythie was putting new sleeves into prue's cherished white gown, roberta was making fresh, clean-looking, green-and-white gingham into an apron, and prue was shelling peas, the juicy sweetness of their pods adding to the pleasant summer smells around them. miss charlotte was knitting--she was usually knitting--little fleecy white things to wrap babies in, and bright mittens for little hands. "i have a new magazine here which mrs. silsby sent down yesterday by frances, charlotte," said mrs. grey, "but i thought we would keep it for those lazy hours after dinner, then one of the girls must read to us." "that sounds attractive," said cousin peace. "will sylvester join us?" "oh, charlotte, no," cried mrs. grey. "sylvester is absolutely swallowed up in his invention; he has no eyes, nor ears, nor thoughts to spare from it. rob is the only one who sees him lately, and that is because she helps him. he expects to finish the machine in a few months, but in the meantime he is so concentrated on it, and seems so excited that i can only long for its completion, and his relief from this strain, whatever the result of the work may be." "i thought the last time i saw him that he was not looking well," said miss charlotte. the girls were accustomed to her speaking as though she saw the people and things around her; to her delicately keen perceptions there was really little difference between blindness and sight. "i am anxious," said mrs. grey. "dear charlotte, only suppose he were to be really ill!" "we won't suppose it," said cousin peace, cheerily. mrs. grey shook her head. "come to the commissary department, adjutant wythie," she said, with a pathetic smile. "we mustn't forget that cousin peace, as well as more turbulent people, must be fed." wythie followed her mother, and prue, hastily emptying her last pods, ran after them, the peas dancing up to the edge of the pan as she ran. "cousin peace, i'm glad to get you to myself for a few minutes; you know everything, you have ideas in your finger-tips," said rob, laying her bright head on miss charlotte's knee. "what shall i do to earn money? i'm only sixteen, and untrained. i've read--thank goodness, patergrey and mardy took care to give me the best books and a liking for them, and i really do know lots of things other girls don't know, but they know lots of things i don't--schoolbook things, you see. now, what is there that sort of a young person could do to make her fortune and her family's?" miss charlotte shook her head. "you ought to have special training in something, and, above all, you ought to be older before you begin, rob dear," she said. "is there any new reason for haste, any fresh pressure?" "there may be. mardy heard that some of her investments might pay less this winter, and you know how she has to struggle at best to keep us warmed and clad and fed," said rob. "i must help her. if i don't find a way some day to make up to that brave, dear, blessed soul for all her hard times, then i'm not the girl i hope i am. it makes me just wild to be useless! i'll get luxury for her old age if i have to go about with a hand-organ and a monkey! and if i can't grind the organ, i'll be the monkey," added rob, turning her face up to laugh in miss charlotte's face, with one of her sudden flashes of fun. miss charlotte bent to kiss rob, her favorite--if she had one--among the three young cousins of whom she was very fond. "you might not get her positive luxury by that desperate measure, dearie," she said. "but you are far from useless. i can no more imagine the little grey house without you than without its foundations. don't be anxious nor impatient, robin; you'll find your place when the time comes, and, in the meantime, you don't realize what a sunny bit of courage you are, nor how these grey people lean on you. i have a strong foreboding, roberta, that you are going to have your young hands filled very soon, and your work cut out for you--it may be a work that will demand all your strength." roberta sat erect, startled. wythie and she had always felt that cousin peace had a gift of foreknowledge almost like second sight; she was so keenly alive to her atmosphere that she felt its changes to a degree that had to blunter folk the effect of prophecy. something kept rob now from asking her cousin's meaning. she straightened her young shoulders, and said, instead: "i hope when the time comes i shall not fail them." and miss charlotte, understanding that by "them" she meant her family, said, with entire conviction: "i am certain, my dear, that you never will." after dinner "battalion b" came whistling down the road, and stepped, one after the other, over the gate of the little grey house. they had come to get the girls to go rowing with them, but finding miss charlotte there they gave up the plan very willingly, for the tall rutherford boys had long since succumbed to the charm of the sweet blind woman. "prue, run up and get the magazine i left in the sitting-room," said mrs. grey. "we'll make basil and bruce read aloud," cried rob. "they're too big to be idle, and far too big to be generally useful." prue, obediently, left the room. as she reached the hall she heard a groan from her father's room, and heard him gasp: "mary, rob--oh, come!" she rushed back to the dining-room, where cousin peace sat serenely in the breezy window, while wythie and rob put away the dinner dishes, and the rutherfords were tormenting them. how beautiful it looked, how peaceful, to the frightened girl standing speechless in the doorway, with that hoarse moan of pain echoing in her ears, unheard by the others! wythie looked up and saw prue's face. the saucer she held fell to the floor in fragments. "prue--what?" she gasped. everyone sprang up, and mrs. grey seized prue's arm, in mute appeal. "papa's sick or hurt; he's groaning and trying to call," prue managed to say. miss charlotte, wythie, rob, and the boys pushed prue aside, starting for the room across the hall, but mrs. grey's love outstripped them. she it was who first reached her husband's side, and knelt in terror beside his arm-chair, where he half sat, half lay, his face ashen, his breath short. his right hand pressed his chest, the left arm hung at his side, the pulse in the wrist hardly perceptible to his wife's fingers. "what is it, dear? can you tell me?" asked mrs. grey. wythie and miss charlotte were bathing his temples, while rob, on her knees at the other side of his chair, had loosened his collar. for answer mr. grey pressed his hand closer to his breast, moving it slightly, but his lips barely moved. "bartlemy, run, run for the doctor!" cried mrs. grey. "stay, basil and bruce--i may need you." "is it death, mardy?" whispered rob, feeling the cold of her father's body through his clothing. "i don't know, rob," mrs. grey's white lips answered, with an effort; in her heart she thought it was. "if there were only something to do!" moaned oswyth, feeling her helplessness unbearable. it seemed to them all that an eternity had passed since they had entered that room--in reality it was scarcely two minutes. suddenly mr. grey's limbs relaxed, he moved, closed his eyes, and as his wife held to his lips the water prue handed her, said: "the pain has gone; i can breathe." "here's the doctor," cried prue, and a long sigh of relief went around the tense room. "he has driven over without a hat, and brought bart with him." dr. fairbairn entered, bringing with him the feeling that now all must be right, which always attended that great man. a great man he was, since he easily footed up his seventy-four inches of height, huge in proportion, and with a heart and brain big out of proportion even to his immense bulk. he was one of those men without worldly ambition, yet afire with zeal, who are sometimes found ennobling the profession in small communities. past sixty, dr. fairbairn had seen sylvester grey born, and still regarded the girls as his babies. now he entered the troubled group, kindly, sympathetic, business-like, strong to comfort and to save. "what are you up to, now, sylvester man?" he said, walking straight to his patient with a brief nod for the others. "i don't know, doctor; it's all over now, anyway; i'm sorry they bothered you," said mr. grey. "don't be foolish, boy," said dr. fairbairn. "how were you taken?" "fearful pain just over the heart, in the chest, and all down the left arm. then i felt suffocating, and the agony got unbearable; i really thought i was dying." and mr. grey gave a little apologetic laugh. "yes. been working hard, thinking hard?" asked the doctor. "the machine is almost done, doc. i have to work hard, and it takes all my thought. you can't realize--it means comfort, luxury maybe, for mary and the children," said mr. grey, speaking rapidly and pulling himself erect. "i didn't ask you all that. i see: concentration, nervous excitement, close application," muttered dr. fairbairn. "go over there and lie down and let me hear your heart through this thing." the doctor led mr. grey to his lounge, and placed his stethoscope to his chest. in a few moments he wound the tubes together and pocketed it again. "now, look here, sylvester grey, is there any use in my giving you orders, or are you going to do precisely as you please anyway?" he said. "i'll mind you if i can, doctor, but you know my health is nothing in comparison to what i have in hand. after a few months i'll take as good care of myself as you like," said poor mr. grey. "that shows the uselessness of injunctions," said the doctor. "but now is the time to take care, not later. avoid over-exertion and excitement; work moderately, don't over-do, and work calmly, then you may stave off similar attacks." "and if i don't do this?" suggested his patient. "you are certain to suffer this way again," said dr. fairbairn. "is there danger?" asked mr. grey. "there is grave danger; it is your duty to avoid it," said the doctor. mr. grey turned his face to the wall. "it is my duty to finish the machine and provide for my family," he murmured. "my life would be well spent if it purchased them peace." "there is little peace to be had in the loss of the one we love best, sylvester," said miss charlotte, who alone had caught his words, seating herself on the couch and beginning to stroke the weary head of him who had been her favorite playmate. mrs. grey and her daughters, who had stood silently, breathlessly, listening to this conversation, now followed the doctor to the door. "tell me, dr. fairbairn," said mrs. grey. "angina pectoris, mary, my dear, if that sheds any light on your darkness," said the big man, smiling down upon her, and, as she shook her head, he added: "it is an affection of the heart often found where there is no organic disease. it is dangerous in repeated attacks, and is not infrequently quickly fatal." dr. fairbairn did not approve of professional deception unless it was necessary. "and so sylvester is in danger?" mrs. grey almost whispered. "yes, mary; over-work, over-excitement increases his danger," replied the doctor. "but no one can tell more than that. we are all in danger; we know of his--that's the main difference. try to make him go more slowly." "thank you, dr. fairbairn," said mrs. grey. "now, don't begin bearing a sorrow that has not come," said the doctor. "that was never your way. i'll send you the remedies you must use another time. be of good courage, mary; but there's no need of telling you that, you plucky little heroine." and with a tight clasp of the hand mrs. grey mutely held out to him, and a pat on each girl's white cheek, the big doctor was gone. mrs. grey closed the door behind him and held out her arms. her three children sprang into them, and the mother held them close in a convulsive embrace. "we'll take care of him, mardy," whispered rob, with something clutching her throat. mrs. grey pushed open the dining-room door and drew the girls after her into the room where the rutherford boys had retreated to await the verdict. mrs. grey sank into the chair nearest her and laid her head on her arms above the table with a girlish movement of abandonment. basil, grave and kindly, bent over her and put his arm across her shoulder as if to ward off grief. bruce stroked the fine brown hair of the bowed head with awkward gentleness, and bartlemy hovered helplessly in the background, making no secret of the tears on his brown cheeks. the girls knelt beside her, prue's head in her mother's lap. "don't, mardy darling," said wythie at last; it seemed so horribly unnatural for their brave mother to break down. "see, bruce, what you must do if you become a doctor," said mrs. grey, raising her head and trying to speak cheerfully. "you will have to tell people alarming truths, and go away knowing you have left behind you stricken hearts, for which you have just changed the whole face of creation." "i would rather remember the comfort i may be able to bring," said bruce. "is it so bad?" "unless mr. grey will give himself the care which we are sure he will not feel that he can afford to give, he is in mortal danger; he is almost certain to have more of these attacks--angina pectoris, it is--and they are--are likely--oh, my dears, just be patient with me a few moments! i will be brave later, but i must be a coward for a few moments, please dears!" and once more the head bent under its burden upon the folded arms. miss charlotte came into the room, calm and smiling, and went directly to mrs. grey. taking her hand in one of hers, and running the fingers of her other hand through prue's golden hair, she said, brightly: "mary, dear, sylvester is sleeping beautifully; he will waken refreshed. i know precisely what the doctor told you; i have seen angina pectoris before, and i recognized it. but we are not going to be cast down--only very careful. dearest children, you are so frightened, aren't you? remember, you must cheer your mother. wythie and rob, go make us your very best coffee. and prudy-girl, dry your eyes, and cut us bread very thin, and butter it. and perhaps 'battalion b' won't mind helping the girls with the fire--i'm sure it's nearly out. now, mary," she added, as the young people disappeared, and mrs. grey rose and threw herself on her cousin's breast, "courage, dear! only your old courage re-enforced. there is danger, but we are going to be confident of escape. go bathe your dear face, and then come back for your coffee, and when sylvester wakens he will find the cheery mary winslow, who has tided him over so many hard spots. i think i hear kiku mewing; perhaps we shut him in the sitting-room. will you see when you go up?" "charlotte, charlotte," cried mrs. grey, holding the blind woman fast for a moment before she obeyed. "in all the world there never was another such a comforting, sustaining, heaven-sent creature as you are!" miss charlotte listened to her cousin's footfall on the stairs with a tender smile of satisfaction; she well knew the value of homely tasks in a dark hour, and that their resumption made tragedy seem impossible. but left to herself cousin peace's smile faded; she dropped wearily into the chair mrs. grey had vacated, and, leaning her head on her hand, allowed the tears to gather and drop into her lap. the hope that she must maintain in others it was hard for her to feel. her cousin was so frail, his life so far removed from the lives and interests of other men that it was easy to imagine it ended. he was certain to continue to work with the same feverish, excited eagerness until his patent was completed, and the doctor had said---"here is the bread, cousin peace, and the coffee is nearly ready," said prue, entering, much more cheerful than she had gone out. miss charlotte started up, with her own bright smile. "and i, for one, am quite ready to drink it!" she cried. mrs. grey came back, smiling also, kiku on her shoulder. "he was shut up, peaceful, dear," she said, "and complaining bitterly of being forgotten through dinner-time." rob brought in the steaming coffee-pot, followed by a procession of three tall boys, each carrying something, ending with wythie bearing the cream. mr. grey pushed open the door just wide enough to admit his head. "do i smell coffee?" he cried. "and would you have defrauded me?" "you are to have hot milk, sylvester," said miss charlotte. "oh, how do you feel, patergrey?" cried rob, springing to his side. "i'll have nothing of the sort; i'll have a cup of this fragrant brew," declared mr. grey. "i feel all right, rob, my son, only a trifle lame. i am sure the doctor exaggerated the case, though i confess i wouldn't have thought anything an exaggeration of it while it lasted. this bread and butter tastes uncommonly good! rob, my son, can i borrow you after this repast is over? i need your help on a special bit of work for an hour." "oh, come now, mr. grey!" protested bruce rutherford, involuntarily. "'vester, i implore of you, not to-night!" cried his wife, in such distress that, as the girls added their voices to the chorus of frightened protest, mr. grey looked from one to the other, and visibly weakened. but miss charlotte clinched matters. "you have no moral right to disregard dr. fairbairn, and the warning you have had, sylvester grey," she cried. "besides, you are to take me home, and i am going to keep you to tea. i want to see you quite alone, but wythie and rob shall come for you, and bring you home in triumph." "well, one man against so many of the earth's rulers," mr. grey began. "boys, won't you stand by me?" "no, sir; not if you want to work to-day," said basil; while bruce added: "i'm beginning to think they rule the earth because they're better fit to do so. no, sir; we're on their side." "you're beginning to cater to their love of flattery, you young humbug," said mr. grey. "well, if i must yield, i might as well yield gracefully." and later miss charlotte bore him away, leaving more hope behind her in the little grey house than had seemed possible three hours earlier. chapter eight its makeshifts as day followed day, with no return of the cause of their anxiety, the greys began to breathe more freely. if mrs. grey felt less confident than the children, she hid her fears, and the girls rejoiced with the buoyancy of youth in their rescue from the great sorrow threatening them. the autumnal equinox had passed, prue had resumed school, and beautiful brooding days of golden sunshine, with their lengthening evenings, and the first touch of the cosey, shut-in feeling winter brings were resting over fayre. rob's brow did not match the brooding peace of nature. over and over, with growing desperation, she said to herself: "i must earn money, i _must_ earn money, but how?" mr. grey had thrown caution to the four winds--if he could have been said to have any to throw--and was working madly on his invention by day, and dreaming of it by night. rob was in constant requisition to help him; she shared her father's excitement, and began to believe, with renewed faith, that they were on the eve of entering the land flowing with milk and honey. but the eve was dark and long, pointing, of course, proverbially to the nearness of dawn, but hard to live through. the disaster the greys had feared had befallen them; there was a temporary reduction in their income--so slender at best--owing to something going wrong with a railroad, in the queer, and, to feminine minds, mysterious ways investments have of behaving. it would be righted again one day, but in the meantime the reduction took the practical form of cutting down the simple family rations, leaving nothing for anything beyond necessities, very literally construed, and putting the greys on a basis that really was, as prue said, discontentedly: "poor folksy." and wythie and rob did need winter coats so sadly! their old ones were so shabby that rob said she "was colder with it on than without it, for its whitened seams and many worn spots gave her chills." "i give you fair warning, wythie, i'm going to commit a felony," said poor rob, coming home from a walk and trying to laugh as she tossed her hat on the old "nurse," as they called the shabby but comfortable couch which had cuddled them all as babies. "i feel a felony coming on, and it's as drawing as a felon." "what form is it going to take, rob?" asked wythie. "stealing," said prue, promptly. "i know i wanted to break in roger's window to-day and take the chocolate eclairs he had put there--they looked perfect dreams, and were as fresh! or else you want to fib," she added, thoughtfully. "no, though; you're not tempted as i am. it is simply awful when the girls ask you why you don't do this, or why you don't get that. what am i going to tell them?" "the truth, that you can't afford it," said rob, stoutly. "you might as well, for everybody in fayre knows everybody else's affairs just a little better than they do themselves, so everybody knows we're poor--poor as pudding-stone rock. but there's one comfort; they all know, too, we're not every-day, pasture pudding-stone, but real old plymouth rockers, so mere money doesn't matter much--except to us. i don't suppose--since mardy isn't here--there's any use in our pretending we don't mind the present pinching state of our finances." "our history lesson yesterday was on the way alexander hamilton made banks and money out of nothing but his country's debts, almost before it was a country; i wish i knew how he did it," observed prue, pensively. "you haven't told us what form you felt your felony would take, rob," said oswyth. "where does your moral felon hurt you?" "i feel twinges all over, my dear anglo-saxon messenger," said rob, airily. "in my feet when i look at my shoes, in my fingers when i put on my old gloves, or, worse yet, mittens instead of gloves, such as most fair maidens wear, and in my stomach when i try to make it believe an egg, some creamed potatoes, and a rice-pudding are porterhouse steak. but it's reaching a climax on my back. i must have a winter coat, and so must--a muster must--you, my patient wythie. to-day when i came past the rectory--st. chad's rectory--the lady rectoress had hung out her three daughters' three new winter coats, fur-trimmed, o my sisters, and beautiful to behold! i am going to break and enter that house in the dark of the moon, and steal those coats." "i hope if you're caught your punishment will be banishment from fayre, or i don't see what good your felony will do you--you can never wear the coats," laughed wythie, and then she sighed. "it's hard, robsy, but bear up, my boy! you believe this is our last hard winter." rob shrugged her shoulders. "of course, but it's also the only one we're living through this year, and next year's dinners aren't sustaining--or, at least, you can't help weak moments if you live on them," she said. "here comes our aunt azraella. she is stopping in the back yard to examine those two underskirts you sewed that lace on, wythie. she is estimating its cost and disapproving of it at a high rate of pressure. i wish she would come around the front way, even if it is farther! what with the bleaching grass, the clothes-line, and the pantry window, the back way is dangerous to a critic born." "rob, you're a villain!" said wythie, trying to pull her lips straight. "you've time for a little laugh, oswyth; she's delaying now at the blind i mended--neat job, mrs. winslow, ma'am, though i say it who shouldn't," remarked rob. "as to being a villain, it's lucky i am, for unless a body's a saint like you--and you may have noticed i'm not-aunt azraella might embitter one unless she were handled with a lightly humorous touch. eyes right! shoulder arms! she comes, the greek--a freak?--she comes!" wythie and prue looked flushed and shaken as their aunt entered, but rob met her with the solemnity of a holbein portrait, or as nearly as nature had allowed her rippling face to attain that standard. "good-morning, girls," said mrs. winslow. "i hardly have time to sit. where's your mother? it doesn't matter; don't call her. i came on an errand." "she's decided to waive the skirts; think how much nicer they'll look with that lace on them when they're waved," whispered rob to wythie, who choked as she gave her sister a remonstrant pinch. "what i wanted was to borrow one of you girls to help me take down the old parlor curtains and put up my new ones," said aunt azraella. "elvira has a bad knee, besides, she's busy, and i sent aaron away on an errand. oswyth, will you come?" "i will go if you like, but rob is better at such work," began wythie. "i have to help patergrey," "i would rather have you," said rob and her aunt, speaking together. "auntie and i are mutually agreeable to your going, wythikins," said rob, smiling gaily into her aunt's face. "i'll go," said wythie, rising hastily; she was always nervously afraid of what might happen when rob and their aunt collided. "do you want me now?" "certainly; it gets dark too early to lose a minute," said mrs. winslow. "get your hat and jacket and come right along." oswyth obeyed. it was a pretty walk up the hill to mrs. winslow's from the little grey house, but oswyth did not enjoy it, for her aunt seized the opportunity to question her as to the greys' domestic affairs, "because," she said, "mary was so shut-mouthed," and to point out to the young girl how straight they were headed for destruction. the girls did not visit more frequently than duty demanded the hill-house which would have been so pleasant to them if their uncle had not left it too early for them to have known him. oswyth entered it now with the chill it invariably gave her. every chair sat prim and straight in its own place against the wall; it made one shudder to imagine what would have been the consequences if in the night they had taken to playing "going to jerusalem" with one another. the light was carefully excluded, and, warm and soft although the air was out of doors, the house held a deadly chill in its atmosphere. books--proper compilations, selections, and poems--lay in austere firmness, each on its own spot on the bleak plateau of the marble-topped centre-table. a clock that had not made a new record of time in sixty-one thousand three hundred and twenty hours, pointed stoically to ten minutes to five from its position precisely in the middle of the parlor mantelpiece, flanked on either hand by a grimly resolute bronze warrior. on the chair nearest the door lay the new curtains, dark blue, heavy material, folded neatly and piled on one another. the old ones, which had been pretty, green-corded silk, hung in their places at the six windows; even in the dim light they had abandoned all hope of concealing the fact that they were badly faded, and displayed their yellow streaks with hopeless candor. at the sight of them an inspiration came to wythie which nearly took her breath away. what was aunt azraella going to do with those old curtains? aunt azraella laid aside her lingering sun-hat with a manner--for her--actually sprightly. "i'll get the steps, oswyth, and you might be shaking the new curtains out of their folds and putting the pins in," she said. "you'll find new pins in that box on top of the pink china vase. turn the curtains down to the depth of this card across the tops--all but two pairs. they have to be turned slanting, because they go at the end windows, where the floor has settled. but there! you can't do much while i'm getting the steps." and aunt azraella stepped away with a certain crisp decision which was her way of hurrying--aunt azraella never flustered. oswyth obediently shook out the curtains, and had laid the new upholsterer's pins on the table, separating them into detached rows, like so many brass grasshoppers, by the time her aunt returned with the step-ladder hung gracefully on one arm, the other slightly extended for balance. before her walked tobias, the tiger cat, so called because of his fishing proclivities, and who, so far from being spoiled like kiku-san, was staid and serious, relegated to the kitchen and elvira's society, and only suffered in the parlor under special conditions and surveillance, like the present. "i'll take the old ones down, aunt; i can run up and down the steps more easily than you," said wythie, taking the step-ladder from her aunt, and testing its iron brace as she set it before the first window. mrs. winslow began to stick pins into the obdurate new material, marking the amount to be turned down by keeping the card she had notched against it with her left thumb, holding the while a second brass grasshopper between her teeth, ready for use. wythie unhooked the old pins from the rings and let the faded curtains droop, eagerly planning the while, and wondering if she could get her courage to the begging-point. "i don't think," said gentle wythie to herself, "i do _not_ think that we can be forbidden to covet our neighbor's goods when they are so very old and faded." at last all the old curtains were down, and the new ones up in their place. wythie had patiently climbed up and down the step-ladder, skilfully avoiding tobias, who liked to sit on the second step from the top; had altered pins, and supported the heavy material while aunt azraella altered; her natural desire to please increased by her resolve to be bold and dare when all was done. and when it was done she had something of her reward, for aunt azraella actually patted her on the shoulder, and said: "you have been very helpful, oswyth. i was wise to insist on having you; roberta would never have been so patient and thorough." "i am glad if i have been useful," wythie said, rather faintly. "it seems a pity not to use those old curtains for something," said aunt azraella, whose mind was on the order of mrs. john gilpin's. "but they are too faded for any purpose, and too big to make it worth while sending them to new york to be dyed." "i wonder if you would mind--aunt azraella, might i have them?" said wythie, with desperate courage--it was nearly impossible for her to ask for anything. "you, oswyth! what on earth could you do with them? you can't mean to get your mother to dye them for curtains for your house? you don't need curtains," said mrs. winslow. "i don't want them for curtains, aunt azraella; i want them for winter coats," said wythie, more boldly, now that the first plunge was made. "rob and i are too shabby to go out when there's a moon--not to mention sun. and mardy could dye this material, and it would be warm and pretty. if you don't need them, aunt, they would really do us a lot of good--we would make the coats, you know." mrs. winslow stared wonderingly, then she gleamed approval at wythie, though she felt called upon to conceal it. "there are thirty-six yards here, fifty-four inches wide; do you think you need so much? and it seems a pity to divide it," she said. "oh, no; i've no idea what it would take, but not that--still, they would have to be lined, and mardy could dye half another color, and line with the same," stammered wythie. "i didn't think you'd care, but if you do i'm sorry i spoke--i did not mean to ask for anything you wanted." having reduced wythie to the properly humble frame of mind, mrs. winslow relented. "i did not say i wanted them, oswyth," she said. "thank goodness, your uncle, my husband, left me enough, besides all i had from my father; he was a thrifty man, and a good business-man, your uncle horace. i don't need old curtains, i hope. you may take a pair home--if you can carry them--and ask your mother if they can be used as you think, and how many she needs--you may have all you want of them. i'm glad to see you practical and managing; you've got the winslow faculty, and aren't a grey, as i'm afraid roberta is. i'll get you paper and twine. go across the orchard, oswyth; don't let folks see you taking my curtains home. can you carry them?" "i'll carry them, aunt; never fear, and i'll not let a soul but ourselves know where we got our splendid winter coats," cried wythie, gleefully. and in the exuberance of her pleasure she actually kissed her aunt with an affection that really belonged to the new coats, but which surprised and pleased aunt azraella as if it had been her own--as indeed she thought it was. she let wythie out of the door in a high state of satisfaction in her own generosity which had made the girl so happy, and watched her run down the hill with a speed her heavy bundle could not at first retard. but she had to go slower at the foot of the hill; only by repeatedly sitting down on her treasure to rest, and by dragging and tugging it with both hands between halts, did she succeed in reaching the door of the little grey house. roberta saw her coming, and had the door open as wythie laid her heavy burden on the steps. "what in all the wide world have you there, wythie?" cried rob. "our--winter--coats," panted wythie, very warm and short-breathed. "honestly?" cried rob, joyfully. "i thought aunt azraella had given you her old curtains." "so she has, and they are our winter coats," said oswyth, preparing to take her bundle into the house, but rob forestalled her by seizing the twine, and she carried the treasure, bumping against her knees, to their mother. mrs. grey laughed over wythie's project, but pronounced it feasible. "you will have to let me dye them black, girlies," she said. "i would never risk all those faded stripes coming out one shade of a color. but we'll make the lining red--defects won't show there--so they shall not be sombre. i think i have some fur in the golconda which will go around the necks, and make them really sumptuous." "the golconda" was the chest in which mrs. grey stored her remnants of better days, and which was to the girls a mine of richness, furnishing them with their few luxuries of toilet. the kettle and the witch-stick came forth, and the kettle boiled and bubbled, and mrs. grey toiled and troubled to good purpose, for the handsome material of the old curtains came out a beautiful glossy black. mrs. grey cut and basted, and wythie stitched the new coats with feverish impatience for the result, and aunt azraella came over to see the trying on. "really, mary," she said, moved almost to enthusiasm as their mother revolved wythie and rob by their shoulders, displaying a success exceeding her own hopes, while making chalk notes of improvements--"really, mary, you are wonderful! you might be a tailor. it is marvellous, brought up as you were." "my bringing up explains it, azraella. mother believed in teaching her children to use their hands and wits. i'll tell you, azraella; it's that plymouth strain you so venerate. the pilgrim mothers wove and spun, and my tailoring must be a case of pure heredity," said mrs. grey, laughing with a girlish mischievousness that rarely found expression. wythie and rob were just beginning to be old enough to realize that their mother was young. the coats were finished, and really were triumphs. aunt azraella was so pleased with her curtains for turning out so creditably to her that she actually produced from the treasure-house of her attic, which the girls longed to ravage, handsome buttons to adorn the coats, and enough rich velvet for hats for all three nieces. wythie made jaunty little muffs from the material of the coats, and behold, from being shabby, she and rob were transformed into an external splendor that enabled them to look their sister maidens in the face with equable minds. but aside from this windfall matters grew worse, rather than better, in the little grey house. everything that they could deny themselves the greys went without. prue rebelled against her childish fare of rice and molasses, and declared her eyes were growing almond-shaped from over-indulgence in that celestial and nuptial grain. rob sang her a pleasing extemporaneous ditty about _"little prue-sing, poor little thing! lived upon 'lasses and rice, but she turned up her nose and said: 'under the rose, i'd rather have something more nice.' but i said: 'o my sweet, it will give you small feet, and won't you consider the price?'"_ prue looked less pleased with the ditty than she might have been, and wythie, "the olivebranch," as rob called her, said, hastily: "we've a japanese kitten, so we oughtn't to mind being just a trifle mongolian, prudy. come here, kiku-san." for kiku-san was wearing his most serene and sanctified expression, and that look usually preceded his breaking something. "prudence, mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking," sang rob, with immense expression. "and you know it is always darkest before dawn. just wait--only wait a little while longer, my child, and patergrey will compress all our troubles with his coal-dust, and consume them forever. wait for the machine, goldilocks." but away down in her stanch and loyal heart rob could not help feeling that it was weary waiting. chapter nine its burden "poor and content is rich and rich enough, but poor and genteel is--pardon slang--most tough!" remarked rob, looking over her shoulder as she knelt before the oven, and making a wry face at wythie, unconscious of the streak of soot on her chin. "if you could be but one, which would you rather be, poor or genteel, rob?" laughed her mother. but there was little laughter in the eyes under a brow upon which increasing anxiety was daily making its record. "i don't know, mardy; i'm not sure i could tell them apart. i'm like the ladies in cranford, and have always known them together, but vulgarity would have its consolations. we shall be vulgarly rich when the bricquette machine is in the market," said rob. "and in the meantime?" hinted wythie. "ah, in the meantime!" rob took her bread from the oven and pulled herself on her feet by the aid of the lid-lifter, conveniently extending its handle from the back lid of the stove. mother and daughters looked sadly through the open door into the dining-room and sighed. the sunshine struck the mahogany tea-table, with the clover-leaf corners of its dropped leaf; on the old mahogany sideboard, with its rounded ends and slender, straight legs and glass knob-handles, and on the old pewter tankards and platters, and the blue and white china standing upon it. the greys' troubles had reached a crisis; there was immediate and imperative need of ready money, and aunt azraella had been over on the preceding night "to talk common-sense" to her kindred-in-law. "it's ridiculous," that spartan woman had said, "for people situated as you are to have so much money tied up in old furniture. here are these things--sideboard, table, chairs, pewter, old china; there are those old bureaus, the high-boy, the tester-bed, the bookcases, the work-tables--you have two--the old desk, not to mention the various chairs and tables scattered through the house. even a dealer would give you a great deal for them, though private sale is better. but you cling to them, and won't part with them either way!" "they are not only the delight of our eyes, azraella; they are heirlooms from both sides. some of them have been in the little grey house for more than a hundred years. how could we part with them?" mrs. grey gently replied. "necessity knows no law," aunt azraella answered, in one of those convenient pellets of wisdom always ready compounded for infallible persons to administer to the weak-minded. "i'll tell you what i will do, mary. i will take the things off your hands at a fair appraisal, and give you cash down." mrs. grey did not thank her; she had long known that mrs. winslow coveted the beautiful and venerable treasures of the little grey house, and longed to transfer them to her more pretentious, black-walnut-infested house on the hill. so mrs. grey did not feign gratitude for her offer; indeed, it inspired her with a perfectly natural desire to hold her splendid old mahogany at any cost. she said, firmly: "i shall not part with these things while we can exist without doing so, azraella," and mrs. winslow had departed in highly disgusted dudgeon. but now, regarding their treasures in the clear morning light, and without aunt azraella, the greys wondered if their decision had been wrong, and it was their duty to give up those precious belongings which seemed more really kin to them than many of the animate connections transmitted to them through dead-and-gone ancestors. two alternatives stared them in the face: to sell the furniture, or mortgage the little grey house. thus far the dear little old home had been as free from burden as in its first building, when a grey had hewn its walls from the forest with his own hands, and dug its cellar, and piled its stone foundations from the rocks of its own meadows, helped only by the friendly hands of other pioneers. it was not possible to regard a mortgage upon it calmly; for sentiment's sake in the first place, and then because its interest would be a continual burden long after the ready money it had given them would have been changed into the necessities of life. "still, mardy," rob began, speaking out of the thoughts they were silently exchanging, after the fashion of people who live in loving sympathetic intimacy--"still, mardy, the mortgage could be paid off when the bricquette machine is sold, but if we gave up the furniture it would be gone forever. the mortgage is dreadful, but it gives us another chance, while the sale would not. we shall need money only a little while longer, you know, if everything goes right." "oh, rob, rob, and if everything goes wrong?" cried mrs. grey, the cry wrung from her by the sudden sharp realization that her lares and penates, her home, her husband himself, threatened to slip from her forever. "then i will take the bricquettes' place--i am sure i am combustible enough!" cried rob, but neither her mother nor oswyth could smile. aunt azraella came over again after dinner to renew her appeals to common-sense and for the fulfilment of her own desires. there was another conclave of elders, and wythie and rob, feeling the strain too great upon their nerves, escaped into the october sunshine. they came upon frances silsby under escort of battalion b, coming to seek them, and half-heartedly consented to a short row on the river in the boys' long-boat, which they had christened "the graces," because, they pointed out, it was equally appropriate to "the trio of owners and the most frequent and honored guests." "you don't look cheerful to-day, you grey sisters," said basil, shipping rowlocks and oars and pushing off. "no; even rob is downly," said bruce, coining a new adverb. "is it anything we could help?" "not unless you are bankers," said rob, disregarding wythie's signals for silence. "what's the use, wythie? france has known us ever since we were here to be known, and these new friends are just as true ones. we're having grey days without gold--that's all." "we could be bankers," said basil, quietly. "we have more money than we use--we big, strapping boys--and that's what makes us so sorry and ashamed when we think of girls like you being bothered." "we said the other day we wished you would let us be your bankers--it would only be till the machine was done," added bruce, flushing. he did not say that they and frances, whose father was the wealthiest man in fayre, had vainly tried to hit upon a way of making life easier to the girls of whom they were so fond. rob shook her head with a dubious smile, and bruce said, hastily: "oh, i know you won't! there's always just that difference between a girl's friendship and a boy's. a boy not only will share with his chum--girls do that--but he will take his share of his chum's possessions, and know it does not matter which happened to have more." "don't you think there has to be that difference, bruce?" asked wythie, in her womanly little way. "you wouldn't like to have a girl accept too much from another." wythie did not say, "from a boy friend." "since rob has said so much i will tell you that you could not be our bankers, for we need too much, and it is too serious. aunt azraella, mrs. winslow----" "who has nothing whatever to do with soothing-sirup, nor sirup, nor soothing of any sort," interrupted rob. "wants us to sell our dear, beautiful old china and pewter and mahogany. but we won't--we can't!" wythie finished. "of course not; i should say not!" ejaculated silent bartlemy, the artist, with profound conviction. "it would be like selling 'the ashes of your fathers and the temples of your gods,'" added basil. "yes, and leave us worse off by and by, when we had used the money," added rob. "but if we don't do that we must mortgage the little grey house." "that's bad, too," said bruce. "it's worse than you see at first, because it means keeping up the interest, besides lessening the value of the old place," said rob. "my brethren and sister frances, i _must_ earn money." frances clasped the hand rob held out to her, and patted it silently. her pretty, happy face had grown distressed; she had loved rob as a superior being since she had been taken by her nurse to see rob's collection of dolls, and she fully realized how bitter it was to all the greys to put a burden upon the home which always seemed more like a member of the family than its shelter. the rutherfords rowed on in silence awhile, then bruce squared his shoulders and threw back his head with a cheerful smile for the girls. "well, if you must mortgage, don't worry about it. everybody has a mortgage--they are as common as family cats. and when the machine is done you can pay it off again, and that will be in a short time. it really isn't worth talking about," he said, cheerfully. rob gave him a grateful look. "that's what i say, bruce!" she cried. "and isn't it great that your father has no more heart attacks?" added basil, desiring to contribute his underscore mark to some item of cheer on the page of life the greys were at present conning. "it's wonderful, too," said wythie, "for he works as hard as though dr. fairbairn had never warned him--but he doesn't look well." "i think you can earn money, rob; i think i know a way for you to do it," said frances. "i've been wondering if it were possible, and i'll talk to mamma to-night--it needs her help--and then to-morrow i'll come to talk to you about it." "so cheer up, grey sisters; this is your last pull," said basil. "i wonder if it is," said wythie, watching the strong, steady strokes as the graces sped up the river under basil and bartlemy's rowing. "oh, no; there's indian summer to come; we'll row lots of times this year, and all next season. i did not mean this kind of pull," smiled basil. "i know. where are you taking us?" asked wythie; she could not bear just then to hear an allusion to another year. "up here to a tree which we discovered yesterday, and which other little boys haven't discovered--it's full of chestnuts," said bruce. the boat glided toward the right bank, crowned by flaming maples, and into a narrow creek, so narrow that the boys had to draw in their oars and pull the graces along by the shrubs on either hand. they stopped directly under a great chestnut-tree, and bruce cried, pointing triumphantly to the branches crowded with opening burs: "there! isn't truth more chestnutty than fiction?" "why didn't you tell us?" asked rob, reproachfully. "we could have gone back for something to put them in." forgetting poverty for the moment in the riches provided by nature and autumn, wythie and rob climbed cheerfully over the side of the boat, and taking off their jackets began filling them with chestnuts as eagerly as if they had been squirrels dependent upon them for their winter existence. there was little time to get many of the satiny nuts, for the greys were impatient to learn the fate of the little grey house, and to console their mother, who would need consolation for whatever decision had been reached. regretfully they turned their backs on the wealth of nuts and the beautiful, peaceful spot, with its gorgeous colors, and damp, delicious odors. bruce and bartlemy rowed down. frances was very silent, and held rob's hand fast; rob did not feel like talking, and wythie was never a chatterbox, so the party came down the river very quietly, all thoughts centered on the same point--the greys' difficulties. as they drew up at the little pier which the rutherfords had built for their landing-place, basil said, breaking a long silence: "wythie and rob, i want you to give us your solemn promise that if ever you think we can be of any use or comfort, you will say so. i don't believe you understand what it has been to us to have you girls take us right into the little grey house and big grey hearts, and treat us like one of yourselves. it will be downright unkind if you shove us off now, for the first time, and don't let us have the privileges you've accustomed us to. brothers are not meant only for bright days, you know." "we would ask you to do anything, basil; of course we would," said wythie. "there is nothing to be done now." "but you will consider us comrades of the true sort; not the kind you like only for what you can do for them and to frolic with," persisted basil. "'ere's our 'earts and 'ere's our 'ands," said rob, melodramatically laying her left hand on her heart and extending her right. "seriously, boys," she added, "we understand, and we'll do just what you want us to. we're going to regard you as crutches--a trifle long, perhaps, but by no means to be cut off. if you were all as grey as we are, we couldn't count you greater props than we do now. we're friends for life, and for scrapes on either side--and we're more grateful than i sound. this is rather a hard time for the greys, but we've read lots of storybooks, and we know when the lovely heroines are in mortal danger there's certain rescue on the next page. so we're going to finish these paragraphs as quickly as we possibly can, and turn over to the next chapter." she impulsively held out both hands as she ceased speaking, wrinkling up the comers of her eyes in her merry fashion, though there were tears on the lashes. bruce seized the firm little hands, with the honorable burn on one forefinger, and the thumb-nail blackened by hammering, and shook them warmly. basil followed suit, and then all three shook hands with wythie--it was rather like a fresh treaty of allegiance before going into battle. then bartlemy locked the oars and rowlocks into the boat-house and the rutherfords and frances escorted the greys to their own gate, where they left them with a reassuring pat on each arm, and wythie and rob ran into the house. they heard voices in the parlor and paused in the hall to listen. their mother's and father's, aunt azraella's, and two strange men's voices they had just decided them to be, when prue's golden head, much dishevelled, appeared over the banisters. "come up here, girls, come up here," she said, in a stage-whisper, gesticulating wildly. "where have you been? come; i'm half dead." prue's cheeks were tear-stained and her voice husky; oswyth and rob hastened to her. "what has happened?" rob demanded. prue threw her arms around wythie--her favorite sister--and dropped her golden head on her breast. "they're mortgaging the little grey house--oh dear, oh dear!" she sobbed. wythie drew prue into her room, rob following, very pale, and shut the door. "already?" wythie said. "this moment," said prue, tragically. "when i came home aunt azraella was here, and still talking about our selling the furniture. then papa seemed to lose all patience, and to want to have it over with. he said: 'mr. barker told me he was ready to take the mortgage and give me the money any moment i would call him over. prue, go tell him now that i am ready to mortgage the house--that i'm waiting for him. and then go fetch lawyer dinsmore. i must get it done, and stop discussing it; it takes too much nervous strain, and too much time from my work.' i looked at mardy, and she looked miserable, but she only said: 'go, prue; hurry, child.' so i went. and they've been mortgaging down there for half an hour. they ought to be done soon, i should think: how long does it take to put on a mortgage?" "oh, i don't know, i do not know," moaned rob, throwing herself face downward on the bed. "how long does it take to get one off, you'd better ask." prue looked hurt. "you can't care more than i do, rob grey," she said. "i've cried and cried, and i thought i'd die when i told mr. barker and mr. dinsmore to come." oswyth had sunk into her rocking-chair, the tears raining down her white cheeks. she held out her arms to prue, who fled to them, very ready to be petted. "poor little prue!" said wythie. "and you were all alone to bear it. poor, pretty little prudy!" kiku, who was the most loving of little creatures, jumped up to rub his face against rob's, not minding its wetness, and making soft, cooing sounds to her as if she were a kitten and he her cat-mother. the gentle, dumb, little creature comforted rob more than spoken love could have done. she rolled over and kissed the cat between his pink-lined ears, and, seeing wythie looking so grief-stricken, characteristically began to surmount her own trouble. "now, doen't, doen't, my dear," she said, in the words of ham pegotty. "it's a blow that knocked me down for a minute, but i'm not going to lie prostrate long. we'll clear off the mortgage--patergrey, the machine, and i--in a twinkling, and the little grey house shall be greyer than ever." wythie shook her head, and at that moment they heard the front door shut and footsteps go down the walk. and in the hall their mother was saying: "there are those poor children upstairs alone; we must go comfort them, sylvester." there was no time to feign indifference before the door of the girls' room opened, and it was rather a dismal scene upon which mr. and mrs. grey looked as they entered. mrs. grey took wythie and prue into a comprehensive embrace, just as they sat. "dearies, you must not grieve," she cried. "don't look so dismal, girls," said mr. grey, cheerfully. "the little grey house has merely lent the thin grey man a thousand dollars, which he knows--doesn't think, mind you, but _knows_--he will soon repay. we are fortunate to get money when we need it so sorely, and we shall pay off that mortgage in a short time; isn't that true, rob, my son?" "that is true, patergrey," responded rob, loyally and promptly. "we're not afraid, are we, rob, my son? we know our machine is bound to succeed." "bound to succeed, patergrey," said rob, going over to him and laying a hand on her father's shoulder as though she were really the "son" he called her. but that night, when wythie, tired out, lay sleeping beside her, rob's dark eyes were staring into the blackness, slumber completely driven from them by the events of the day, as she thought anxious thoughts for her sixteen years, and feverishly laid fruitless plans for being useful. and that night, because of the over-excitement and the pang the decision he had reached had cost him, mr. grey had the second attack of the heart affection which threatened the greys with a greater sorrow than the burden which had just been laid upon the little grey house. chapter ten its possibilities frances appeared early on the following morning, and found sad faces to greet her where she usually found cheer. "well, what have you to propose to me, francie, a secretaryship to the president, or to write the best-selling book of the year?" asked rob, trying to speak brightly. "the book is the nearer guess," said frances. "i tried to think of what you could do best, and it was a puzzle. you are such a jack-of-all-trades----" "and we know what he amounts to," interrupted rob. "you might as well finish the proverb." "no such thing," declared frances. "but you didn't seem to have any marked vocation, till suddenly it flashed upon me that you had done one thing wonderfully ever since you could talk, and i knew i'd hit it. do you know what it is?" rob shook her head. "i had a talent for getting into scrapes, and you used to pull me out, but i never supposed the talent had market value. if you've discovered it has, you've pulled me out of another scrape with flying colors," she said. "you could tell stories," said frances. "france, i was always truthful," said rob, reproachfully. "now, don't be silly; you know what i mean," retorted frances. "don't you remember how you used to amuse all the rest of us children telling stories by the yard? and do you realize how children love to be with you? you have a regular fringe of small fry at your heels whenever you appear abroad." "well, i admit the pied piper qualities, and i remember telling stories, but i fail to see what you're getting at, ma'am," said rob, dubiously. "you're to tell your stories for money!" cried frances, triumphantly. "you're to have a class of all the nice girls and boys in fayre--and some will come from thruston--and you are to entertain them by telling them stories for an hour and a half twice a week. you won't charge much--maybe only five dollars for twenty recitals, but that, if you had twenty children, would be a hundred dollars in ten weeks, and it would be just fun--no trouble at all to you to do it." "you have thought out details, frances," said mrs. grey. "you make me feel as though it were not only possible, but an accomplished fact." "it is possible, mrs. grey," said frances. "mamma knows a lady in town who did it there, and it was a great success. she thinks rob is sure of being even more successful, because she is so young the children will enjoy more being with her." "and what kind of stories am i to tell, frances? any kind that keeps them quiet? fayre is not like new york, where there are lots of people with wealth, but no place nor time to amuse their children. people here won't care about having their children entertained," said rob, sensibly. "oh, i forgot that part," said frances, eagerly. "no, of course, it couldn't be any kind of story. you are to tell them a set of grecian mythology stories, for instance; then a round table set, then a crusading set, then, maybe a shakespeare set, and stories of rome, greece, egypt--goodness! there's no end to the series you can get up! now wait!" she added, as rob started to speak. "you know when we were little you read all these things, and loved them; we thought them dry, and nothing would have induced us to read them for ourselves. but when you told us about them we were like so many young robins, when the big bird chops up food too solid for them--we were all agape for more, and you had the faculty of making us see the beauty, and not missing a point. it was enthusiasm and magnetism, mamma says. well, you have those gifts just as much now." "i'll try to believe in my talents," said rob, meekly. "you'd better. mamma told me to lay the plan before you all, and, if you approve, to say she will guarantee rob a class of not less than twenty to begin with, and she will find the children for her. will you try it, rob?" asked frances, eagerly. "how good your mother is; how kind you both are!" exclaimed mrs. grey. "oh, france always was clear, unadulterated splendidness," said rob, getting up to hug the one girl friend she had ever really loved. "how can i help but try it, when it is all done for me? of course, i'll be only too glad to try it, francie, and i'll do my best." "i couldn't possibly fail to approve, approve gladly and gratefully," said mrs. grey. "i think it's a beautiful plan--an inspiration, frances," said wythie. "and i know rob can do it like no one else; she does such things with her face and voice that she always makes one see what she sees." and oswyth smiled proudly on rob. "i should hate to fail, after your mother had done so much to launch me," said rob. "'screw your courage to the sticking-point and we'll not fail,'" said frances, who could hardly have been less like lady macbeth. "then, if i succeed, i might enlarge my field, have classes in neighboring towns, and by and by in hartford and new haven, and--why not?--new york," cried rob, airily. "then if the bricquette machine did turn out badly i could support the family." "rob, rob, i thought you had no doubt of the invention!" cried her mother, such a sharp note of pain in her voice that it betrayed her own doubt, and her unconscious dependence on the young girl's opinion, ignorant though it was. "neither have i, mardy, it's sure--don't be afraid," said rob, hastily. "but when you want a thing so dreadfully, _dreadfully_ much you can't help thinking what it would be not to get it. and i feel as the red queen must have felt when she was a little girl, and had to believe three impossible things before breakfast. i do believe, but i have to try--try with both hands, as her red majesty told alice to do--to keep my faith, though i know it's all right all the while. and the invention is so nearly completed, francie, that patergrey thinks that next week he can write to the people in new york whom he wants to have buy it. isn't that a comfort, after so long? it sounds so definite." "indeed it does!" cried frances, heartily. mrs. grey hastily left the room, and wythie ran after her, guessing that she had gone to hide sudden tears. rob looked after them soberly. "oh, france," she said, "you could not have come with your plan at a better time--we need cheering. they put the mortgage on the little grey house yesterday--they were doing it when we came home. and patergrey got so wrought up that he had another of those dreadful heart attacks last night." "oh, rob; poor, dear, brave rob! i am so sorry for you!" cried frances, with ready tears of sympathy and a convulsive hug. rob shook herself free. "now, don't pity me!" she cried. "i have all i can do to keep steady if i am as hard as nails, and you see i _must_ keep gay for the others. i know, france; we know each other, but don't love me now! no one could have done me the good you have in giving me the hope of being useful. i'll never forget how you came in this black morning and tried to 'push dem clouds away'--you have made a big rift. if ever i get rich and famous i'll give you your heart's desire, and if ever i can help you while i'm poor--which may be a while yet, you know--i'll walk over the ocean to do it. but don't you love me nor pity me to-day." "all right. i don't love you any day; i despise you, and always did," said frances, with a last squeeze as she withdrew her arms. "now i must run home to tell mamma you are unanimous. she said if you liked the plan she would see all the parents she could this afternoon, and bid them send their little lambs for you to pipe to them." "well, francie, patergrey does want me, so i suppose i ought to let you go," said rob. "tell your blessed mother i can never thank her, but tell her how troubled you found us, and she will understand the good she has done." rob hardly knew how it happened that at the end of two weeks she found herself established as a scheherazade, telling stories, not to an eastern tyrant, but to five-and-twenty lesser tyrants--not less tyrannical--with the east in their bright eyes. mrs. silsby had bestirred herself so energetically that rob's childish audience was not only secured for her at once, but exceeded by five the twenty she had hoped to get. mr. grey said children were showered upon her as if she were a foundling asylum. their ages ranged between eleven and six, the average being eight, and roberta wondered how she was ever going to interest them, restless as so many butterflies, and inclined to approach suspiciously an entertainment which they suspected of being improving, and very possibly additional lessons under a hypocritical disguise. but they were worth winning, for all of the audience was paid for in advance, and bewildered rob found a hundred and twenty-five dollars in her hands, which was all her own. mrs. silsby managed the financial end of rob's enterprise, as she had its other details, which was lucky, for rob would never have dared to offer course-tickets to her stories, with no rebates for absences. but mrs. silsby said five dollars was so absurdly little for twenty entertainments that nothing else was to be considered, and rob yielded, suggesting only that at the top of her little programmes were printed: "mrs. james silsby presents miss roberta grey," after the fashion of a great new york manager, and that at the bottom be added: "treasurer and press agent, mrs. j. h. silsby." there was some difficulty about rob's title. every lad and lassie in her audience--all of whom she had known from their cradles--hailed her "hallo, rob," when they met in the highway, but as a scheherazade the case was different, and her scant dignity of sixteen needed re-enforcing. mrs. dinsmore, the lawyer's wife, who was a great stickler for propriety, insisted that her two hopefuls should say "miss roberta," and advised rob to exact this title from the others. but dorothy dinsmore herself settled the question by refusing to consider it. "i wouldn't say miss roberta for anything, mamma," she declared. "i might say roberta, but i'd rather say miss rob, if i must do anything silly, because you can just slide over that, and say ''s rob'--and it wouldn't make much difference." "i would rather be called rob than srob," laughed rob. "oh, let them go, mrs. dinsmore! it's going to be as nice a time as i can make it for them, and i suspect it will be nicer if we don't try to make them forget i'm just a bigger child than they are." the result was that at rob's first recital, though the children began decorously in their places, dubious as to what was to befall them, they soon discovered that it was not a prim teacher, but "just rob grey," the rob grey they had always known, who was telling them the most delightful story they had ever heard. it was a story as full of magical impossibilities as the fairy-tales that the girls loved, and as full of the clash of arms, and the fury of battle, and the prowess of knights as the boys could ask. and behold, before she was half-way through, each of the twenty-five of her audience had left his seat, and the children were hanging, entranced and adoring, on the back, arms, and rounds of her chair, huddling at her feet and leaning on her knees, and she knew that she was succeeding beyond her fondest hopes. her first series was the arthurian legends; rob had prepared the first story carefully and told it well, for she loved romance, chivalry, and the poetry of history as every imaginative girl does, and the inspiration of the fifty bright eyes, the eager lips, open as if to drink in her words, made her lose herself as completely as when a few years before, a little girl herself, she had told these stories to her playmates. rob came home from her first recital--mrs. silsby had perfected her kindness by lending her big parlor for the tale-telling--in the highest feather. "i'm a mediã¦val minstrel, a bard, a minne-singer," she declared. "and, best of all, i'm a success. i may become a monologist, at ever so much a night. why, the children hung on my words--and they hung on my back and arms and knees besides." prue, who had a strong sense of dignified propriety, was scandalized. "you don't mean to say, rob," she exclaimed, "that you let those children swarm all over you? why, they ought to have kept their seats strictly." "well, they didn't; they left them laxly." rob laughed outright at prue's horrified face. "my dear spinster-sister prudence, children can't half listen if they don't wriggle--they must fidget about, or they get deaf in their brains--not their ears. you used to swarm all over me when i told you stories." "i was your sister," said prue, convincingly. "yes, you were; i even fancy sometimes you haven't outgrown being my sister," said rob. "proper or not, the dear little crowd had a perfectly scrumptious time, and they wanted me to promise to tell them a story every day. you see, i'm already like a sort of serial, which doesn't come out often enough. but the best of it is, i am actually earning money and helping my family." "you have always been the greatest help, rob dear," said mrs. grey. "you have been our tonic ever since you were old enough to feel sympathy, and that was long ago." "if i'm a tonic, wythie must be cold cream, or something healing, and prue--what is prudy? violet extract to keep us dainty, i suspect," said rob. if rob was glad and thankful for her success, frances was triumphantly glorying in it. she never had been an especially clever child, while rob had been a brilliant little creature, the pride of her teachers, who invariably brought her forward when the credit of the school was to be maintained--this was in their early childhood, and during the irregular periods when rob had been at school. now the humdrum girl had devised the scheme which was to make clever rob's fortune, as if the moth had unexpectedly furnished the wick to the candle, and frances was as proud as she was delighted in its results. the rutherford boys hailed rob a story-teller with irreverent glee. contributions from one or another of battalion b poured in daily--sometimes from all three at once. maria edgeworth's moral tales--to supplement rob's, if "her grey matter gave out," basil's accompanying note stated; a bunch of rattan-rods, slates, primers, spectacles, and a cap for herself. even a false front came from bruce--most frankly false, with a muslin parting, and yellow in color, because, he explained, he "thought yellow would contrast prettily with her dark eyes, and her cap would hide its not matching her own brown locks." bartlemy illuminated a set of mottoes to adorn the walls of what the boys called "rob's auditorium." "little children must never tell stories," "listen to my tale of woe," "as tedious as a twice-told tale," "young robin grey came a-courtin' we," "truth is stranger (here) than fiction," "plain tales for the bills," three for a side of the room. rob hung these brilliant productions, and piled up all her other tributes from battalion b in a small, unused room under the "lean-to" roof, where twice a week she retired to prepare her story for the next recital. in spite of the boys' ridicule, in spite of aunt azraella's croaking, rob's experiment was proving more successful each week. but the pleasantest part of it all to rob was when her father appealed to her as a capitalist to aid in launching the invention. "it is all done, rob, practically finished," said mr. grey, laying a trembling hand on the girl's shoulder one morning at the end of two hours' close work together. "don't get excited, patergrey; you know it is forbidden you," cried rob, beginning to quiver in sympathy. "yes, it's done. sit down; you look pale--let me get you a tablet." "rob, you've been my right hand--my extra pair of hands--all the way through," said her father, impatiently waving away the suggestion of a tablet. "you've had so much faith, dear son rob, and have understood so clearly that you have helped me in that way almost more than in any other. now i am going to ask you to help me still further. have you any special use for the first hundred and twenty-five dollars from your story-telling?" "so many special uses that i've no special use--no, patergrey," laughed rob. "there are so many things to be done with it that i can't see one for the crowd of them. it is all for mardy and wythie, though. they go without so slyly that i want every penny of this to buy things for them." "you generous rob-of-mine!" exclaimed her father. "then would it disappoint you to lend me rather more than half of your wealth, to launch the bricquette machine? it requires a very small capital, but it needs that to start it on its journey into the world. i should rather like to have my girl's money--the very first that she ever earned--do this for the invention in which she has had such a share through its entire growth." "like it, patergrey! i'd love it!" cried rob, her eyes dilating, her cheeks flushing. "i'll get the money now--i've hidden it in my twine-bag, real country fashion. how strange for my money to launch the machine! can it do it, really, patergrey?" "it really can. i will take but fifty dollars now, rob, but i may need more. there must be photographs and plates made, some printing done. i would prefer your money to do this, if the idea pleases you." for further answer rob kissed her father as he ceased speaking, and ran away to fetch the money, singing at the top of her voice. that night were mailed to new york the first letters introducing to a larger world than had yet heard of it the bricquette machine upon which the hopes of the greys hung, and into which all the energy of sylvester grey's apparently unfruitful life had passed. wythie, who was always ready for bed long before rob, sat in the rocking-chair, a shawl over her white gown, watching, with eyes of loving envy, rob's frantic brushing of her unruly hair. "i think i shall be wickedly jealous of you," she said at last. "fancy your launching the invention! i wish i were able to help as you do." "you, oswyth! you're not only an anglo-saxon saint, but a connecticut angel," cried rob, somewhat inarticulately, as she held between her teeth the elastic band with which she intended to fasten her braid. "without you we would all go--kersmash!--in one day. you do everything." "do you remember how, when we reckon our resources, we put down two columns, one certainties, the other possibilities? to think you are now one of the possibilities!" persisted wythie. "and if i am, what then?" demanded rob. "i may be a possibility, but you are an extreme probability, oswyth, my dear. you are at once a column and a foundation. i'll never be half as useful as you are. put out the light, oswyth grey, and don't talk nonsense! not but that i'm thankful enough to be added to the column of possible sources of income!" chapter eleven its hope "here's a bit of bread for you, rob, my son," called mr. grey from his doorway, waving an envelope alluringly toward rob, who was on her knees dusting the stairs. "bread? i'm not hungry, patergrey; besides, it looks too white to be well baked. what do you mean? something nice, by the way you're beaming at me." and rob arose from her humble posture to go to her father and investigate. "it is bread--bread-on-the-waters, my girl," mr. grey retorted. "it is the first interest on the money you lent me." "the machine?" cried rob, trying to seize the letter which her father held tantalizingly above her head. "oh, tell me quick if it is the machine." "it is the machine. but we mustn't expect too much," mr. grey hastily added. "it is by no means sold, nor even appraised. this letter is from a man in new york who is interested in such things, and he writes that he is coming to fayre the day after to-morrow to look into my improvements in bricquette making. that's all, but it is a beginning, and that's something in itself." "it's a lot!" cried sanguine rob. "what shall we have for dinner that day? have you told mardy?" "i have but just come in," said her father, laughing aloud. "what a practical girl! and how truly her instinct guides her to the wisdom of feeding well the man whom you wish to impress! do the best you can with the dinner, robin, and maybe he won't discover defects in the invention." "there is none," retorted rob, going off with a skip and a jump to impart the news to her mother and wythie, and consult with them on ways and means. the second day dawned clear and cold and brought with it, on the noon train, the anxiously awaited arbitrator of the fate of the bricquette machine. mr. grey went to the station to meet him, and wythie, rob, and prue watched their approach to the little grey house from behind the muslin curtains in their chamber. there was an air of assurance and power about the stranger which filled wythie with fear of his judgment, and inspired rob with confidence. "of course he will approve the machine if he knows what he's about," said rob, "and he most certainly looks as though he knew." dinner was served at once, and mr. marston--by this name mr. grey presented his guest to his wife and daughters--mr. marston was enthusiastic in word and deed over his pleasure in what, he said, he never found in the city--old-fashioned, home cooking, prepared by the hands of ladies. "you really have no business with a successful invention, mr. grey," said the guest--"you who are already so rich." and he smiled up into prue's face, who had risen to remove his plate, with a look that conveyed his high sense of her value, and so embarrassed the child that she dropped his knife and fork with a clatter. "i don't like him," rob confided to wythie, when their father had borne mr. marston away for a preliminary smoke--like his colonial ancestors dealing with the connecticut aborigines--leaving the girls with their mother to their task of clearing away. "i don't like him--he's too good to be true--but if he only will like the machine my likings and dislikes don't matter." later rob's father called her, and she went to help in displaying the invention which she almost felt was as much hers as her father's. silently she moved the parts of the machine, co-operating with her father as he talked, and silently the visitor watched the proceedings, stroking his mustache and letting nothing escape his keen eyes, as rob saw, while she, in her turn, sharply, though furtively, eyed the impassive face concealing its owner's verdict on the greys' hopes. at last the exposition of the machine was over, and rob busied herself with replacing the covers of the models, while her father and mr. marston dropped into neighboring chairs for its discussion. "it's unquestionably a good thing, mr. grey," the visitor said. "the improvements are important, and, what is more, practical. i feel that i have no right to say anything definite until i have seen my partner, but i am perfectly within bounds in saying that i am thoroughly convinced as to the value of your patent, and that we shall be ready to make you an offer for it. at the same time i should be glad if you will not show it to anyone else until that offer has been made and discussed; i should like to retain an option on the machine." "when i wrote you, mr. marston, and allowed you to come here to see the invention, i considered it equivalent to a pledge not to allow anyone else to see what might become your property, and would be valueless to you if it were not protected," said mr. grey, quietly. rob waited to hear no more. she ran from the room, and caught wythie and kiku in a comprehensive embrace, meeting them as they came, one in the other's arms, across the hall. "it's all right, it's all right, oswyth, saint and martyr!" she cried, whirling wythie around, and sending kiku leaping, panic-stricken by her onslaught, to the top of the portiã¨re at the door. "he says he's thoroughly convinced of the value of the patent, and he asks patergrey to keep it for him till he can consult with his partner as to the offer they mean to make for it. oh, i knew, i knew all along it was coming right, but now it has come right, i'm ready to die of joy." wythie turned so white that rob held her closer for another reason, fearing she was going to faint. "we must find mardy," was all wythie said, but her smile was so beatific that rob was more than satisfied. when mr. grey came back from the station, where he had been to speed his guest, he found his household waiting him, half delirious with joy. "it's all right now, isn't it, patergrey?" cried rob. "there's no danger in our being as glad as we please, is there? it's sure and sure that the invention will go, isn't it? that man settled it, didn't he?" "no risk at all in rejoicing, mary," said mr. grey, disregarding rob, and answering the girl's question to his wife, to whom he held out his arms with smiling, quivering lips, and eyes bright at once with joy and tears. "will it be much, sylvester?" asked mrs. grey, still afraid to be glad. "the offer? it will not be less than fifty thousand, if it is to be accepted, mary; that will put the grey family into brighter colors, and free the little grey house of its burden again," said mr. grey, stroking his wife's abundant hair. "and, rob," he added, as the girls caught their breath with a gasp of ecstasy, "make a note of the name of john lester baldwin, and his address on broadway, in new york. i will give it to you, and i want you to remind me to write him--he was a college chum of mine, an honest man and a good lawyer. i mean to take his advice as to the patent; i would trust it utterly." rob obediently made the memorandums on a pad, and her father straightened himself, taking a long breath. "it is a curious sensation to have succeeded, after so long," he said. "i hardly know how to adjust myself to it." rob and wythie exchanged glances, noting with the anxiety they always felt for the dear father's safety, the dilation of his bright eyes and his quickened breath. "you have done enough, patergrey," cried rob. "you have made the machine, and we'll do the adjusting, never fear! mayn't i ask the boys and frances down to-night to rejoice with us, mardy? and won't you get your hat and coat and go with me to invite them, patergrey? the fresh air will bring us both to our senses--i feel as though my head were a thistle in september." "we should all be better for the boys and frances, rob," said her mother, and at the same moment mr. grey said: "yes, let's have the young folks in, and play twirl the platter, and make molasses candy, and have a real, children's party--i feel as though i wanted to get down to a basis of pure jollity and be thoroughly a boy, now that for the first time in years i feel the pressure of care lightened." "then get your hat--why, here come the boys now! then i can't go, patergrey! suppose you and mardy take a walk instead, and we'll keep battalion b to supper, and i'll make them get it!" cried rob. "it would be pleasant, mary, to celebrate by a stroll together; we don't get one of our all-to-ourselves times very often," smiled mr. grey. "let's leave our girls to prepare our triumphal banquet, and pretend we're young lovers again, with no tall girls to bother us." mrs. grey laughed happily, and almost ran away to get ready for her walk, and soon she was leaning on her husband's arm, and the three girls were watching her as she laughed up into his face, as they strolled in the direction of miss charlotte's to bring her the glad tidings of the coming of prosperity to the little grey house. "see how young and happy mardy looks," sighed wythie. "only think, if she will look like that all the time! do you suppose, can it be, girls--and boys--that this isn't too good to be true?" "it's just barely good enough for you to be true," said bruce. "we don't believe that only bad things happen outside of books, do we, rob?" "no, sir; we believe only in good things--even when the bad ones happen!" declared rob. "tommy tucker sang for his supper, but if you two big fellows want yours you've got to chop wood for kindling, or you won't get it. and, bart, would you mind very, very much if you were asked most politely to go and fetch frances?" "yes, i'd mind, because i like to be around when you're fussing, but i'm willing to offer myself a sacrifice, if nobody else will," said bartlemy, looking around for his hat. poor bartlemy could not hurry frances sufficiently to get back to the little grey house before supper was ready, and "the fun over," as he grumblingly said. rob patted his head like a big dog's. "never mind, bartie dear," she said, soothingly, "you shall wash all the greasiest pans!" "what shall we do to celebrate?" asked prue, when everything was cleared away, and the dining-room table rolled to the wall to allow games. "i'll tell you," cried mr. grey, with an inspiration. "let's rifle the attic and invoke our ancestors to enjoy with us the prospect of securing to future greys this little house they loved. we know what treasures there are in the chests and horse-hair trunks up there, don't we, girls?" "oh, you never saw our old-fashioned clothing!" cried wythie. "why, that's the very thing, papa! get lamps, boys, and come up to the attic. we'll dress up and have an old-folks' concert, just for ourselves. you never saw such things as we have up there!" older and younger, all the greys with their four guests, and lamps enough to light the party, and with kiku-san on behind, hoping for mice, repaired to the attic. a pleasant musty odor of dried herbs, camphor, and cedar-wood greeted them, and queer shadows wavered big on the slanting walls to meet them. "what a fine place!" exclaimed basil. "why don't we come here oftener?" mrs. grey produced her keys and threw open chest after chest, and wythie, rob, and prue, with enthusiastic help from frances, began shaking out garments of more than a hundred years ago, as well as the big skirts and poke-bonnets of the '50s. huge embroidered collars, long, handwrought lace veils, brocaded silks, frail with age; gigantic leghorn bonnets; short, much-shirred waists; high stocks for men, ruffled shirts, tight, short-waisted blue coats; the high, pointed collars in which our grandfathers did penance in the days of "tippecanoe"; grotesque high and narrow beaver hats, and broad ones of white silk, all these were brought forth into the flickering light amid shouts of laughter and impatient clutches from hands eager to try the effect of something that particularly struck an individual fancy. "no fair trying on up here," cried prue, at last. "we must take everything we want downstairs, and fit ourselves out there; we'll never get down this way." so everybody piled all that one pair of arms could carry into a great heap, and each one lifted his burden and carefully picked the way down the narrow, steep stairs, made particularly uncertain by the wavering lamp-light. "now, ladies to the right; gentlemen to the left," ordered wythie. "you go into your room, papa, with the boys, and mardy and frances shall come into ours with us, and we'll do our best. don't i wish you had wigs with queues!" it took nearly three-quarters of an hour of excited hurrying and much laughter from both sides of the hall before the impromptu fancy-dress party was robed, and then at a signal nine queer figures appeared in two lines, and stopped short, each convulsed at the sight of the other. mr. grey, in knee-breeches and cocked hat of an earlier period, was more imposing but not nearly as funny as bruce in the costume of the '30s, nor as basil, portentously scowling between the sharp collar-points like those which served as gateways to daniel webster's eloquence. bartlemy, in a long-tailed, short-waisted black coat which must have belonged to some clerical grey, and with an incongruous white-silk hat, was so funny that prue forgot her frail, rose-besprinkled muslin, and sat straight down on the floor to laugh at him. wythie had found a muslin frock, short and tucked-in skirt and waist, and slippers such as jane austen's heroines tripped about in, and her pretty face was framed in a big leghorn hat, tied down into a poke at back and front. she looked as if she had stepped out of a sir joshua reynolds portrait. rob had made herself into a lady of revolutionary days, hair high, and gown of brocade low in neck, and draped with an immense embroidered fichu. prue's muslin did not much antedate the civil war, but frances had arrayed herself in a gown which dolly madison would have recognized as the latest fashion had she come to life to see it. mrs. grey seemed to have taken what no one else wanted, but nothing else that she had on mattered much while she wore the great pink gauze turban which crowned her hair. "it's a real pity no one can see us," declared frances, when they were mustered in the dining-room, and had dropped, breathless with laughter, into the old chairs which should have welcomed gladly the figures of their youth returning to them. "we'll get up a real affair, give an old folks' concert or something, in costume--we'd have a great one," cried bruce. "will you, say toward spring?" "very likely," said rob, "but what are we going to do now, this minute?" "you are going to dance," said mrs. grey. "i'm going to play for you, and if our piano is old and thin, then you must remember that it is in old-time costume also, and not mind." "we can have a fine square-dance," cried prue. "just four couples--papa, will you dance?" "will i? will i not?" mr. grey cried, gayly. "whose patent are we celebrating, i'd like to know? rob and i are head couple." he gave his hand to rob, basil and wythie took one side, bruce and frances the other, while tall bartlemy and prue fell together, as they usually did. mrs. grey played, concealing as well as she could, with her fine touch and real talent, time's ravages on the queer, yellow-keyed old piano. "now sing," ordered mr. grey, when, the dance over, he dropped weary, but happy, into a chair. the quaint figures with the flushed young faces gathered about the old piano, and sang as they were bidden, sang until the clock in the hall startled them by striking eleven. "why, i had no idea of the time!" cried frances. "mamma will think i'm stolen. i must hurry and get into my present-day things and fly home. we've had a lovely time, dear grey people! there never was a place where people had so much fun without trying, and because they couldn't help it, as in the little grey house." "and there never was a place where good luck was more needed, nor where people were more grateful for hearing that it had come to them, than in the little grey house to-day," added rob, as she wound her arm around her friend's waist, and bore her away to her room. "oh, rob," said frances, "and oh, wythie," she added, turning back to include wythie in the caress she gave rob, "you know how glad i am of what that man told you! it's well you do, for i can't begin to tell you how glad i am. isn't it perfectly blessed?" "it's the beginning of the end of our troubles, that's all it is, francie," said rob. "this isn't the little grey house to-night; it's pandora's box, with everything bad flying out, and only hope left." chapter twelve its tragic side "maimie flinders is sick," said prue, coming in from school the next noon, and hastening to thrust first one foot and then the other into warmth issuing from the open oven-door, for the day was cold. "i met mr. flinders, and he said 'maimie was pretty miserable, and they was worried about her.'" prue pulled down the corners of her mouth, imitating farmer flinders's drawl as she spoke. "i must go see her," said rob. "poor little pollykins! she's a misfit in that household--a dear, quaint little soul! none but a very nice child could admire me the way that mite does. i think i owe her a cheering visit. look out, prudy; let me get the pudding out." after dinner rob girded herself in her warm, ex-parlor-curtains coat, and having selected from her accumulation of the rutherfords' contributions to her entertainments some things that she thought would amuse the sick child, started out to make a call which was not alluring for many reasons. farmer flinders lived in a yellowish-brown house from which the green blinds that adorned it in summer had been removed to save them unnecessary wear during the winter. it was square and bare, and rob felt its bleakness anew as she entered the gate, passing the straggling stalks which in summer developed into a lilac and syringa bush, and pulled the octagonal glass door-bell, remembering the solitary and sensitive child who was trying to grow into a woman in these surroundings. mrs. flinders opened the door, cautiously displaying a little of her gaunt person. "we heard that maimie was sick," said rob. "i should like to see her, if i may." "come in," said maimie's mother. "she's pretty mis'rable, but if anything could do her good 'twould be seein' you. i always say that to mr. flinders when he's talkin' of the bother he has with your place, an' you bein' pretty spunky. 'eliab,' i says, 'there's got to be good in a girl that children take to, an' i never see our maimie take to anyone's she doos to roberta grey. she makes her laugh,' i says, 'an' she seems to chirk her right up.' an' you can see yourself, roberta, that if you'd had seven children, an' all had died but jest this one, you'd take to anyone she took to yourself, no matter who 'twas." roberta accepted these dubious remarks as complimentary, that being, on the whole, apparently their intention, but she had considerable difficulty in keeping her face straight, for it did not seem to her necessary for mrs. flinders to apologize to her, either for her liking for rob, nor for her desire to have maimie made happy. she followed mrs. flinders into the kitchen, which was also the sitting-room, and saw the little white face which she hoped to make smile, languidly looking out on the glimpse of the world allowed the child by the enormous chintz arm-chair, with its extended side-pieces, in which she was very nearly swallowed up. a long, thin, little hand came out from the plaid shawl enveloping maimie and waved feebly to rob, while a piping voice cried: "oh, rob grey, i'm awful glad to see you!" "that's right," cried rob, running over to give the child a hug. "so you should be, because i'm glad to see you, though i'm not one bit glad to see you ill. but, you see! i always told you they ought to call you polly, and not maimie--because it was 'little _polly_ flinders sat among the cinders, warming her pretty little toes.' and if you're not among the cinders, you're close to the stove, pollykins! but we're certain sure you're not the real polly flinders, in mother goose, because 'her mother came and caught her, and whipped her little daughter, for spoiling her nice new clothes.' that can't happen to you, you know, because you've got on your wrapper!" the child laughed out. "you're funny, rob," she said, stroking rob's cheek. "and you're funny, polly; as funny as a fiddler-crab, with this big chair high up above your head, and your thin little face peering out! what do you play all day--do you play you're a little turtle and this is your shell?" laughed rob, her heart full of pity for the wan little creature. "nothin'," said polly. "i don't play nothin'; i just sit an' sit." "read?" hinted rob. polly shook her head. "i can't read fast, 'cause i didn't go to school much, an' it makes me awful tired." "well, now, reading is hard work, because they won't stop writing books long enough to let us catch up," laughed rob. "i've been telling stories, telling them to lots of little children, and we do have the most fun!" "father told about that," cried polly eagerly. "he said 'twas queer folks paid to hear 'em, but i know! you've told me stories, an' i know! i wish i could be there when you tell 'em, but father wouldn't get a ticket, not ever." "what does the doctor say about polly, mrs. flinders?" asked rob, who had been forming her own unprofessional opinion, and deciding that poor little polly was dying of pure dreariness. "he says she ain't any stamina, an' he's afraid she'll go like the rest. he says she don't seem to have any real disease, but too much flinders--you know dr. fairbairn, an' the way he says things. i guess he means she'll go like the rest," said mrs. flinders, apparently oblivious to polly's intense gaze. rob thought that she did indeed "know dr. fairbairn," and read in his diagnosis of "too much flinders" confirmation of her own judgment on poor polly. the mite looked so frightened at the prospect of "going like the others" that rob was divided between pity for the shrinking child and wondering wrath at her obtuse mother. "now, i'll tell you what it is, mrs. flinders," cried rob, "polly isn't going like the others; she isn't going at all. but she's sick and lonely, and i think a bit of cheering would do her more good than medicine--or even than splendid dr. fairbairn can do! i want you to lend us polly. we've plenty of room in the little grey house--we always have room and time to do what we want to do--and i'll take polly under my special charge, so the others shall not have any trouble about it. i'll tuck her up in the little bed we three girls had in turn when we were little, and we'll let her play with our dear white kitten kiku, and she'll hear us chatter, and i'll tell her stories, and you see if she doesn't get to be another polly in no time!" "oh, mother, mother!" cried polly, starting up in uncontrollable rapture and clasping her thin hands prayerfully. "oh, mother, mother!" mrs. flinders stared at rob in amazement, then she wiped her eyes on the corner of her faded apron. "well, roberta, you're a good girl, an' i'll say that for you," she said, her reserve dropping from her suddenly. "young as you be, you see what's the matter with maimie. the child's just pining and pindling out of the world, an' i can't stop her. he's near; you know how he is. he's got plenty money an' no one but us, an' if maimie dies, what's the use of it all? but he won't send the child away--says it's all nonsense. an' the house's lonely, an' i can't amuse her, an' so i stand by an' see her going the way they all went, till it seems 's if there wa'n't enough vim in me to git her supper--let alone savin' her. if you could--and would--take her awhile, i know she'd come right up. but they ain't many's 'd do it, an' i guess he's been tryin' enough to you fer you not to feel gret interest in his child. an' what'd your folks say?" "i'd do anything i could for dear little polly, mrs. flinders," said rob. "and as to my mother and father, the one thing that makes them happy is a chance to do a slight kindness for someone. you needn't be afraid that polly won't be welcome. i know, or i wouldn't have spoken--or at least not until i had first consulted them. you get her ready, and i'll ask the rutherford boys to come here and carry her off to the little grey house. will mr. flinders let her go?" "he'll do anything as long's it don't come out of him," said mrs. flinders, bitterly. "i know in his heart he'll be pleased, for this child's the only thing he doos care about. an' i guess you no need to ask those boys to fetch her; we've got a horse, an' if she's goin' visitin' i'll see she gets there properly." "then it's settled!" cried rob, and, turning to polly, who had been listening to this conversation with her breath fluttering over her parted lips, and color coming and going in her pinched face, she added: "are you glad to come, pollykins?" "glad, rob!" cried little polly. "it'll be 'most heaven. i'm sure i'll have a better time than the others." and rob knew that she referred to the other little flinders, and was as delighted with polly's gratitude as if she had not seen how much the small creature dreaded following them to greater happiness than the little grey house could give her. when rob announced at home the prospective visitor there was consternation for a time, but it was not long before her mother and wythie were planning for polly's comfort with as much pleasure as rob felt, and prue fell to washing and setting in order the wardrobe of her discarded doll for polly's delectation. mrs. flinders drove the child over in the buggy with the purpling wheel-spokes and the wood obtruding through the back of the seat. polly was wrapped so closely that only her dilated eyes showed, and her mother sat, uncompromising and severe, beside her, hauling on the reins which guided the temperate horse. the rutherfords were at the grey house when the little invalid arrived, and bruce's strong arms lifted her out with a gentleness that warranted his choice of vocation, and bore her into the warmth of the open fire in the dining-room. "these are her drops," said mrs. flinders, setting a bottle on the table. "we're very much obliged to you for taking polly, mis' grey. he's obliged too--i guess he's some ashamed of being so cantankerous to you about the garden truck. if she's troublesome you let me know, an' i'll fetch her back." "she will trouble us only by looking pale," said mrs. grey. "if she gets better as fast as we hope to have her she will trouble us no more than a little cricket on our hearth." "we shall have to hide polly from aunt azraella," said wythie, returning from seeing mrs. flinders's departure. "if she disapproved of our extravagance in having a kitten, what will she say to a child in the house?" "we always have plenty of what we don't want," said rob. "we run no risk of impoverishing ourselves in sharing our deprivations with pollykins." "it's a funny little grey house, with all its bothers," said their mother. "it always seems to be able to bear a bit more--that often cheers me when i think it has almost more than it can bear." "we have to go up to the attic, pollykins, to put away lots and lots of old clothes--the oldest kind of old clothes!" said rob, on her knees before polly, unbuttoning the child's coat. "some day, when it's warmer, or you're strong enough to go where it's cold, i'll show you the funniest old hats and bonnets and dresses you ever saw in all your little life! we don't like to put them away, but we must. last night we dressed up in them, and danced, and so to-day we have to pay the fiddler--that means we have to pack them all away again, whether we like to or not. you won't mind if you have to stay here alone with hortense, do you? that's the doll's name. by and by prudy will come in, and we shall be down soon." "i don't mind, rob," said polly, eying hortense longingly. "i'll play house and rock that dolly. does she shut her eyes?" "yes, indeed; goes to sleep like a good baby whenever she is bidden. why, you're better already! you didn't feel like playing house when i saw you after dinner, did you?" cried rob, delighted. polly shook her head with happy solemnity. "i never had such a nice doll," she said. mr. grey came in looking pale and tired, but he smiled at white little polly, and said, as he tipped up her chin: "rob says you're little polly flinders who sat among the cinders, but i think she's turned you into a little coal of fire, right out of the cinders. do you know what that means--to be a coal of fire?" polly smiled, evidently feeling it safer not to commit herself, and trustingly confident that whatever it meant to be a coal of fire, it was something pleasant. "i am going to lie down here, please little polly, and if you will sing to hortense while you rock her i shouldn't be surprised if you made me go to sleep too," said mr. grey, stretching out on the old couch with a sigh of relief. "do you feel ill, sylvester dear?" asked mrs. grey, stroking the hair from his forehead. "you look tired." "not in the least ill, mary dear, but tired, yes," replied her husband, kissing the gentle hand. "i did not sleep much last night--too excited and happy, you know--but i am quite well, and still most happy. _still_ happy? why, i'm going to be happy all my days!" "you've won, sylvester," said mrs. grey, and she laid her cheek for a moment where her hand had rested. "i've won--_we've_ won through rob, my son! that's what i've been saying over and over, for the past twenty-four hours," cried mr. grey, triumphantly. "you never can know what a help and a comfort you are, rob boy! it's a good deal of a joy to a man who has been accounted a failure, to know his brains have given his dear ones all they need! if you orderly housewives don't make too much noise in the attic, i'm going to sleep, to dream of my happiness, and for the first time in all my life waken from such a dream to find it true." "put me in your dream, patergrey," cried rob, as she ran out of the room, seeing that little polly had already established herself in the small rocking-chair brought out for her use, and was hushing hortense to sleep with low croonings. wythie joined her mother and rob in the upper hall, and all three went atticward, laden with the garments of last night's frolic. it took a longer time to put them away than they had foreseen, for the chests had been sadly upset, and required much rearranging. the brief winter light had nearly faded before mrs. grey straightened herself, and said, with a sigh for the knees which the bare floor had hurt: "dear girls, it must be more than time to put the kettle on!" "perhaps polly has done it; she ought, to preserve the unities. i don't know what the unities are, but i mean well, and i'm trying to quote 'polly, put the kettle on' in that clever, indirect way people make allusions in novels," said rob. "thanks, rob," said wythie, quietly. "we know the poem." the little procession of three filed down the narrow stairs, stepping slowly and carefully in the dusk. the house was absolutely still; prue had evidently not come in, and perhaps polly had fallen asleep with hortense, wythie suggested. there was a faint glow in the dining-room from the fire burning low on the hearth. by its light they saw mr. grey lying on the couch as they had left him, and polly's little figure drooping over hortense in her arms, sound asleep in prue's outgrown chair. "the palace of the sleeping beauty," whispered rob, thinking it a pretty picture. "i can't bear to disturb your father, but we must get tea," whispered her mother back. wythie struck a light and polly stirred, straightened herself, looked, startled, around the room, and then smiled at rob. "i didn't know where i was," she said, running to her idol. "your father woke up and said something quick, and i woke up, too, but when i went to him he was asleep, so then hortense and i went to sleep again." "what did papa say, polly?" asked wythie, with a sudden fear. her mother had crossed to the couch, and knelt beside it. she took her husband's face in her hands, and something in her attitude brought her girls to her instantly. mrs. grey laid the beloved head back on the pillow and raised her face to wythie and rob without a sound. "mardy!" cried the girls together, dropping on their knees beside her. there was no need of question nor of answer; no need of the frantic pressure of the motionless heart. no need of rob's rushing to meet prue, who opened the door at that moment, nor of bidding her hasten for her life for dr. fairbairn. for they knew, the stricken wife and daughters, that sylvester grey had slipped painlessly, quietly away from them, and from the joy of the triumph of his loving efforts for them, into the joy that should never end. chapter thirteen its danger the days that followed its bereavement passed like a dream over the little grey house. there is no preparation for grief; mr. grey's death came upon those who had loved him as if there had been no warning of the danger in which he lived, and, as they met the necessary claims and performed the hard tasks their sorrow laid upon them, it was impossible for them to realize that it was the dear dreamer whom they were laying away to dreamless sleep up on the hill, under the great elms of fayre's old graveyard. but when these confused days were past and the tall, thin figure no longer cast its shadow over the old doorway, nor the nervous step fell on bewildered ears, unconsciously straining to hear it, sylvester grey's wife and daughters began dimly to realize that he had gone away. of the three girls the loss and loneliness was bitterest to rob, but it was she who met it most bravely, resolving to be, indeed, to her mother the "son rob" her "patergrey" had always called her. aunt azraella, in her own way, had been a comfort during this first, disturbed week, coming in with perfect efficiency to plan and execute the arrangements from which the greys shrank, but it was "cousin peace" on whom they all leaned now that, everything done, they sat down with sorrow. one morning, when her sister-in-law had been widowed ten days, aunt azraella came down to the little grey house for a business conference. "little polly flinders" was hastily smuggled upstairs, with hortense to bear her company. she was a different little polly than rob had found pining away in the big chintz chair; color was coming into the white little face, and in the necessity of making things cheerful around the child, all four greys found help and comfort. it was much to feel that they were establishing in health and life the pathetic child who had chanced to be the one to hear the last tones of that voice now forever silent. "i came down, mary, to talk with you about your prospects," said aunt azraella, unwinding her long barã¨ge veil as she seated herself before the fire. "you must make up your mind precisely what you are going to do. of course, sylvester's death doesn't affect you like the loss of a business man such as your brother, my husband, was, but it does settle the question of that invention. whatever it is, it must remain, so i advise you to see if you can do anything with it, if it has any practical value." "there was a mr. marston, from new york, here to see it two weeks ago," said mrs. grey, quietly. "we had a letter from him this morning, offering to buy the machine." mrs. winslow gave a start of genuine pleasure. "well, i am surprised," she said. "how much did he offer? i hope it will take the mortgage off the house, and leave you a little. but i suppose it wasn't much." "no; only four thousand dollars," replied mrs. grey. "rob thinks he is trying to take advantage of our necessities, or what he hopes will prove necessities." "rob thinks!" ejaculated aunt azraella. "why, mary, it's a wonderful offer! i hope you wrote at once! if you haven't written, write now, and i'll post the letter when i go out." "we haven't decided to accept it," began mrs. grey, but got no further. "now, mary winslow grey," cried aunt azraella, "for mercy's sake, don't listen to that child! even allowing she's not flighty, as i know she is, you have to admit a girl of sixteen is not a competent adviser. you accept that offer on the spot, _on the spot_, do you hear? four thousand dollars! why, you can pay a thousand and clear the mortgage, and have three thousand to invest--that'll be quite an addition to your income. it will leave you better off than you were with sylvester alive." "oh!" gasped wythie. roberta began to speak very slowly, with manifest effort to be dignified, and to lay aside her natural quickness of speech and retort. "aunt azraella," she said, "you do not understand the invention--no one here does, except me. either the invention is worth nothing, or it is worth a great deal--more than ten times as much as this offer. you see, the offer proves it is worth something, and if we accepted it we should be cheating ourselves out of about fifty thousand dollars." "fifty thousand dollars!" aunt azraella tossed her head scornfully, words failing to express her opinion of this visionary estimate. "you see; i told you you had no idea of the value of that invention," said rob. "pater--our dear father said, the day mr. marston was here, that he should refuse an offer of less than fifty thousand dollars. i feel that we have no right to throw it away, for his sake, if not for our own." "if you don't close with this offer at once it may be withdrawn," said mrs. winslow, seeing the effect of rob's argument on her mother. "that's precisely what mr. marston writes," said mrs. grey, "and that's what frightens me. i am so afraid of refusing the only offer we may ever get." "and i think that proves him dishonest," cried rob. "he wants to frighten us into closing with him, because he knows if we took time to investigate, we should find out the true value of the machine. he saw enough when he was here--our doing our own work, and our simple way of living--to guess we should need money now we were alone. he is trying to take advantage of a woman and three young girls, and if i have my way, he won't succeed! i hated him the day he was here--he's a villain, if ever there was one, a smiling villain at that." "what do you propose doing, then?" asked aunt azraella, satirically. "if you are taking matters into your own hands you ought to have some other plan to propose instead of this certain one--for i hope you realize, roberta, that you are trying to use your influence with your mother to urge her to throw away a certainty, on the chance of something better, and on the advice of a girl of sixteen, who has as much knowledge of the world as my tobias has." "i do realize, aunt, and it frightens me, but i was my father's helper all through the last four years he was working on this machine, and i feel i must stand firm, now that he has left it to me. i know we shall be cheated if we take this offer, and sell the bricquette machine to this mr. marston," cried rob. "mary, mary, i have no patience!" cried mrs. winslow. "will you, or will you not, listen to reason and be guided by someone with judgment? you see roberta does not answer my question! oh, for the land sakes, why do we talk about it as though she were a person to be listened to? what has she to do with it, anyway? i tell you i have no patience. go over to that desk, and write that man you accept his offer, and i'll post the letter before i go home." "i didn't mean not to answer you, aunt azraella," said rob, with new dignity. "my plan is neither to refuse nor accept, but to write mr. marston that we must have a few days in which to look into the matter. if he's an honest man, he won't object; if the machine is worth four thousand dollars to him, he will take it a week later as well as now, and if--and i know it is--it is worth six times that, why, we save ourselves from a trick, that's all." mrs. winslow turned to rob with a touch of respect in her manner. "that has a little the ring of sense," she graciously remarked. "but you must remember that he may have some reason for wanting that machine this moment or never, and it may be worth four thousand to-day, and nothing a week hence, unless he gets it now. that often happens in business matters. mary, write your note." "i confess i'm strongly inclined to your view, azraella," said mrs. grey, "but i can't write to-night. rob seems to me not like my young daughter, but like her father's representative, and i cannot disregard her, as i should wythie, for instance." "and what is oswyth's opinion?" asked aunt azraella, turning to her favorite niece. "i'm a coward," said wythie, with a faint smile. "i'm afraid to refuse a certainty of even a small piece of good fortune." "sensible girl!" said her aunt, approvingly. "then roberta is the only one that stands out against good luck?" "stands _for_ good luck, aunt azraella," said rob, rising, as her aunt arose, with the air which had come upon her, adding years and dignity to her, since she had learned to suffer. "you won't write, mary?" insisted mrs. winslow, wrapping herself in her barã¨ge defence from the cold wind. "not to-night; to-morrow will still be time," said mrs. grey, also rising. "then i wash my hands of you, and if you come to grief, don't appeal to me for sympathy nor help. i foresee the end; this girl is so headstrong, and will so appeal to your desire to carry out your husband's will, that she will get her way, and your one hope of peace will be gone. you can't help confessing, mary, no matter how you mourn him, that sylvester knew nothing of business, and for you to allow sentimentality and a girl's ignorance to wreck you, is little short of criminal." having delivered this valedictory with crushing effect, mrs. winslow stalked away. prue came back dissolved in tears from closing the door behind her aunt; she found her mother, wythie, and rob sitting silent and sad around the fire. "oh, rob, dear rob," cried prue, hysterically, "you mean well, but how can you be so obstinate? don't listen to her, mardy; we shall never be happy again; we shall lose our home, too, if you do!" and prue dropped, sobbing, in the big chair mrs. winslow had vacated. "mardy, mardy," cried rob, starting up, pushing back her hair with her old, impulsive gesture, and running over to fall on her knees beside her mother's chair, "it makes me nearly crazy to feel i am taking such a responsibility, but i must, for i know, i _know_ i'm right! i wasn't going to tell aunt azraella my plans, and have her make a worse fuss than ever, but i've laid them, and you must, you truly must, let me have my way. write this marston scamp you must take a few days to consider his offer, that you are not prepared to accept or refuse it for a week. it can't possibly make any difference, unless he is a scamp, and then we want it to. and to-morrow you let me go to new york, and find out what the machine is really worth, and what can be done with it." "to new york! you, rob, alone? and you find out what can be done with the invention, you, a young, inexperienced girl? my darling, you are crazy!" cried her mother, while wythie and prue sat up with gasps of amazed horror. "mardy, i am not in the least crazy. if we had anyone else to do it, we would let them, of course, but who is there? i will go straight to mr. john lester baldwin, the lawyer, patergrey's college chum, whom he said he would trust utterly. i took his name and address the day mr. marston was here, you know; patergrey wanted me to remind him to write him, but there was no time--" rob stopped short, and wythie made a little moan. "now, mardy, this is no wild scheme, you see; it is plain, practical common-sense," rob continued. "mr. baldwin will put me somewhere to board where i shall be safe, and he will do all he can for me when i tell him who i am, and what has happened, if he is the man patergrey thought him. if he says take the four thousand, i am satisfied, but if he says not to, don't you see how well it will be that i went? and i have my own money, enough still, for my expenses." "rob, rob, you glorious girl!" cried wythie, starting up in a rapture. "let her go, mardy; she is inspired, like joan of arc." "my rob, my dear rob, my brave, reliable daughter," said mrs. grey, fondly, "what can i say to you? i am not willing to let you go alone, but if i were, the objections we made to putting off mr. marston still hold good. suppose you fail, and we lose not only the offer, but the expenses of your journey and your stay in the city?" "mardy, i shall not fail," cried rob. "do you not remember that patergrey said: 'it must not be less than fifty thousand dollars to be accepted?' that was the last time he spoke of it, you know. he understood its value. i don't like to bother you, but you see it's chiefly for your sake, and, besides, i worked with patergrey all the time and i feel as though i could not desert the dear invention now, if i wanted to--let it be stolen from us, the work of all that dear life, and its only legacy to us, except the little grey house, with its mortgage. you must say yes, mardy, my darling; i was patergrey's 'son rob,' you know, and i must defend his invention, and be the man of the family, his son rob still." rob's beautiful head dropped on her mother's knee, and the steady, clear, young voice broke pitifully. mrs. grey leaned over and laid her wet cheek on rob's bright rings of hair, with the red shining through them in the firelight. "go, then, my robert of the lion-heart, go, you dear knight-errant, and have your way. and whatever comes of it we shall never regret it, for we shall remember that you loyally played your part in defence of us all--all, here and beyond," whispered rob's mother. chapter fourteen its brave daughter there was but one really fast train between fayre and new york, and that left fayre at quarter to eight in the morning. not too early, however, for rob, acting rapidly on her hardly won permission to go to the rescue of her family, to be ready to take her place among its passengers. there had been wild excitement in the little grey house on the previous night, after that permission had been won, getting together rob's few requirements for her unwonted journey, and discussing in all its aspects the great feat she was to perform. but now her pretty face, pale under the black hat surmounting the wayward hair, and big-eyed from sorrow and excitement, looked with brave smiles out of the car-window at wythie and prue and the rutherford boys on the platform as they waved rob on her way, and the train started. rob had never felt more childish and dependent in her life than now, when, for the first time, she was acting like a woman, and going down to the great city to try to arrange a most important business matter. when fayre station was left behind, and wythie and prue could no longer see her, rob allowed herself a good cry--the world seemed so big and hollow, and she felt so little and helpless! but in half an hour she was drying her eyes, and beginning to lay her plans, and to wonder, with quickened heart-beats, which were rather stimulating than depressing, how she was to find mr. baldwin, or even broadway, since she did not know one street from another in the maelstrom that is the second city of the world. it was almost the bright-faced rob whom her father had known that drew her breath long and hard after the tedious tunnel was passed, and began setting herself right and pulling herself together as irregular and ugly buildings slipped by her in crowds, and the train entered the grand central station. she took her place in the line, edging her suit-case--hastily borrowed from the rutherfords late the preceding night--between the wedged passengers, and crawled along toward the door, too confused to feel much beyond a strong wish that the person in front of her was shorter and leaned back less, since he entirely prevented her hat from keeping straight. out on the platform rob still held her place in the crowd, and found herself at last standing bewildered near the forty-second street exits, wondering what she was to do next, and which way to turn to do it. people jostled her without her knowing it, until a vicious shove of her case, and a muttered remark that reminded her of farmer flinders's addresses to his horse, aroused rob to the fact that she was, in her small degree, impeding the course of progress, and she stepped out on the sidewalk and into the babel of "cayb? want a cayb, miss?" while the cab-drivers threatened her face with their whips. rob espied a tall policeman and steered her course for him through the maddening bedlam around her. "please tell me how to go to broadway?" she said, looking up appealingly under her over-shadowing hat. "straight along that way--you can't miss it," said the policeman. "no, wait a bit. what part of broadway do ye be wantin'?" "it's near liberty street, if you know where that is," said rob. "oh, well, that's different. stand one side here a minute an' i'll tell ye. ye don't know n'yawk?" asked the policeman, taking kindly interest in rob's case. she shook her head, and the mammoth guardian of the peace considered, at the same time raising his hand warningly to two encroaching truckmen, and giving the time of day to a frantic woman who carried a bird-cage in her hand and a spaniel under her arm. "you might take the t'ird avner l, but ye'd niver find your way over, i'm thinkin'--get out at fulton street--no, 'twouldn't do!" the policeman meditated aloud. "an' takin' these fourt' avner trolleys is as bad. ye take this crosstown, and get out at broadway--tell the conducther to let ye out on the downtown side. there ye'll take a downtown broadway car--see? ask, if ye're not sure--an' keep on it till ye get to your number. you can't miss it thin. not at all, miss; it's wan of our juties to help people. wait, till i put ye on the car--it's confusin' here, wid the subway an' all. good luck to ye, miss." poor rob, feeling like a maiden of legend surrounded by dragons, with the yawning, yet unfinished, subway threatening her on one side, and insanely rushing crowds mercilessly assaulting her on all sides, gladly let the big policeman's strong arm clear a way for her to the car, which came westward through forty-second street. "broadway!" called the conductor, to whom she had confided her desire to know when that point was reached, and rob was surprised to see six people, beside herself, rise to their feet, plunge off the car, and the men run as for their lives to swing themselves on another car, going in a different direction, just ahead of them. "there can't be many broadway cars," thought rob, but looked up and down to see an interminable line of them coming both ways, and decided that this was the new york unreasonable rush, of which she had heard so much. a woman with a gentle face, whom rob timidly approached, put her in the way of getting the car she desired, and she perched herself sideways on the edge of the seat, watching feverishly the numbers, until she realized that she was twelve hundred numbers above the one which her father had given her as that of mr. baldwin's office, and subsided for a time to watch the whirl of life around her, with a dizzy interest that precluded all possibility of thought. keenly alive as she was in every sense, rob could not help enjoying the ride, though it did seem interminable. beautiful shops, displaying everything a girl cares for, were left behind, great buildings began to tower on either hand; truckmen swore at their horses, small boys tried to see how near they could come to the fender of the car in which rob rode, yet escape unscathed; timid women ran--very like farmer flinders's chickens--head down and arms swinging, before the car, having waited until it was almost upon them; broadway narrowed, yet increased in interest at every block. an open square, set on three sides with picturesque old buildings--one really beautiful among them--and a statue which rob immediately recognized as a figure of nathan hale, turned her thoughts to the revolutionary new york into which the car had brought her, but seeing, too, that the street numbers had decreased to the second hundred a few blocks lower down, her mind swung with renewed concentration to her own affairs, and her heart fluttered nervously. poised on the seat, ready for flight, she kept anxious watch, and at cortlandt street signalled the conductor to stop. threading her way with difficulty through the narrow way, crowded at an hour so near noon, her suit-case proving a menace to others and a trial to herself, rob found at last the number she sought. without giving herself time to be more afraid, she plunged in at the wide doorway, and joined the group waiting for an elevator to descend. "mr. baldwin's office?" rob said, low, to the man whose touch on the lever had caused the elevator to shoot upward, and all rob's powers to seem to sink downward to her feet. the elevator was packed with passengers, all men, some of whom removed their hats, but most of whom kept them on, and stared at the young girl in mourning, with the wonderful hair, and the big, frightened eyes. "ninth floor," said the man, and continued his rising career. on the ninth floor rob, at a forcible reminder from the elevator man, stepped out, dizzy and confused, clutching her unwieldy case, her sole link with the life she had known. it seemed to her, as she stood staring at the door on which the too plain letters, black on the ground-glass, told her she had found john lester baldwin, that there was not left of the old, venturesome roberta grey even a voice to announce that person. "don't be a goose, rob," she said, giving herself a vigorous mental shake. "the idea of insisting on coming, only to cave before the door!" she turned the handle softly and entered. a tall man, with a close-cropped, full beard, and keen yet kind eyes, sat at a desk dictating to his typewriter; he looked up as roberta entered, and seemed surprised--which was not strange--at the sight of a young girl armed with a suit-case, as if she had come to stay. "mr. baldwin?" inquired rob, faintly, setting down the case, and thus giving herself even more an air of permanency. "my name is baldwin, yes," said the lawyer, rising politely. "this is----?" "roberta grey. my father--i am sylvester grey's daughter; do you remember him?" said poor rob. "sylvester grey, my old college mate? well, rather! my child, i am truly glad to see you, though you make me feel older, finding you so tall, than my own girl does--perhaps because i am used to her," said mr. baldwin, coming over to take both of rob's hands so heartily, that, to her annoyance, she could not keep back the tears. "i have heard nothing of grey for some time. come into my private office," he added, seeing the brimming eyes, and noting, with a quick change in his own, the black garments his young visitor wore. mr. baldwin led the way to an inner, much smaller room, and put rob into a chair. "what has happened, my dear?" he asked, gently. "i am afraid you have nothing to tell me that i shall want to hear. you have come to me because your father told you that if you needed counsel, his old chum would gladly give it you? he was right, but i fear you need it because sylvester can counsel you no longer--is this so?" rob made a brave struggle to control her voice, helped by the low, even tones, and the little pats on her black sleeve which this good man was giving her--as if, she thought, she were a little child in need of comfort. "my father had been working hard on a patent for years, mr. baldwin," said rob. "he had angina pectoris, and the doctor warned him of the danger if he did not rest, but he could not rest, because we are poor, and he wanted to make us comfortable. he worked harder than ever, in fact, and now the machine is done. but the very day after a man came from here to see it, and told him it was a success, my dear father----" rob stopped short, and mr. baldwin patted her hand without speaking for a few moments. "he had a sweet and beautiful nature, dear, and lived a life that was ideal, in many ways, and that end is mercifully quick. he must have been most happy to know that he had succeeded in providing for you," mr. baldwin said at last. "the last words he said to mardy and me were full of that thought, mr. baldwin. we left him to sleep, and when we came back he had gone," said rob, trying to smile in the kind face smiling at her, though there were tears in the eyes of sylvester grey's old chum. "this was eleven days ago. i don't want to bother you, mr. baldwin, but it was to ask advice that i came. the invention patergrey made was a bricquette machine. nobody else understood it--not even mardy--but i did, because i helped him on it for a long time--read his papers and worked the model, and handed him things, and all that, you know. patergrey called me his 'son rob'; we were especially much to each other. what i want is to ask you how much that invention is really worth? this mr. marston, the man who, as i told you, came to see it, asked patergrey to let his firm have the option--don't you call it?--on the invention, and after he was gone patergrey gave me your name and address, and said he intended writing you to ask you what its value was--i was to remind him to do it. but the next day he died, so suddenly, and we were left to dispose of the machine. we had a letter from mr. marston three days ago, offering us four thousand dollars for the invention, and telling us we must take it at once if we wanted it, or it would be withdrawn. all the rest want to accept it, but i begged hard to be allowed to come to see you, and for mardy to write this man, telling him we must have a little time to think about it. for you see, mr. baldwin, patergrey said he would not accept less than fifty thousand dollars, and i can't forget that. besides, i think there must be something wrong about a man who offers so little, and wants us to take it that minute." "what do you know about business, child?" asked mr. baldwin. "i wish witnesses on the stand stated matters so clearly." "i only know what i tell you, mr. baldwin," said rob, feeling cheered. "i suppose mardy wouldn't have listened to me at all, but that i had been patergrey's right-hand man all this time, and she felt as though he had given me a right in the case; as it was, i had an awful time getting her to let me come here and make mr. marston wait, and you can see that i must be frightened to take such responsibility, because if we did lose this offer, and got no other, it would be awful, and i should be to blame--no one else." "i think you needn't be alarmed, roberta--you said roberta, didn't you? you are quite right in your reasoning; a genuine offer for a valuable thing would probably be open for a few days, and its owners should be allowed to investigate. do you think he knows your father has gone, this marston of yours?" asked mr. baldwin. "oh, yes; he spoke of it when he wrote," said rob. "then you are more than ever right. let me tell you, my child, that i admire your courage and strength of purpose very greatly. i'll send my clerk with a note to a friend of mine--a patent lawyer--and ask on general principles what such an invention might be worth, if it were worth anything--we see this is worth at least the sum offered. you lay off your hat while i write, and then you will sit here and talk to me while we wait the answer; i want to hear all about you, and my messenger won't be long." mr. baldwin drew up to the desk and wrote a note, rang a bell, and dispatched it, and then helped rob divest herself of her coat and hat, and put her comfortably in the window while he won from her the story of the simple life lived in the little grey house, and learned to know the wife and children of his dead friend, whose family he had never met. rob talked freely, drawn out of herself by the kindly charm which went far toward making mr. baldwin the successful lawyer that he was. he read between the lines, understanding much that rob did not realize she was betraying, and he saw how fine had been the courage that had sustained his friend's wife while sylvester had been accounted a failure, and how great had been the love for one another that had made life so sweet in the little grey house, while it lacked so much that less wise people consider more essential. at last the clerk returned, and handed mr. baldwin the answer to his note. the lawyer read it and gave it to rob without comment. in it mr. baldwin's friend stated concisely that, although it was obviously impossible to give an opinion as to the value of something of which he knew practically nothing, he could say that it was worth a good deal, if it were worth anything, and that in either case four thousand dollars was a preposterous offer--it was worth nothing, or it was worth decidedly a great deal more than that. "that's what i thought!" cried rob, starting to her feet, joyously. "oh, mr. baldwin, i am so relieved--i was so frightened!" "as frightened as your namesake, general roberts, at the head of his troops," smiled her new friend. "braving an unknown city and a grim, unknown lawyer for the cause of right!" "why, they call me 'bobs' after general roberts at home when i'm unusually daring," cried rob, delighted. "most fittingly," commented mr. baldwin. "and now, 'bobs bahadur,' i'm going to wire your mother not to act until she hears from me, and add that you're all right; she must be troubled about you. this warrants our holding off on this first offer." and mr. baldwin held up his friend's note in one hand, while with the other he drew a telegraph-blank toward him. the telegram dispatched, rob reached for her hat, and began to adjust it as she vainly tried to smooth her turbulent locks. "what shall i do? go back to fayre to-night, or will you tell me which hotel to go to--am i needed here longer?" she asked, thrusting a hatpin through her braid. "you are needed here, roberta," said mr. baldwin. "my intention is to see certain people who may be interested in your father's invention, and if you really do understand it and can describe it, we can interest them sufficiently to get them to see the models. can you do this?" "patergrey said one day that i could exhibit his invention as well as he could," said rob, quietly. "that was with the models; describing it might be harder." "if you can do one, you can do the other sufficiently well to give an idea of what there is to be seen," smiled mr. baldwin. "as to a hotel, my little girl, i strongly recommend one kept by a host called baldwin. it is up in seventy-third street, and is fairly comfortable, and quite commodious enough for one person of sixteen. in it there is a landlady who loves such guests, and a girl--the daughter of the landlord and landlady--called hester baldwin, who is not rich in sisters as you are--has none, in fact, and who will welcome you as a traveller in the desert welcomes water. so i think there is no doubt that the baldwin inn is the best place for you, my dear; but of one thing i am sure--sylvester grey's little girl cannot go anywhere else, so make the best of it." "how good you are, mr. baldwin!" cried rob, gratefully. "how can i ever thank you?" "by telling my girl all you have told me, and as much more as you can remember, of the little grey house, my dear," replied mr. baldwin, helping rob into her coat. "there are qualities in that little house and its occupants sadly out of fashion, and i'd like hester to taste their flavor. she's a good girl, is hester; she'll see their beauty. and now, come, my dear rob, you brave little casabianca; i'm going to take you home to rest and have a good time. but first i'm going to take you to lunch. upon my word, we've neither of us tasted food! why, rob, you must be starving! and see how interested i have been! that's the first time i've forgotten my lunch-hour since i don't know when--probably not since my base-ball days!" chapter fifteen its rescue rob followed mr. baldwin and her suit-case from the sixth avenue elevated station at seventy-second street northward a block, and then westward two blocks on seventy-third street, followed hanging back a little, and dreading the encounter with his wife and daughter which lay before her. but mr. baldwin drew her up the steps close to his side, with a reassuring gesture of protection, and before he could get his key fully into the lock, the door flew open, and a beautiful little woman, exquisitely gowned, stood before them, while over her shoulder peered a girl of rob's age, but taller than she was. "i am glad you came straight to us, my dear," said mrs. baldwin, with such quiet sincerity and informality that rob drew a long breath of relief. "i am sure you are too tired to be as glad to see us as we are to see you, though. hester, this is roberta; take her to her room, and don't let virginie bother her--you must be her maid to-night. hester is delighted to have you here, my dear." rob returned the sweet woman's welcoming kiss with all the gratitude of her lonely, timid heart, and laid her hand in hester baldwin's. the two girls gave each other a penetrating look, and then moved at the same instant to kiss each other, as if the scrutiny had been mutually satisfactory. hester was not pretty, but she had a keenly intelligent face, and one could see that she was going to make a noble-looking woman. "we shall dine in half an hour," she said, in a rich alto voice. "come with me, and i'll help you get ready. the maid will bring your case," she added, as rob, accustomed to wait on herself, lifted and hastily set down, at hester's suggestion, her former burden. "we were pleased when father telephoned that he was bringing you here," hester continued. "it is very nice to have a girl about; i never had an intimate friend, because i never went to school, and that separates a girl a good deal from others--makes her not fit in when she is with them. father said you had lots to tell me that was wonderful, all about your beautiful life, and your little grey house, and that you weren't like the general run of girls of our age either. please try to like me--father wants you to; i can see that." "see it over the telephone?" laughed rob, rather embarrassed by this appeal. "i'd do harder things for your father than that, after to-day! he has been heavenly kind, and made me believe i have been right, and brave, and wise when i was half frightened to death lest my obstinacy had ruined my family." "that sounds mysterious, and positively thrilling," hester declared. "but as to father, he is fine--you can't imagine how i love him!" "yes, i can," said rob, with a quiver in her voice that brought a flush to hester's cheeks. "oh, i beg your pardon--i didn't mean to speak of father to you," she cried. "but he told me you had been your father's comfort and help, and were now the only one to understand and fulfil his desires--save his reputation, i think he said. now, maybe you are more fortunate than i, for i am no use at all, and i never shall do anything for my father in all my life, probably. i think that is worse than your sorrow." "you can't help doing for him if you love him," said rob, rather at a loss to answer this morbid speech, yet recognizing the tactful kindness prompting it. "it is all he wants, to know that you are good and love him. patergrey loved my love for him more than my help on the machine. but it does comfort me to know i did help, and if your father really thinks i'm saving the day for dear patergrey's invention now i shall almost learn after a while not to be sorry, but half glad that he is happy, and that i did something for him when he couldn't do it himself." "oh, yes," cried hester, with conviction. "i think i shouldn't feel badly if i were you--i don't mean i shouldn't miss him, but you have been your father's comfort. it is perfectly dreadful to be of no use." "everybody is of use, i guess," said rob. "and the best ones don't know it. what a lovely room!" "is it?" said hester. "i don't care much for it--i'd like a little house in the country. i think maybe i shall go into a college settlement when i'm old enough." "dear me," thought rob, "what a queer girl! she ought to do housework, and bother about money for a while, and then she'd find out!" but she only said: "you'd like the little grey house, then. it's old-fashioned, and not a bit handsome, but it is dear, and fayre is a small place--country enough." "how pretty it is, calling the house 'the little grey house'! it is because your name is grey, isn't it?" asked hester. "both reasons--we're grey, and the house is all time-and-weather-stained grey, too," rob answered, shaking her hair out over the dressing-sacque hester laid over her shoulders. "i haven't anything to put on, except clean collars and cuffs." "it doesn't matter; we're alone, and black is always full dress and full undress," said hester. "if i had your hair i shouldn't care about dresses. are your sisters pretty, too?" "they are very pretty. wythie--oswyth--is older than i, a year, and she's just sweetness--looks, and character, and all. and prue, the youngest, is a beauty," said rob, proudly. "to think of having two sisters!" sighed hester, laying out rob's fresh little hemstitched "turnover" collar. at dinner rob's shyness returned, but the baldwins were most kind, and spared her the necessity of more conversation than was required to make her feel thoroughly welcome. the beautifully appointed dining-room, the perfect service, brought before rob's eyes in a new light the little grey house, the patient cheerfulness of the dear grey mardy through all the past years of drudgery and petty economies, the perfect breeding of the mistress of the little house, and the careful training of its daughters, in spite of adverse circumstances. for the first time rob realized the difference between wealth and poverty, and that there were hundreds of people who had never felt the wheels of life jar. and for the first time, though she had always worshipped her mother, she fully realized what that hidden, unselfish life had accomplished in keeping life in the little grey house on the plane on which she and wythie and prue had been taught to live and think. she caught her breath in a wordless prayer that her mission might not be vain, and that, in the midst of grief, her brave mother might be set free of her long struggle. mr. baldwin and his wife left the girls to themselves after dinner, sitting across the room from their elders, and soon rob was telling hester, with more detail and far more humor than she had shown her father, all that there was to tell of fayre, the river, the little grey house, the rutherfords and frances, cousin peace and aunt azraella, kiku-san, wythie and prue, her mother, their queer adventures in economy, her story-telling, mr. flinders and polly, and all the sorrows and joys which she saw, from this distance and in this beautiful home, in a totally new and impersonal light. hester went off into such peals of laughter that she grew hysterical, and her father and mother came over to share the fun. rob did not mind them; she had got so excited over her own narrative, and so interested in it, that she could have told the story to the president. "why, it's like the nicest sort of a girls' story, rob," cried hester. "how perfectly lovely to live such adventures! and here am i all alone!" "and here are you seeing plays, studying whatever you like, going to concerts, and doing all kinds of things!" retorted rob. "it's funny enough to tell, but let me assure you, miss hester baldwin, there are times when the mercury gets pretty low in the little grey house." "it's going to climb, and stay up," said mr. baldwin. "and now, hester, take rob to bed--she is more tired than she realizes. and to-morrow, while i set in motion the wheels which are to prove the wheel of fortune to her, you show rob all of new york you can crowd into a day. i suppose we mustn't try to keep you a moment longer than can be helped, bobs bahadur?" "no, please, mr. baldwin," said rob. "i should be happy here, and you are all only too good to me, but they are troubled at home, and need me." "i can believe they need you, my dear, in joy or sorrow," said mrs. baldwin, affectionately giving rob her good-night kiss. * * * * * "oh, you're up, are you, rob?" cried hester, trailing into rob's room in her pale blue, eiderdown wrapper. "i came to call you. if you're strong enough, i'm going to take you from dan to beersheba to-day--or at least from nellie to columbia. nellie's the seal down in the aquarium, and----" "please, hester, don't tell me columbia is the college, because even in fayre we've heard of columbia college," interrupted rob. "i'm strong, and shall be ready soon." hester was an energetic and resolute young person. she had set out to show rob new york, and she rushed from one end to the other of the long-drawn city until rob cried her mercy. "it's a whirl of a battery, with imaginary old dutchmen airing themselves by the harbor waves, and high buildings, as modern as a minute ago, and rattling trolleys, and rising elevated roads bending around dizzy curves, and splendid college libraries, and impressive tombs overlooking the palisades, and guarding soldiers' ashes and tattered flags, and swarming harlem flats, and gorgeous fifth avenue mansions, and cathedral spires," rob said at last, sinking wearily down on a seat before the entrance to the art museum. "i can't go in, hester, not if all the pictures in europe and michelangelo's moses are in there. i didn't think i should give out, but let's risk new york and i meeting again, and finishing up. if we don't, i know one of us will be finished up this time for good." so hester reluctantly postponed exhibiting the remainder of her city's glories, and took home a thoroughly tired rob. they found mr. baldwin had come home early, and was waiting them impatiently. "rob," he cried. "i've great news for you. i have found the very concern which is most interested in bricquette machines, and most ready to purchase the best thing of the sort on the market. they told me to-day that, on general principles, if the concern represented by mr. marston would give four thousand dollars for your father's invention, it would be worth not less than ten thousand to them. i am to take you to see them in the morning, and their representative will probably follow you to fayre in a few days. at least, you see, we have undoubtedly gained a great deal by waiting, and you are already justified in your wisdom." rob turned pale. "you don't know how frightened i have been. do you think i can go home to-morrow?" she said. "so tired of us?" suggested mr. baldwin, lifting the quivering face by its chin. "so anxious to get back, because i know how they want me," said rob, simply. "and just now i cannot stay away from the little grey house. but please don't think me dreadful--i never could tell you how i feel about your kindness. some day, if hester will come to the little grey house, all the greys will try to give her the best time that small edifice can hold." "we understand, rob, and i'm coming, just as you're coming back here, for we're going to be friends forever," said hester. "and as to kindness," added mr. baldwin, "sylvester sent you to me, and i only do what he would do for my girl, if the case were reversed." in the morning rob left the house which she had dreaded to enter, feeling that the beautiful woman who was its mistress, and the tall girl with her vague dissatisfactions, but ready affection, who had proved a friend at sight, were something that had been part of her life for years, instead of less than forty-eight hours. she went away as she had come, with mr. baldwin and her suit-case, for she meant to go back to fayre as soon as this formidable interview before her was over, but she went reluctantly, and at the corner, when she turned back to wave her hand a last time to hester and her mother, watching her depart, she could scarcely see them for the tears she was trying to hide from mr. baldwin. mr. baldwin took rob to his office to rid themselves of her cumbersome case, and at once carried her off again to meet the possible purchasers of the invention. "stop fluttering, robin redbreast," said mr. baldwin, feeling the girl's heart palpitating against the arm through which he had drawn her left one, tucking her up protectingly. "oh, that's what cousin peace calls me!" cried rob. and the home pet-name helped to steady her. "they won't devour robins, my dear, and they won't be too business-like with a slip of a sixteenyear-old girl, so don't be frightened. just tell them as clearly as you can your recollections of the construction and working of your father's invention, and for his sake, and the dear mardy's and the girls', do your best." "i will," said rob, bracing herself, as mr. baldwin felt sure she would. "but i feel so incompetent and ridiculous." everything swam before rob's eyes as mr. baldwin opened a door and ushered her into an office where she dimly perceived three or four gentlemen, and solid mahogany desks and chairs. into one of the latter she felt herself sink, as someone placed it for her, while mr. baldwin presented her in words that seemed to be intended to set her at her ease, but which she hardly heard. just what happened first rob never knew, but she found the oldest of these solid, business-like personages asking her questions, and heard her own voice answering as from afar. then before her eyes flashed a vision. she saw the wainscoted room at home, and her father--patergrey--bending his thin form over the models, and saying: "you could explain this as well as i could myself, rob, my son." and now there was none else to do it--she was acting for patergrey, saving the work of his life from being lost. she felt as though his wistful eyes were upon her, and she knew that she must not fail him. with that vision fear left her. straightening herself, she leaned slightly forward in her chair, and said, with a new note of confidence in her voice--confidence in herself and in the machine she had come to explain: "i think, sir, if you please, i can tell you better just how the machine is built and how it works, if you will let me describe it in my own way. if i do not make it clear to you, you will stop me, please, and ask me to explain fully." the big man with the iron-grey hair stared at this sudden transformation, but mr. baldwin understood, with instinctive sympathy, something of what had passed in rob's mind, and he felt a lump come into his throat as he realized how bravely and loyally rob loved her father. without a moment's hesitation roberta began her description. forgetting herself more and more in the interest of her own words, seeing not the stately new york office, but the low-ceiled, dear old wainscoted workroom at home, she rose to her feet, illustrating what she said with articles borrowed from the desk and table before her. her eyes were dilating and flashing, her color went and came, her voice trembled, but words never failed her, even technical words unconsciously retained from hearing her father use them, words which she could not have used except under the exaltation of her mood and motive. no one interrupted her; she told her story quite to the end, not noticing the silence in which they heard her. when she ended, and had dropped back into her big chair, her audience stirred. "you are a wonderful young girl, miss grey," said the gentleman, who evidently was the person most concerned in the matter. "your father was singularly fortunate in such a daughter and assistant. we have perfectly understood your description. the invention has important advantageous points of difference from any machine on the market intended for this purpose. i am speaking within bounds in saying that our firm will certainly purchase it, if you will sell to us, and that we shall certainly offer you a fair price, dealing honestly with you. the offer you have received was so dishonest that it is a pity there is no law punishing a rascal for making it, trying to take advantage of women in their new sorrow. we will, by your permission, go to fayre to see your models, and will then lay before you the offer upon which we will, in the meantime, decide. i can only repeat, miss grey, that we want the machine." rob arose, trembling in every limb. "if you will send me word when you're coming, i'll meet you at the station; fayre is rather crooked," she said, faintly. the gentlemen smiled, and mr. baldwin drew rob's arm through his again, and patted her hand as though she had been hester. "not a bad little girl, is she?" he said, proudly. "you see, she has done her best, and now longs to run away. i am obliged to you for your courtesy, gentlemen, and so is miss roberta." "oh, yes; thank you ever so much for listening to me," said poor rob, wondering if she were going to be able to get out of that office without crying like a baby. "it has been the pleasantest, most interesting, most exceptional business interview i ever had, my dear young lady," said the old gentleman. "i shall go to fayre myself, for i should like to see your mother. good-morning, and i shall be obliged to you if you will consider the invention mine until you have refused my offer for it." "yes, sir," said rob, and mr. baldwin, to her intense relief, bore her away. "not another night, dear little robin?" hinted mr. baldwin. "couldn't you, wouldn't you, telegraph your mother, and come back with me to gladden mrs. baldwin and hester's eyes with the sight of you, and their hearts with our good news?" "oh, no; please not this time, dear, kind mr. baldwin," cried rob. "don't you see how i must ache to get back? it was such a dreadful thing to do, and now it's done, i must go home to my little grey house and blessed grey people." "i know you must--you shall," said mr. baldwin. "i'll take you to lunch, and then put you on the train myself, and speed you away to fayre." at the grand central station mr. baldwin established rob in luxury in the parlor-car, and held her hands fast. "i can't tell you how glad i am you have come into our lives, robin bobs bahadur," he said. "you shall not slip out again, i promise you." "wait till you see wythie and prue," said rob, smiling through her tears. "rob will do for me," said mr. baldwin, and, stooping, kissed her cheek, "for her dear father, and for herself," he added, kissing the other. and so, victorious, and with new friends, rob set out on the journey back to fayre. chapter sixteen its liberation rob watched the fields which bordered fayre, and the splendid, bare-boughed elms fly past the window against which she pressed her face, eager for the first glimpse of the station. it seemed to her that she had been gone for months; she wondered at finding them the same fields and the same elms which she had seen on her departure--another rob was returning to them, who, she vaguely felt, must be welcomed by changes in the surroundings of her childhood corresponding to those within herself. there was no one to meet her at the station; she had been too uncertain of her return to announce it, and, leaving her single, but insistent, piece of baggage at the station, she hurried to the little grey house. she opened the door and came in quietly, yet not so quietly but that prue heard her step, and came tumbling out of the sitting-room, crying: "rob, rob! rob's come!" in an ecstasy of joyous excitement. wythie nearly tripped up her mother in her haste to follow prue, but rob brushed past them both, throwing her arms around her darling mardy, and hugging her close, crying with joy at getting back to her, and for grief of the loneliness of finding her in her widow's black. "rob, my dear, precious girl, i'm so thankful you're here i can't care how your mission ended," cried mrs. grey, holding rob off at arm's length to see her better, and folding her closer than before. "i have seen you crushed by trolleys, lost, weary, frightened, till i could not forgive myself for letting you go." "dear mardy-goosie, you see i'm all right, and you'd better care how my mission ended, for it's worth caring about," cried rob. "you see i didn't come home on my shield, so maybe you can guess who's the victor." "rob, have you good news?" cried wythie. "i have a lovely old gentleman coming up here to see the invention, and he is positively going to make an offer for it, but he couldn't tell how much it would be. the only thing he could say was that it would be considerably more than mr. marston's offer," said rob, busying herself with her coat-buttons, and trying to speak demurely. "you splendid, splendid rob!" cried prue, throwing herself on her sister's neck in a rapture. "that's because i succeeded; if i'd failed, and sticking to my guns had lost us the first offer, without getting a second one, you'd hardly have forgiven me, prudy. i begin to see why this is called an unjust world," said rob, wisely. "but i'm ravenous, dear folkses--can't you feed a poor wanderer, while she tells her story?" "rob, dear, we are devouring you so hard with our eyes and ears and hearts we forget how tired you must be!" exclaimed wythie, self-reproachfully. "we made some fresh gingerbread, in case of company from the metropolis, and we've some freshest fresh eggs from mr. flinders to-day--you shall not starve long, dearie." wythie felt as though her sister were undefinably changed by this short absence, and was half afraid that rob was growing up. "and little polly flinders?" asked rob. "how's the poor mite?" "wonderfully well; she begged to be allowed to stay up to see if you wouldn't come to-night," smiled mrs. grey. "let me go get her; it won't hurt her to bring her down, wrapped up in her gown. she'll like to hear me tell my story, even if she doesn't understand much about it." and without waiting for an objection rob disappeared, and came back quickly, bearing a sleepy but happy polly done up in a scarlet dressing-gown, who was fondling her face as she carried her, and whom she deposited in a dining-room chair, tucking her feet up well in the wrapper before she took the place wythie and prue had hastily prepared for her at the old table. "how thankful i am this mahogany didn't go!" sighed rob. "we're going to be prosperous greys henceforth, though i don't know yet the extent of our riches. now, sit ye down, my bonny, bonny lassies, mardy, wythie, and prue, and i will sing the adventures of roberta the bold in the great city of gotham. no, i don't want any more bread than this, mardy, but if i did i'd get it--please sit down and listen." prue pulled up a chair, and leaned on her elbows well over toward the middle of the table, drawing a long breath of contented yet impatient interest. wythie placed her chair close to rob's side, and laid her arm over her sister's shoulders, while the mother grey took her favorite low rocker, and folded her hands, looking with eyes warm with love and moist with tender, proud tears at her husband's "son rob," as she told the story of her defence of his invention. "and that's all," ended rob, at last, having related every incident of her visit, from her bewilderment as she left the station, and the big policeman's kindness, to mr. baldwin's fatherly parting from her in the grand central. "i did hold out against you all not to take the offer, but nothing else is due to me. it is all that blessed mr. baldwin, and i only hope i can some day make him understand how grateful i am--and to his sweet wife and hester, too; they were like--well, you can't say like one's own kindred, for they were more thoughtful and loving to me than some of our kindred are." "but my brave rob did it all, none the less," said her mother. "i can't thank her for her loyal courage, but i hope her patergrey can do it for me." and she kissed rob with a long, clinging kiss that the girl, happy through her tears, felt was not from her mother only. polly fell asleep again as rob talked, and when the triumphant traveller's repast was over, and prue had volunteered to clear away the reminders, as if, for the first time in her life, she welcomed the chance to serve rob, the little grey house was closed for the night, and lights appeared in its low upper windows, for mrs. grey insisted that tired rob must be got to bed. it took a long time getting there, however; prue flitted in and out of her sisters' room, not to be deprived of any part of the steady flow of talk going on there, for the mere telling of facts is never all of any story worth telling. long after prue had reluctantly subsided, the "ss-ss-s" of whispering drifted out in the darkness from wythie and rob's bed, but finally they whispered themselves to sleep, and silence rested over the little grey house which its brave daughter had saved. breakfast was scarcely over, when polly, wiping dishes, announced: "here's father!" and the greys saw mr. flinders approaching, his right hand bearing a yellow envelope, held with the handle of a large basket tightly grasped, and his face bearing a most unwonted smile. "i come to see roberta--mr. abbit, down to the depot, said you'd got back--and my wife she said she thought you'd like some 'f her jelly," said mr. flinders. "she said she'd like to know if polly wasn't about ready to come home." polly looked doubtful. "i'd like to come, if rob wasn't here," she said. "i'll go away, pollykins, go away again, if you say so," smiled rob. "i think she's well now--don't you, mardy? perhaps you ought to go see your mother, dear. she's lonely with no little polly flinders among her cinders." "polly is quite welcome, mr. flinders," said mrs. grey, "but if you need her i think she is well enough to be dismissed from our little grey hospital." farmer flinders shuffled his feet uneasily. "she said i'd ought to tell you, but i d'know's i know how," he began, embarrassed. "we're a good deal obliged to you for all you've done for maimie, an' i can see my way to carryin' on this place on equal shares next summer, countin' from now. i guess half'll be 'bout what i'll take in the future, 'stead of two-thirds." "that's very good of you, mr. flinders!" cried mrs. grey, appreciating the sacrifice this offer cost. "come next week, and we'll talk about accepting your proposition. we hope the greys may be much better off by that time. roberta has been to new york in reference to her father's patent, and we believe it is going to prove very valuable; we are waiting for news of its purchase now." poor mrs. grey was not guileless in thus taking farmer flinders into her confidence. she knew that he would set afloat rumors of sylvester grey's posthumous success, and she was impatient for tardy justice to be done her husband. "i want to know!" exclaimed mr. flinders now, opening his eyes to their widest. "and that's what roberta went away for--we was wonderin'. very valuable, is it? i want to know! and roberta went to attend to it! she's young for such business, seems's if! still, she's al'ays been smart, roberta has. well, i'm sure i'm glad; you do deserve it. sho! i've got a telegraph for you in my hand this minute! here 'tis; i forgot it. i guess i'll be goin'. i'm comin' for maimie on saturday, so you be ready, maimie. i sh'd think you'd want to see your folks. hope the telegraph is good news; you do deserve it." and mr. flinders tore himself away--to spread the tidings of the greys' approaching prosperity, mrs. grey felt contentedly sure. wythie had torn open the telegram. "will be in fayre on ten-ten from new york on thursday," she read. "it's signed william armstrong; is that any of the gentlemen you saw, rob?" "it's _one_ of them," cried rob, eagerly seizing the telegram from wythie's hand. "it's the old gentleman, and he's coming to-morrow! oh, mardy and other girls, don't you hope it will be all right?" "what will be all right? hallo, rob! we heard you were back, and we came to see the city polish you had acquired," cried bruce. battalion b had come in the front way unheard. "oh, hallo, nice big boys," cried rob, turning to meet them with outstretched hands and her most april face. "i didn't get much polish in two days, i fear me, but i think and hope i got what i went for." "of course you did! we knew what would happen!" cried basil. "we're going down to get your bag--our bag! we're anxious about it, so we're going to bring it up. abbott told us you left it with him. and we're going to take you with us to identify us, so get your hat and come along, and on the way you can tell us all that you and gotham did to each other." "i suppose i might go to market with these foolish but spotless giraffes, mardy," said rob. "come with the giraffes, you little brown deer," remarked bruce, in an undertone. "and order something special for luncheon to-morrow when mr. armstrong is here," continued rob, ignoring bruce. "run along, robin, and get ready while wythie and i make out our list for you," said mrs. grey, with a brighter smile than her face had worn since the little grey house had lost its master. * * * * * mr. armstrong had come and gone. roberta had taken him into the wainscoted room, and while her mother and wythie listened in wondering admiration, showed their guest the working of the models, explaining each part, and making clear, through her memory of her dear patergrey's words, that which none other of the family had understood. a strange half-consciousness took possession of rob as she talked--she imagined that it was not she herself, not young rob grey speaking, but that she was the mouth-piece for the wistful eyes so often raised to hers in that old room, and that sylvester grey spoke through her. as in the office in new york, her self-diffidence dropped from her, and she performed her part, absorbed in doing well her father's commission. mr. armstrong, as before, had listened silently, but now he was gone, and the greys sat around the old mahogany dining-table, gazing, awestruck and motionless at the slip of paper lying on it. it was mr. armstrong's check for fifty thousand dollars. the bricquette machine was sold, the arrangements made for packing and shipping the models to its owner, and the result of sylvester grey's "dreaming"--securing peace and plenty to his family--lay, radiating hope and joy to his wife and daughters, on the old table where once the baby sylvester had sat by his father's side. "i never expected to see so much money in all my life," said prue, speaking first, and sighing like one awakening from a dream. "oh, if only your dear, hard-working, misunderstood father could have known!" cried mrs. grey, dropping her head beside the check, her whole frame shaken by sobs. wythie arose and laid her own head softly on the heaving shoulder. "mardy, mardy darling, we will be quite sure that he does know; we will believe he helped rob stand firm against us all, and win us this great good--we say we believe in the communion of saints, and we will be quite, quite sure that dear papa has this joy, with all the rest," she whispered, her sweet face kindled into rapture, though her tears fell fast. rob leaned across and took her mother's hand. "this has done something wonderful for me, mardy," she said, slowly. "i don't know that i can explain, but it seems to me that all his dear, pathetic, dreaming life patergrey was but partly alive, and that now he is living, truly living, and his life is complete. i feel as though he had come back to us." the door opened, and aunt azraella entered, stopping short, as she saw the group around the table. "for pity's sake, mary," she cried, "has something else bad happened to you? i've only just got back, and i have been frantic to hear how roberta came out. i suppose you've lost that offer, and see now how right i was. well, i warned you." "rob has saved us, azraella," said mrs. grey, raising her head quickly--aunt azraella had the gift of drying tears. "look at this." aunt azraella took the magic slip of paper her sister-in-law handed her. she nearly dropped it, and fell into a chair herself as she scanned it, catching her breath in the magnitude of her surprise. "fifty thousand dollars! a check for fifty thousand! mary, tell me this instant what this means," she gasped. "it means that our brave, wise roberta was right; that the first offer was a dishonest one, and that through the old college mate of sylvester's, the lawyer, to whom he was to have written himself for advice, rob was brought to honest men, who have given us the real value of the patent," said mrs. grey. "it means that we are rich, azraella, and that in the midst of our sorrow we have been freed from the corroding anxiety of poverty. and we owe it to sylvester's years of visionary, impractical dreaming, which you so denounced, and to brave rob's good judgment and firm purpose." for once mrs. winslow was silenced. at last she rallied. "it's more than wonderful, mary," she said, "but who in the world could have foreseen it? of course, i'm perfectly delighted. roberta, i am truly surprised at you; i didn't think you had it in you. but i congratulate you, child, and i'm proud of you. there's nothing in all this world much better to have than a keen business sense, and judgment to know when you're right and to stick to it. i am proud of you. what are you going to do with the money, mary? it's most important to invest it properly." "it will go to mr. baldwin, and he will invest it for us--he wrote me, offering to do this, yesterday," mrs. grey began, but rob interrupted her with a glad cry. "oh, aunt azraella, what do you think we are going to do? right away--a check for it has already gone to the bank, for we received two thousand more than this big check." "put up a fine stone to your father's memory," replied mrs. winslow, with a characteristic guess. "no, no--oh, no," cried wythie, hastily, while rob said: "don't you see what it is? it is already practically done. we have paid the mortgage on the little grey house, and the dearest little old home in the world is all our own, free and all our own, once more. we shall get the papers in the morning." chapter seventeen its sunshine the long winter was past, and fayre lay basking in the warmth of may. the little river reflected the bright green of its newly clad willows, through which gleams of sunshine, too warm for mortals, rejoiced the minnows darting through the shallows. the air was sweet with blossoms and tender verdure, and the song-birds filled it with rejoicing. it was impossible to be sad on such a day, and wythie, rob, and prue, standing in the doorway of the little grey house, absorbing the beauty through every sense, felt their pulses thrill with young joy in living, like the may's. the little grey house modestly announced to all the world that its winter, too, was over and gone. newly painted in its own soft grey, the lawn with which its daughters had once vainly struggled, smooth shaven by skilful hands, flowers, once beyond its reach in the strict economy of its finances, now flaming gayly against its low walls, all spoke of the prosperity with which its last son had endowed it. no great changes had been made in the beloved little home--too well beloved as it was to admit of them--but it had been made beautiful on its own simple lines, and the girls could hardly help feeling it knew and was glad of its physical well-being. and these girls, too, showed the bettering of their lives in many subtle small ways. wythie's fresh prettiness was blooming in the brightness it was intended to wear, rob's variable face was losing its strained look, and prue's beauty was unspoiled by the discontented expression it had too often worn. pretty, fresh white gowns, with their black ribbons fluttered by the may wind, were reminders of a loss which was fast growing to be rather a tender memory than a poignant regret. for sorrow of the higher sort brings with it heights of thought and consolations with which to bear it, but the daily struggle to live, the petty cares and vain effort to make too little suffice, eats out heart and brain, with no uplifting to render it endurable. from their cradle the grey girls had fought this fight, and won in it nobly, but now that it was over, and an income which to them was abundant was assured them, they drew a long breath, casting off sordid frets forever, and began to expand as nature had meant them to, into light-hearted young creatures, full of their own may-time. seeing them happier, and relieved herself of her hard burden, mrs. grey, too, was learning to bear her loss, and give herself up to her hard-earned rest and to her girls' petting, with her anxious mental strain relaxed. it was a day of peace, and, to complete it, "cousin peace" was coming to spend it with them. for the first time in years the little grey house was awaiting guests. the baldwins, all three, were coming from new york to see the house and its inmates which they had been so fortunate in befriending, and rob burned to make the occasion some approximate expression of her gratitude, and some return for their hospitality to her. she and oswyth and prue were waiting for battalion b and frances to go to the woods after dogwood with which to turn the little grey house into a bower, and as they waited on the step miss charlotte came. "come in, dear cousin peace," cried wythie, kissing her lovingly as soon as rob gave her a chance. "mardy is upstairs resting and writing letters. i wonder how long it will take us to get used to the luxury--the unspeakable delight--of seeing mardy rest, and knowing that lydia is in the kitchen doing the work!" "blackening the stove particularly," added rob. "i find now that, on the whole, i hated most of all to blacken the stove." "well, i find that what i hated most was what i happened to be doing," remarked prue. "you're not to think that we are living in idleness, cousin peace," wythie said, as they led the gentle cousin charlotte into the house. "there's only one of lydia, and one person can't do it all, but it is such a relief to have 'help'!" "there's enough to be done in any house; i understand, lassies," said miss charlotte. "but you were tired lassies, and i am more glad than you know to see your burdens lifted--still more glad for your mother, because i know how happy sylvester would be--is--to see her resting." "oh, i know that, too, cousin peace!" cried rob. "i know how patergrey felt about 'pretty mary winslow,' as he called her to me, having had a hard life because she married him. i'm beginning almost to be glad--though i miss him most of us all--that he won his fight just as he did; i know he would have chosen it so." "and i'm beginning to feel as though he had not gone away at all," said wythie, softly; "as though all this comfort and greater ease were he himself, his love and presence around us, and that in having it we had him. i can't explain, but it is such a comfort!" "i can understand that, dear wythie," said cousin peace. "aunt azraella is coming over to luncheon, and to teach lydia her famous short-cake," said rob, after a little pause, as they halted before their mother's door. "she does make wonderful strawberry short-cake, and we are going to stun the baldwins with it. and she's quite a different aunt azraella. she has such a respect for bonds and stocks and coupons, and such little appurtenances, that she regards us through the rose-colored glasses of an invested fifty thousand dollars. she never criticises us--you see we can afford to do what we please--and her respectful manner to me beggars description. oswyth is nowhere now; flighty roberta is her favorite niece, all because of my obstinacy and defiance of her opinion! but i stand for the source of gold, and she regards me no longer as fighting 'bobs,' but as a sort of kimberley." "oh, rob!" exclaimed wythie, "don't hunt for motives! it's so much pleasanter to take people at their face value, when it doesn't matter. and aunt azraella is really quite nice now, cousin peace." she opened her mother's chamber-door as she spoke, and mrs. grey sprang from her big chair to fold in a close embrace her husband's nearest of kin and most of kind. "try to bear up under the infliction, mardy," said incorrigible rob. "we know you are afflicted when cousin peace comes, but don't let her see it so plainly." for mrs. grey was radiating the pleasure she felt in the coming of sweet miss charlotte. "there are the boys and frances coming down the street, saucy robin," said her mother. "take yourselves off, girls, and let me have cousin peace all to myself for a while. wait one moment, charlotte; kiku-san is in that chair--he claims it--but i'll lay him on my bed." she raised the white cat like a round mat, just as he lay, and miss charlotte seated herself in the vacated rocking-chair where the breeze blew in on her. kiku-san rose from his coiled position, sat up sleepily for a moment on the foot of the bed, then, stretching and yawning, walked over into cousin peace's lap, where he contentedly curled up to continue his nap. they all laughed. "trust a cat to carry his point!" cried rob. "that chair is kiku's, and kiku will have it, whether cousin peace or a down pillow is in it." "we're off for dogwood, kiku-san," said prue, laying her cheek on the cat for a farewell. "and we'll bring it home with plenty of bark for bad kittens." mrs. grey watched the seven young people out of the gate, and her eyes and lips were smiling. miss charlotte said, as if she, too, saw the pretty picture: "they are fine boys, mary, and there are no girls so sweet and pretty as our grey ones. do you ever wonder if a lifelong affection, of a stronger sort, may grow out of this beautiful triple friendship?" "i suppose it would be impossible not to dream of it, charlotte, but wythie and rob are simple girls, and too unconscious to dream of it themselves," said their mother. "i should be glad if it were to be. yes, i do think of it, and i realize my girls are hovering on the verge of womanhood. they have been too busy, too home-keeping, to cross the line early. sometimes i think basil and bruce, with their half a year advance of wythie and rob, are already building a little romance, and i see that basil finds wythie just about perfect in all ways, as bruce evidently considers all other girls mere sawdust beside bright robin, but it all lies folded in the future, and no one can foresee. it would be a lovely little idyl, and i dare to hope for it; almost to feel sure it will come some day." "i think it will," said miss charlotte, quietly, and the two women smiled at each other, full of loving pride in the girls who were to them both dearest of all girls, prettiest, bravest, sweetest. it was high noon, and very warm, when the faint sound of distant singing announced to mrs. grey and miss charlotte and to mrs. winslow, who had by that time arrived, that the seven were returning. the singing grew louder, clearer, and at last developed into nothing more classic than the darky song, "won't you come home, bill bailey?" chosen as appropriate, and rendered with immense expression. almost at once the procession came in sight. prue and bartlemy ahead, prue more than ever beautiful under the great boughs of dogwood, which, like the rest, she bore. oswyth and basil followed, wythie's face looking out flushed and glowing with summer warmth and happiness under the great white, blotched, so-called blossoms of the shrub. rob and frances divided bruce between them, making an arbor over his head, holding above it, by an effort, their spoils of the glossy green and dazzling white. all seven were singing at the tops of their fresh voices, and even aunt azraella could not resist the charm of this return, but smiled benignantly at them from the window. "you never saw anyone so changed as mr. flinders," remarked mrs. grey at luncheon, as she busily served her guests to fresh peas. "not only does he carry on the place on halves, instead of two-thirds profit--which is really much fairer--but, now that he has started in well-doing, he is going uphill in virtue, rob says, as if he were on an inverted chute. he is truly grateful to us--to rob especially--for taking polly last winter; he and his wife insist that we saved her life, and i am surprised and delighted with the feeling he shows." "being disagreeable is like other habits," said miss charlotte. "when people once break off and get over the embarrassment of having their pleasant ways noted, it is quite easy to keep on, even to increase them daily. i believe half the cranky people are so just because they fell into the way of it, and feel awkwardly self-conscious when they behave like other people." "you ought to know, cousin peace," said rob, suggestively, and, before the laugh with which her hint had been received had died away, she pushed her chair back from the table. "come on, you three big boys and little girls," she cried. "do you realize that it is now half past one, and that the baldwins arrive at four? that isn't long in which to decorate the little grey house, make the toilets of its inmates--kiku-san's ribbon alone needs five minutes to tie--and get a triumphal procession of welcome down to the station to meet them. you can't have another piece of cake, really you cannot have it, bartlemy--unless you put it in your pocket. jump up, all of you!" rob's younger guests meekly obeyed her, and presently she had them all at work, filling every available vase and jar with water, and bringing them to her--"like isaac's slaves returning from the well," bruce said--in the cool pantry where the girls were arranging the dogwood. it was not long before the little grey house was massed with the woodland beauty--old fireplaces, narrow mantels, every table and corner, all was full of the starry white, brown-blotched radiance of the dogwood. rob fell back to admire, leaning an elbow on wythie and frances's shoulders, and shutting one eye in exaggeration of bartlemy's artistic manner of scrutinizing a sketch. "i think it will do, my brethren and sisters," she said, solemnly. _"o little house that gave me birth,_ _we've laid the dogwood on thy hearth_ _because the guests now drawing near_ _kept you from going to the dogs, my dear--_ oh, mercy, i thought that would turn out better. it would, if i had time to develop that noble thought--but you've got to mispronounce hearth or it won't!" cried rob, bringing her disastrous attempt to a hasty conclusion. "i could do something better than that this minute, but i won't, because you do so hate to be beaten," said basil. "i never know i am," said rob, and they all shouted, because the statement was quite true. "poetry reminds me of the story-telling; are you going to keep it up another winter, rob? you must, for you've become an institution of fayre. the children will be heart-broken if you don't," said frances. "i don't know; i'm not over-scrupulous, but it never seemed right to me for anyone to earn money unless they have to, and now--only think of it--i have enough! i should hate horribly to keep money from a girl having as hard a time as i have had," said rob. "but there is no one else to do this, and so you don't wrong anyone. it would be a shame to stop, really," protested frances. "well, we'll see; this is only may, and there's plenty of time to decide--plenty of time for everything in this new, blessed life of ours!" cried rob. "maybe i'll carry it on in kiku-san's name, and send the proceeds to found a rescue league for animals in new york like the one in boston--you'd like that, wouldn't you, my affectionate little white-chrysanthemum-in-japanese?" she added, catching up their pet and swinging him to her shoulder. "time to dress to go to the station, children!" called mrs. grey from the dining-room. "come in here and see the little grey house in its parlor," wythie called back. "aunt azraella and cousin peace, too." they came at once, and stood on the worn door-sill surveying the low-ceiled room, fresh and cool in its green paper, high, white wainscoting, and white paint, its few fine engravings and soft grey prints on the walls, and the starry dogwood lighting it all. it was really beautiful, and mrs. grey caught her breath, with a sob of gratitude that, in spite of her greater loss, the dear little old homestead was left her. the girls caught the sound and understood her thought--it was too recent a joy to them all ever to be far beyond the mind of each of them. wythie, rob, and prue ran over to their mardy and twined their arms around her, all three, and hugged her close. "we have it safe, and we have one another," whispered sweet oswyth. "it's the loveliest spring of all my life," said prue, solemnly. "and in the winter i didn't dare to think of summer again." "behold a group of grateful greys," said rob, dashing away a tiny tear from her bright eyes before anyone could suspect it of being there, and laughing blithely. "aren't we perfect geese about our little grey house? we couldn't love it more if it were an old feudal, ancestral castle--though it would be bigger." "three cheers for the little grey house, and three cheers for the grateful greys!" cried bruce, with an inspiration. "for the house where we've had such glorious times, and for the people we love best of all the world," added basil, with a half-glance toward wythie. "amendment carried!" cried bruce, with an open look at rob. the open windows bore the cheers out to farmer flinders in the garden, and he stopped work to listen, leaning on his hoe, and smiling to himself with unwonted benignity. "well, they're havin' happy days in the little grey house at last," he said aloud. "and i declare to mercy, they deserve 'em! there's no doubt they all do deserve 'em." * * * * * * transcriber's note: page 129 span changed to spun (pilgrim mothers wove and spun) page 260 cousn changed to cousin (whether cousin peace) wieland; or the transformation an american tale by charles brockden brown from virtue's blissful paths away the double-tongued are sure to stray; good is a forth-right journey still, and mazy paths but lead to ill. advertisement. the following work is delivered to the world as the first of a series of performances, which the favorable reception of this will induce the writer to publish. his purpose is neither selfish nor temporary, but aims at the illustration of some important branches of the moral constitution of man. whether this tale will be classed with the ordinary or frivolous sources of amusement, or be ranked with the few productions whose usefulness secures to them a lasting reputation, the reader must be permitted to decide. the incidents related are extraordinary and rare. some of them, perhaps, approach as nearly to the nature of miracles as can be done by that which is not truly miraculous. it is hoped that intelligent readers will not disapprove of the manner in which appearances are solved, but that the solution will be found to correspond with the known principles of human nature. the power which the principal person is said to possess can scarcely be denied to be real. it must be acknowledged to be extremely rare; but no fact, equally uncommon, is supported by the same strength of historical evidence. some readers may think the conduct of the younger wieland impossible. in support of its possibility the writer must appeal to physicians and to men conversant with the latent springs and occasional perversions of the human mind. it will not be objected that the instances of similar delusion are rare, because it is the business of moral painters to exhibit their subject in its most instructive and memorable forms. if history furnishes one parallel fact, it is a sufficient vindication of the writer; but most readers will probably recollect an authentic case, remarkably similar to that of wieland. it will be necessary to add, that this narrative is addressed, in an epistolary form, by the lady whose story it contains, to a small number of friends, whose curiosity, with regard to it, had been greatly awakened. it may likewise be mentioned, that these events took place between the conclusion of the french and the beginning of the revolutionary war. the memoirs of carwin, alluded to at the conclusion of the work, will be published or suppressed according to the reception which is given to the present attempt. c. b. b. september 3, 1798. chapter i i feel little reluctance in complying with your request. you know not fully the cause of my sorrows. you are a stranger to the depth of my distresses. hence your efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. yet the tale that i am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your sympathy. in the midst of my despair, i do not disdain to contribute what little i can to the benefit of mankind. i acknowledge your right to be informed of the events that have lately happened in my family. make what use of the tale you shall think proper. if it be communicated to the world, it will inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. it will exemplify the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable evils that flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline. my state is not destitute of tranquillity. the sentiment that dictates my feelings is not hope. futurity has no power over my thoughts. to all that is to come i am perfectly indifferent. with regard to myself, i have nothing more to fear. fate has done its worst. henceforth, i am callous to misfortune. i address no supplication to the deity. the power that governs the course of human affairs has chosen his path. the decree that ascertained the condition of my life, admits of no recal. no doubt it squares with the maxims of eternal equity. that is neither to be questioned nor denied by me. it suffices that the past is exempt from mutation. the storm that tore up our happiness, and changed into dreariness and desert the blooming scene of our existence, is lulled into grim repose; but not until the victim was transfixed and mangled; till every obstacle was dissipated by its rage; till every remnant of good was wrested from our grasp and exterminated. how will your wonder, and that of your companions, be excited by my story! every sentiment will yield to your amazement. if my testimony were without corroborations, you would reject it as incredible. the experience of no human being can furnish a parallel: that i, beyond the rest of mankind, should be reserved for a destiny without alleviation, and without example! listen to my narrative, and then say what it is that has made me deserve to be placed on this dreadful eminence, if, indeed, every faculty be not suspended in wonder that i am still alive, and am able to relate it. my father's ancestry was noble on the paternal side; but his mother was the daughter of a merchant. my grand-father was a younger brother, and a native of saxony. he was placed, when he had reached the suitable age, at a german college. during the vacations, he employed himself in traversing the neighbouring territory. on one occasion it was his fortune to visit hamburg. he formed an acquaintance with leonard weise, a merchant of that city, and was a frequent guest at his house. the merchant had an only daughter, for whom his guest speedily contracted an affection; and, in spite of parental menaces and prohibitions, he, in due season, became her husband. by this act he mortally offended his relations. thenceforward he was entirely disowned and rejected by them. they refused to contribute any thing to his support. all intercourse ceased, and he received from them merely that treatment to which an absolute stranger, or detested enemy, would be entitled. he found an asylum in the house of his new father, whose temper was kind, and whose pride was flattered by this alliance. the nobility of his birth was put in the balance against his poverty. weise conceived himself, on the whole, to have acted with the highest discretion, in thus disposing of his child. my grand-father found it incumbent on him to search out some mode of independent subsistence. his youth had been eagerly devoted to literature and music. these had hitherto been cultivated merely as sources of amusement. they were now converted into the means of gain. at this period there were few works of taste in the saxon dialect. my ancestor may be considered as the founder of the german theatre. the modern poet of the same name is sprung from the same family, and, perhaps, surpasses but little, in the fruitfulness of his invention, or the soundness of his taste, the elder wieland. his life was spent in the composition of sonatas and dramatic pieces. they were not unpopular, but merely afforded him a scanty subsistence. he died in the bloom of his life, and was quickly followed to the grave by his wife. their only child was taken under the protection of the merchant. at an early age he was apprenticed to a london trader, and passed seven years of mercantile servitude. my father was not fortunate in the character of him under whose care he was now placed. he was treated with rigor, and full employment was provided for every hour of his time. his duties were laborious and mechanical. he had been educated with a view to this profession, and, therefore, was not tormented with unsatisfied desires. he did not hold his present occupations in abhorrence, because they withheld him from paths more flowery and more smooth, but he found in unintermitted labour, and in the sternness of his master, sufficient occasions for discontent. no opportunities of recreation were allowed him. he spent all his time pent up in a gloomy apartment, or traversing narrow and crowded streets. his food was coarse, and his lodging humble. his heart gradually contracted a habit of morose and gloomy reflection. he could not accurately define what was wanting to his happiness. he was not tortured by comparisons drawn between his own situation and that of others. his state was such as suited his age and his views as to fortune. he did not imagine himself treated with extraordinary or unjustifiable rigor. in this respect he supposed the condition of others, bound like himself to mercantile service, to resemble his own; yet every engagement was irksome, and every hour tedious in its lapse. in this state of mind he chanced to light upon a book written by one of the teachers of the albigenses, or french protestants. he entertained no relish for books, and was wholly unconscious of any power they possessed to delight or instruct. this volume had lain for years in a corner of his garret, half buried in dust and rubbish. he had marked it as it lay; had thrown it, as his occasions required, from one spot to another; but had felt no inclination to examine its contents, or even to inquire what was the subject of which it treated. one sunday afternoon, being induced to retire for a few minutes to his garret, his eye was attracted by a page of this book, which, by some accident, had been opened and placed full in his view. he was seated on the edge of his bed, and was employed in repairing a rent in some part of his clothes. his eyes were not confined to his work, but occasionally wandering, lighted at length upon the page. the words "seek and ye shall find," were those that first offered themselves to his notice. his curiosity was roused by these so far as to prompt him to proceed. as soon as he finished his work, he took up the book and turned to the first page. the further he read, the more inducement he found to continue, and he regretted the decline of the light which obliged him for the present to close it. the book contained an exposition of the doctrine of the sect of camissards, and an historical account of its origin. his mind was in a state peculiarly fitted for the reception of devotional sentiments. the craving which had haunted him was now supplied with an object. his mind was at no loss for a theme of meditation. on days of business, he rose at the dawn, and retired to his chamber not till late at night. he now supplied himself with candles, and employed his nocturnal and sunday hours in studying this book. it, of course, abounded with allusions to the bible. all its conclusions were deduced from the sacred text. this was the fountain, beyond which it was unnecessary to trace the stream of religious truth; but it was his duty to trace it thus far. a bible was easily procured, and he ardently entered on the study of it. his understanding had received a particular direction. all his reveries were fashioned in the same mould. his progress towards the formation of his creed was rapid. every fact and sentiment in this book were viewed through a medium which the writings of the camissard apostle had suggested. his constructions of the text were hasty, and formed on a narrow scale. every thing was viewed in a disconnected position. one action and one precept were not employed to illustrate and restrict the meaning of another. hence arose a thousand scruples to which he had hitherto been a stranger. he was alternately agitated by fear and by ecstacy. he imagined himself beset by the snares of a spiritual foe, and that his security lay in ceaseless watchfulness and prayer. his morals, which had never been loose, were now modelled by a stricter standard. the empire of religious duty extended itself to his looks, gestures, and phrases. all levities of speech, and negligences of behaviour, were proscribed. his air was mournful and contemplative. he laboured to keep alive a sentiment of fear, and a belief of the awe-creating presence of the deity. ideas foreign to this were sedulously excluded. to suffer their intrusion was a crime against the divine majesty inexpiable but by days and weeks of the keenest agonies. no material variation had occurred in the lapse of two years. every day confirmed him in his present modes of thinking and acting. it was to be expected that the tide of his emotions would sometimes recede, that intervals of despondency and doubt would occur; but these gradually were more rare, and of shorter duration; and he, at last, arrived at a state considerably uniform in this respect. his apprenticeship was now almost expired. on his arrival of age he became entitled, by the will of my grand-father, to a small sum. this sum would hardly suffice to set him afloat as a trader in his present situation, and he had nothing to expect from the generosity of his master. residence in england had, besides, become almost impossible, on account of his religious tenets. in addition to these motives for seeking a new habitation, there was another of the most imperious and irresistable necessity. he had imbibed an opinion that it was his duty to disseminate the truths of the gospel among the unbelieving nations. he was terrified at first by the perils and hardships to which the life of a missionary is exposed. this cowardice made him diligent in the invention of objections and excuses; but he found it impossible wholly to shake off the belief that such was the injunction of his duty. the belief, after every new conflict with his passions, acquired new strength; and, at length, he formed a resolution of complying with what he deemed the will of heaven. the north-american indians naturally presented themselves as the first objects for this species of benevolence. as soon as his servitude expired, he converted his little fortune into money, and embarked for philadelphia. here his fears were revived, and a nearer survey of savage manners once more shook his resolution. for a while he relinquished his purpose, and purchasing a farm on schuylkill, within a few miles of the city, set himself down to the cultivation of it. the cheapness of land, and the service of african slaves, which were then in general use, gave him who was poor in europe all the advantages of wealth. he passed fourteen years in a thrifty and laborious manner. in this time new objects, new employments, and new associates appeared to have nearly obliterated the devout impressions of his youth. he now became acquainted with a woman of a meek and quiet disposition, and of slender acquirements like himself. he proffered his hand and was accepted. his previous industry had now enabled him to dispense with personal labour, and direct attention to his own concerns. he enjoyed leisure, and was visited afresh by devotional contemplation. the reading of the scriptures, and other religious books, became once more his favorite employment. his ancient belief relative to the conversion of the savage tribes, was revived with uncommon energy. to the former obstacles were now added the pleadings of parental and conjugal love. the struggle was long and vehement; but his sense of duty would not be stifled or enfeebled, and finally triumphed over every impediment. his efforts were attended with no permanent success. his exhortations had sometimes a temporary power, but more frequently were repelled with insult and derision. in pursuit of this object he encountered the most imminent perils, and underwent incredible fatigues, hunger, sickness, and solitude. the licence of savage passion, and the artifices of his depraved countrymen, all opposed themselves to his progress. his courage did not forsake him till there appeared no reasonable ground to hope for success. he desisted not till his heart was relieved from the supposed obligation to persevere. with his constitution somewhat decayed, he at length returned to his family. an interval of tranquillity succeeded. he was frugal, regular, and strict in the performance of domestic duties. he allied himself with no sect, because he perfectly agreed with none. social worship is that by which they are all distinguished; but this article found no place in his creed. he rigidly interpreted that precept which enjoins us, when we worship, to retire into solitude, and shut out every species of society. according to him devotion was not only a silent office, but must be performed alone. an hour at noon, and an hour at midnight were thus appropriated. at the distance of three hundred yards from his house, on the top of a rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and encumbered with dwarf cedars and stony asperities, he built what to a common eye would have seemed a summer-house. the eastern verge of this precipice was sixty feet above the river which flowed at its foot. the view before it consisted of a transparent current, fluctuating and rippling in a rocky channel, and bounded by a rising scene of cornfields and orchards. the edifice was slight and airy. it was no more than a circular area, twelve feet in diameter, whose flooring was the rock, cleared of moss and shrubs, and exactly levelled, edged by twelve tuscan columns, and covered by an undulating dome. my father furnished the dimensions and outlines, but allowed the artist whom he employed to complete the structure on his own plan. it was without seat, table, or ornament of any kind. this was the temple of his deity. twice in twenty-four hours he repaired hither, unaccompanied by any human being. nothing but physical inability to move was allowed to obstruct or postpone this visit. he did not exact from his family compliance with his example. few men, equally sincere in their faith, were as sparing in their censures and restrictions, with respect to the conduct of others, as my father. the character of my mother was no less devout; but her education had habituated her to a different mode of worship. the loneliness of their dwelling prevented her from joining any established congregation; but she was punctual in the offices of prayer, and in the performance of hymns to her saviour, after the manner of the disciples of zinzendorf. my father refused to interfere in her arrangements. his own system was embraced not, accurately speaking, because it was the best, but because it had been expressly prescribed to him. other modes, if practised by other persons, might be equally acceptable. his deportment to others was full of charity and mildness. a sadness perpetually overspread his features, but was unmingled with sternness or discontent. the tones of his voice, his gestures, his steps were all in tranquil unison. his conduct was characterised by a certain forbearance and humility, which secured the esteem of those to whom his tenets were most obnoxious. they might call him a fanatic and a dreamer, but they could not deny their veneration to his invincible candour and invariable integrity. his own belief of rectitude was the foundation of his happiness. this, however, was destined to find an end. suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was deepened. sighs, and even tears, sometimes escaped him. to the expostulations of his wife he seldom answered any thing. when he designed to be communicative, he hinted that his peace of mind was flown, in consequence of deviation from his duty. a command had been laid upon him, which he had delayed to perform. he felt as if a certain period of hesitation and reluctance had been allowed him, but that this period was passed. he was no longer permitted to obey. the duty assigned to him was transferred, in consequence of his disobedience, to another, and all that remained was to endure the penalty. he did not describe this penalty. it appeared to be nothing more for some time than a sense of wrong. this was sufficiently acute, and was aggravated by the belief that his offence was incapable of expiation. no one could contemplate the agonies which he seemed to suffer without the deepest compassion. time, instead of lightening the burthen, appeared to add to it. at length he hinted to his wife, that his end was near. his imagination did not prefigure the mode or the time of his decease, but was fraught with an incurable persuasion that his death was at hand. he was likewise haunted by the belief that the kind of death that awaited him was strange and terrible. his anticipations were thus far vague and indefinite; but they sufficed to poison every moment of his being, and devote him to ceaseless anguish. chapter ii early in the morning of a sultry day in august, he left mettingen, to go to the city. he had seldom passed a day from home since his return from the shores of the ohio. some urgent engagements at this time existed, which would not admit of further delay. he returned in the evening, but appeared to be greatly oppressed with fatigue. his silence and dejection were likewise in a more than ordinary degree conspicuous. my mother's brother, whose profession was that of a surgeon, chanced to spend this night at our house. it was from him that i have frequently received an exact account of the mournful catastrophe that followed. as the evening advanced, my father's inquietudes increased. he sat with his family as usual, but took no part in their conversation. he appeared fully engrossed by his own reflections. occasionally his countenance exhibited tokens of alarm; he gazed stedfastly and wildly at the ceiling; and the exertions of his companions were scarcely sufficient to interrupt his reverie. on recovering from these fits, he expressed no surprize; but pressing his hand to his head, complained, in a tremulous and terrified tone, that his brain was scorched to cinders. he would then betray marks of insupportable anxiety. my uncle perceived, by his pulse, that he was indisposed, but in no alarming degree, and ascribed appearances chiefly to the workings of his mind. he exhorted him to recollection and composure, but in vain. at the hour of repose he readily retired to his chamber. at the persuasion of my mother he even undressed and went to bed. nothing could abate his restlessness. he checked her tender expostulations with some sternness. "be silent," said he, "for that which i feel there is but one cure, and that will shortly come. you can help me nothing. look to your own condition, and pray to god to strengthen you under the calamities that await you." "what am i to fear?" she answered. "what terrible disaster is it that you think of?" "peace--as yet i know it not myself, but come it will, and shortly." she repeated her inquiries and doubts; but he suddenly put an end to the discourse, by a stern command to be silent. she had never before known him in this mood. hitherto all was benign in his deportment. her heart was pierced with sorrow at the contemplation of this change. she was utterly unable to account for it, or to figure to herself the species of disaster that was menaced. contrary to custom, the lamp, instead of being placed on the hearth, was left upon the table. over it against the wall there hung a small clock, so contrived as to strike a very hard stroke at the end of every sixth hour. that which was now approaching was the signal for retiring to the fane at which he addressed his devotions. long habit had occasioned him to be always awake at this hour, and the toll was instantly obeyed. now frequent and anxious glances were cast at the clock. not a single movement of the index appeared to escape his notice. as the hour verged towards twelve his anxiety visibly augmented. the trepidations of my mother kept pace with those of her husband; but she was intimidated into silence. all that was left to her was to watch every change of his features, and give vent to her sympathy in tears. at length the hour was spent, and the clock tolled. the sound appeared to communicate a shock to every part of my father's frame. he rose immediately, and threw over himself a loose gown. even this office was performed with difficulty, for his joints trembled, and his teeth chattered with dismay. at this hour his duty called him to the rock, and my mother naturally concluded that it was thither he intended to repair. yet these incidents were so uncommon, as to fill her with astonishment and foreboding. she saw him leave the room, and heard his steps as they hastily descended the stairs. she half resolved to rise and pursue him, but the wildness of the scheme quickly suggested itself. he was going to a place whither no power on earth could induce him to suffer an attendant. the window of her chamber looked toward the rock. the atmosphere was clear and calm, but the edifice could not be discovered at that distance through the dusk. my mother's anxiety would not allow her to remain where she was. she rose, and seated herself at the window. she strained her sight to get a view of the dome, and of the path that led to it. the first painted itself with sufficient distinctness on her fancy, but was undistinguishable by the eye from the rocky mass on which it was erected. the second could be imperfectly seen; but her husband had already passed, or had taken a different direction. what was it that she feared? some disaster impended over her husband or herself. he had predicted evils, but professed himself ignorant of what nature they were. when were they to come? was this night, or this hour to witness the accomplishment? she was tortured with impatience, and uncertainty. all her fears were at present linked to his person, and she gazed at the clock, with nearly as much eagerness as my father had done, in expectation of the next hour. an half hour passed away in this state of suspence. her eyes were fixed upon the rock; suddenly it was illuminated. a light proceeding from the edifice, made every part of the scene visible. a gleam diffused itself over the intermediate space, and instantly a loud report, like the explosion of a mine, followed. she uttered an involuntary shriek, but the new sounds that greeted her ear, quickly conquered her surprise. they were piercing shrieks, and uttered without intermission. the gleams which had diffused themselves far and wide were in a moment withdrawn, but the interior of the edifice was filled with rays. the first suggestion was that a pistol was discharged, and that the structure was on fire. she did not allow herself time to meditate a second thought, but rushed into the entry and knocked loudly at the door of her brother's chamber. my uncle had been previously roused by the noise, and instantly flew to the window. he also imagined what he saw to be fire. the loud and vehement shrieks which succeeded the first explosion, seemed to be an invocation of succour. the incident was inexplicable; but he could not fail to perceive the propriety of hastening to the spot. he was unbolting the door, when his sister's voice was heard on the outside conjuring him to come forth. he obeyed the summons with all the speed in his power. he stopped not to question her, but hurried down stairs and across the meadow which lay between the house and the rock. the shrieks were no longer to be heard; but a blazing light was clearly discernible between the columns of the temple. irregular steps, hewn in the stone, led him to the summit. on three sides, this edifice touched the very verge of the cliff. on the fourth side, which might be regarded as the front, there was an area of small extent, to which the rude staircase conducted you. my uncle speedily gained this spot. his strength was for a moment exhausted by his haste. he paused to rest himself. meanwhile he bent the most vigilant attention towards the object before him. within the columns he beheld what he could no better describe, than by saying that it resembled a cloud impregnated with light. it had the brightness of flame, but was without its upward motion. it did not occupy the whole area, and rose but a few feet above the floor. no part of the building was on fire. this appearance was astonishing. he approached the temple. as he went forward the light retired, and, when he put his feet within the apartment, utterly vanished. the suddenness of this transition increased the darkness that succeeded in a tenfold degree. fear and wonder rendered him powerless. an occurrence like this, in a place assigned to devotion, was adapted to intimidate the stoutest heart. his wandering thoughts were recalled by the groans of one near him. his sight gradually recovered its power, and he was able to discern my father stretched on the floor. at that moment, my mother and servants arrived with a lanthorn, and enabled my uncle to examine more closely this scene. my father, when he left the house, besides a loose upper vest and slippers, wore a shirt and drawers. now he was naked, his skin throughout the greater part of his body was scorched and bruised. his right arm exhibited marks as of having been struck by some heavy body. his clothes had been removed, and it was not immediately perceived that they were reduced to ashes. his slippers and his hair were untouched. he was removed to his chamber, and the requisite attention paid to his wounds, which gradually became more painful. a mortification speedily shewed itself in the arm, which had been most hurt. soon after, the other wounded parts exhibited the like appearance. immediately subsequent to this disaster, my father seemed nearly in a state of insensibility. he was passive under every operation. he scarcely opened his eyes, and was with difficulty prevailed upon to answer the questions that were put to him. by his imperfect account, it appeared, that while engaged in silent orisons, with thoughts full of confusion and anxiety, a faint gleam suddenly shot athwart the apartment. his fancy immediately pictured to itself, a person bearing a lamp. it seemed to come from behind. he was in the act of turning to examine the visitant, when his right arm received a blow from a heavy club. at the same instant, a very bright spark was seen to light upon his clothes. in a moment, the whole was reduced to ashes. this was the sum of the information which he chose to give. there was somewhat in his manner that indicated an imperfect tale. my uncle was inclined to believe that half the truth had been suppressed. meanwhile, the disease thus wonderfully generated, betrayed more terrible symptoms. fever and delirium terminated in lethargic slumber, which, in the course of two hours, gave place to death. yet not till insupportable exhalations and crawling putrefaction had driven from his chamber and the house every one whom their duty did not detain. such was the end of my father. none surely was ever more mysterious. when we recollect his gloomy anticipations and unconquerable anxiety; the security from human malice which his character, the place, and the condition of the times, might be supposed to confer; the purity and cloudlessness of the atmosphere, which rendered it impossible that lightning was the cause; what are the conclusions that we must form? the prelusive gleam, the blow upon his arm, the fatal spark, the explosion heard so far, the fiery cloud that environed him, without detriment to the structure, though composed of combustible materials, the sudden vanishing of this cloud at my uncle's approach--what is the inference to be drawn from these facts? their truth cannot be doubted. my uncle's testimony is peculiarly worthy of credit, because no man's temper is more sceptical, and his belief is unalterably attached to natural causes. i was at this time a child of six years of age. the impressions that were then made upon me, can never be effaced. i was ill qualified to judge respecting what was then passing; but as i advanced in age, and became more fully acquainted with these facts, they oftener became the subject of my thoughts. their resemblance to recent events revived them with new force in my memory, and made me more anxious to explain them. was this the penalty of disobedience? this the stroke of a vindictive and invisible hand? is it a fresh proof that the divine ruler interferes in human affairs, meditates an end, selects, and commissions his agents, and enforces, by unequivocal sanctions, submission to his will? or, was it merely the irregular expansion of the fluid that imparts warmth to our heart and our blood, caused by the fatigue of the preceding day, or flowing, by established laws, from the condition of his thoughts? [*] * a case, in its symptoms exactly parallel to this, is published in one of the journals of florence. see, likewise, similar cases reported by messrs. merille and muraire, in the "journal de medicine," for february and may, 1783. the researches of maffei and fontana have thrown some light upon this subject. chapter iii the shock which this disastrous occurrence occasioned to my mother, was the foundation of a disease which carried her, in a few months, to the grave. my brother and myself were children at this time, and were now reduced to the condition of orphans. the property which our parents left was by no means inconsiderable. it was entrusted to faithful hands, till we should arrive at a suitable age. meanwhile, our education was assigned to a maiden aunt who resided in the city, and whose tenderness made us in a short time cease to regret that we had lost a mother. the years that succeeded were tranquil and happy. our lives were molested by few of those cares that are incident to childhood. by accident more than design, the indulgence and yielding temper of our aunt was mingled with resolution and stedfastness. she seldom deviated into either extreme of rigour or lenity. our social pleasures were subject to no unreasonable restraints. we were instructed in most branches of useful knowledge, and were saved from the corruption and tyranny of colleges and boarding-schools. our companions were chiefly selected from the children of our neighbours. between one of these and my brother, there quickly grew the most affectionate intimacy. her name was catharine pleyel. she was rich, beautiful, and contrived to blend the most bewitching softness with the most exuberant vivacity. the tie by which my brother and she were united, seemed to add force to the love which i bore her, and which was amply returned. between her and myself there was every circumstance tending to produce and foster friendship. our sex and age were the same. we lived within sight of each other's abode. our tempers were remarkably congenial, and the superintendants of our education not only prescribed to us the same pursuits, but allowed us to cultivate them together. every day added strength to the triple bonds that united us. we gradually withdrew ourselves from the society of others, and found every moment irksome that was not devoted to each other. my brother's advance in age made no change in our situation. it was determined that his profession should be agriculture. his fortune exempted him from the necessity of personal labour. the task to be performed by him was nothing more than superintendance. the skill that was demanded by this was merely theoretical, and was furnished by casual inspection, or by closet study. the attention that was paid to this subject did not seclude him for any long time from us, on whom time had no other effect than to augment our impatience in the absence of each other and of him. our tasks, our walks, our music, were seldom performed but in each other's company. it was easy to see that catharine and my brother were born for each other. the passion which they mutually entertained quickly broke those bounds which extreme youth had set to it; confessions were made or extorted, and their union was postponed only till my brother had passed his minority. the previous lapse of two years was constantly and usefully employed. o my brother! but the task i have set myself let me perform with steadiness. the felicity of that period was marred by no gloomy anticipations. the future, like the present, was serene. time was supposed to have only new delights in store. i mean not to dwell on previous incidents longer than is necessary to illustrate or explain the great events that have since happened. the nuptial day at length arrived. my brother took possession of the house in which he was born, and here the long protracted marriage was solemnized. my father's property was equally divided between us. a neat dwelling, situated on the bank of the river, three quarters of a mile from my brother's, was now occupied by me. these domains were called, from the name of the first possessor, mettingen. i can scarcely account for my refusing to take up my abode with him, unless it were from a disposition to be an economist of pleasure. self-denial, seasonably exercised, is one means of enhancing our gratifications. i was, beside, desirous of administering a fund, and regulating an household, of my own. the short distance allowed us to exchange visits as often as we pleased. the walk from one mansion to the other was no undelightful prelude to our interviews. i was sometimes their visitant, and they, as frequently, were my guests. our education had been modelled by no religious standard. we were left to the guidance of our own understanding, and the casual impressions which society might make upon us. my friend's temper, as well as my own, exempted us from much anxiety on this account. it must not be supposed that we were without religion, but with us it was the product of lively feelings, excited by reflection on our own happiness, and by the grandeur of external nature. we sought not a basis for our faith, in the weighing of proofs, and the dissection of creeds. our devotion was a mixed and casual sentiment, seldom verbally expressed, or solicitously sought, or carefully retained. in the midst of present enjoyment, no thought was bestowed on the future. as a consolation in calamity religion is dear. but calamity was yet at a distance, and its only tendency was to heighten enjoyments which needed not this addition to satisfy every craving. my brother's situation was somewhat different. his deportment was grave, considerate, and thoughtful. i will not say whether he was indebted to sublimer views for this disposition. human life, in his opinion, was made up of changeable elements, and the principles of duty were not easily unfolded. the future, either as anterior, or subsequent to death, was a scene that required some preparation and provision to be made for it. these positions we could not deny, but what distinguished him was a propensity to ruminate on these truths. the images that visited us were blithsome and gay, but those with which he was most familiar were of an opposite hue. they did not generate affliction and fear, but they diffused over his behaviour a certain air of forethought and sobriety. the principal effect of this temper was visible in his features and tones. these, in general, bespoke a sort of thrilling melancholy. i scarcely ever knew him to laugh. he never accompanied the lawless mirth of his companions with more than a smile, but his conduct was the same as ours. he partook of our occupations and amusements with a zeal not less than ours, but of a different kind. the diversity in our temper was never the parent of discord, and was scarcely a topic of regret. the scene was variegated, but not tarnished or disordered by it. it hindered the element in which we moved from stagnating. some agitation and concussion is requisite to the due exercise of human understanding. in his studies, he pursued an austerer and more arduous path. he was much conversant with the history of religious opinions, and took pains to ascertain their validity. he deemed it indispensable to examine the ground of his belief, to settle the relation between motives and actions, the criterion of merit, and the kinds and properties of evidence. there was an obvious resemblance between him and my father, in their conceptions of the importance of certain topics, and in the light in which the vicissitudes of human life were accustomed to be viewed. their characters were similar, but the mind of the son was enriched by science, and embellished with literature. the temple was no longer assigned to its ancient use. from an italian adventurer, who erroneously imagined that he could find employment for his skill, and sale for his sculptures in america, my brother had purchased a bust of cicero. he professed to have copied this piece from an antique dug up with his own hands in the environs of modena. of the truth of his assertions we were not qualified to judge; but the marble was pure and polished, and we were contented to admire the performance, without waiting for the sanction of connoisseurs. we hired the same artist to hew a suitable pedestal from a neighbouring quarry. this was placed in the temple, and the bust rested upon it. opposite to this was a harpsichord, sheltered by a temporary roof from the weather. this was the place of resort in the evenings of summer. here we sung, and talked, and read, and occasionally banqueted. every joyous and tender scene most dear to my memory, is connected with this edifice. here the performances of our musical and poetical ancestor were rehearsed. here my brother's children received the rudiments of their education; here a thousand conversations, pregnant with delight and improvement, took place; and here the social affections were accustomed to expand, and the tear of delicious sympathy to be shed. my brother was an indefatigable student. the authors whom he read were numerous, but the chief object of his veneration was cicero. he was never tired of conning and rehearsing his productions. to understand them was not sufficient. he was anxious to discover the gestures and cadences with which they ought to be delivered. he was very scrupulous in selecting a true scheme of pronunciation for the latin tongue, and in adapting it to the words of his darling writer. his favorite occupation consisted in embellishing his rhetoric with all the proprieties of gesticulation and utterance. not contented with this, he was diligent in settling and restoring the purity of the text. for this end, he collected all the editions and commentaries that could be procured, and employed months of severe study in exploring and comparing them. he never betrayed more satisfaction than when he made a discovery of this kind. it was not till the addition of henry pleyel, my friend's only brother, to our society, that his passion for roman eloquence was countenanced and fostered by a sympathy of tastes. this young man had been some years in europe. we had separated at a very early age, and he was now returned to spend the remainder of his days among us. our circle was greatly enlivened by the accession of a new member. his conversation abounded with novelty. his gaiety was almost boisterous, but was capable of yielding to a grave deportment when the occasion required it. his discernment was acute, but he was prone to view every object merely as supplying materials for mirth. his conceptions were ardent but ludicrous, and his memory, aided, as he honestly acknowledged, by his invention, was an inexhaustible fund of entertainment. his residence was at the same distance below the city as ours was above, but there seldom passed a day without our being favoured with a visit. my brother and he were endowed with the same attachment to the latin writers; and pleyel was not behind his friend in his knowledge of the history and metaphysics of religion. their creeds, however, were in many respects opposite. where one discovered only confirmations of his faith, the other could find nothing but reasons for doubt. moral necessity, and calvinistic inspiration, were the props on which my brother thought proper to repose. pleyel was the champion of intellectual liberty, and rejected all guidance but that of his reason. their discussions were frequent, but, being managed with candour as well as with skill, they were always listened to by us with avidity and benefit. pleyel, like his new friends, was fond of music and poetry. henceforth our concerts consisted of two violins, an harpsichord, and three voices. we were frequently reminded how much happiness depends upon society. this new friend, though, before his arrival, we were sensible of no vacuity, could not now be spared. his departure would occasion a void which nothing could fill, and which would produce insupportable regret. even my brother, though his opinions were hourly assailed, and even the divinity of cicero contested, was captivated with his friend, and laid aside some part of his ancient gravity at pleyel's approach. chapter iv six years of uninterrupted happiness had rolled away, since my brother's marriage. the sound of war had been heard, but it was at such a distance as to enhance our enjoyment by affording objects of comparison. the indians were repulsed on the one side, and canada was conquered on the other. revolutions and battles, however calamitous to those who occupied the scene, contributed in some sort to our happiness, by agitating our minds with curiosity, and furnishing causes of patriotic exultation. four children, three of whom were of an age to compensate, by their personal and mental progress, the cares of which they had been, at a more helpless age, the objects, exercised my brother's tenderness. the fourth was a charming babe that promised to display the image of her mother, and enjoyed perfect health. to these were added a sweet girl fourteen years old, who was loved by all of us, with an affection more than parental. her mother's story was a mournful one. she had come hither from england when this child was an infant, alone, without friends, and without money. she appeared to have embarked in a hasty and clandestine manner. she passed three years of solitude and anguish under my aunt's protection, and died a martyr to woe; the source of which she could, by no importunities, be prevailed upon to unfold. her education and manners bespoke her to be of no mean birth. her last moments were rendered serene, by the assurances she received from my aunt, that her daughter should experience the same protection that had been extended to herself. on my brother's marriage, it was agreed that she should make a part of his family. i cannot do justice to the attractions of this girl. perhaps the tenderness she excited might partly originate in her personal resemblance to her mother, whose character and misfortunes were still fresh in our remembrance. she was habitually pensive, and this circumstance tended to remind the spectator of her friendless condition; and yet that epithet was surely misapplied in this case. this being was cherished by those with whom she now resided, with unspeakable fondness. every exertion was made to enlarge and improve her mind. her safety was the object of a solicitude that almost exceeded the bounds of discretion. our affection indeed could scarcely transcend her merits. she never met my eye, or occurred to my reflections, without exciting a kind of enthusiasm. her softness, her intelligence, her equanimity, never shall i see surpassed. i have often shed tears of pleasure at her approach, and pressed her to my bosom in an agony of fondness. while every day was adding to the charms of her person, and the stores of her mind, there occurred an event which threatened to deprive us of her. an officer of some rank, who had been disabled by a wound at quebec, had employed himself, since the ratification of peace, in travelling through the colonies. he remained a considerable period at philadelphia, but was at last preparing for his departure. no one had been more frequently honoured with his visits than mrs. baynton, a worthy lady with whom our family were intimate. he went to her house with a view to perform a farewell visit, and was on the point of taking his leave, when i and my young friend entered the apartment. it is impossible to describe the emotions of the stranger, when he fixed his eyes upon my companion. he was motionless with surprise. he was unable to conceal his feelings, but sat silently gazing at the spectacle before him. at length he turned to mrs. baynton, and more by his looks and gestures than by words, besought her for an explanation of the scene. he seized the hand of the girl, who, in her turn, was surprised by his behaviour, and drawing her forward, said in an eager and faultering tone, who is she? whence does she come? what is her name? the answers that were given only increased the confusion of his thoughts. he was successively told, that she was the daughter of one whose name was louisa conway, who arrived among us at such a time, who sedulously concealed her parentage, and the motives of her flight, whose incurable griefs had finally destroyed her, and who had left this child under the protection of her friends. having heard the tale, he melted into tears, eagerly clasped the young lady in his arms, and called himself her father. when the tumults excited in his breast by this unlooked-for meeting were somewhat subsided, he gratified our curiosity by relating the following incidents. "miss conway was the only daughter of a banker in london, who discharged towards her every duty of an affectionate father. he had chanced to fall into her company, had been subdued by her attractions, had tendered her his hand, and been joyfully accepted both by parent and child. his wife had given him every proof of the fondest attachment. her father, who possessed immense wealth, treated him with distinguished respect, liberally supplied his wants, and had made one condition of his consent to their union, a resolution to take up their abode with him. "they had passed three years of conjugal felicity, which had been augmented by the birth of this child; when his professional duty called him into germany. it was not without an arduous struggle, that she was persuaded to relinquish the design of accompanying him through all the toils and perils of war. no parting was ever more distressful. they strove to alleviate, by frequent letters, the evils of their lot. those of his wife, breathed nothing but anxiety for his safety, and impatience of his absence. at length, a new arrangement was made, and he was obliged to repair from westphalia to canada. one advantage attended this change. it afforded him an opportunity of meeting his family. his wife anticipated this interview, with no less rapture than himself. he hurried to london, and the moment he alighted from the stage-coach, ran with all speed to mr. conway's house. "it was an house of mourning. his father was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of answering his inquiries. the servants, sorrowful and mute, were equally refractory. he explored the house, and called on the names of his wife and daughter, but his summons was fruitless. at length, this new disaster was explained. two days before his arrival, his wife's chamber was found empty. no search, however diligent and anxious, could trace her steps. no cause could be assigned for her disappearance. the mother and child had fled away together. "new exertions were made, her chamber and cabinets were ransacked, but no vestige was found serving to inform them as to the motives of her flight, whether it had been voluntary or otherwise, and in what corner of the kingdom or of the world she was concealed. who shall describe the sorrow and amazement of the husband? his restlessness, his vicissitudes of hope and fear, and his ultimate despair? his duty called him to america. he had been in this city, and had frequently passed the door of the house in which his wife, at that moment, resided. her father had not remitted his exertions to elucidate this painful mystery, but they had failed. this disappointment hastened his death; in consequence of which, louisa's father became possessor of his immense property." this tale was a copious theme of speculation. a thousand questions were started and discussed in our domestic circle, respecting the motives that influenced mrs. stuart to abandon her country. it did not appear that her proceeding was involuntary. we recalled and reviewed every particular that had fallen under our own observation. by none of these were we furnished with a clue. her conduct, after the most rigorous scrutiny, still remained an impenetrable secret. on a nearer view, major stuart proved himself a man of most amiable character. his attachment to louisa appeared hourly to increase. she was no stranger to the sentiments suitable to her new character. she could not but readily embrace the scheme which was proposed to her, to return with her father to england. this scheme his regard for her induced him, however, to postpone. some time was necessary to prepare her for so great a change and enable her to think without agony of her separation from us. i was not without hopes of prevailing on her father entirely to relinquish this unwelcome design. meanwhile, he pursued his travels through the southern colonies, and his daughter continued with us. louisa and my brother frequently received letters from him, which indicated a mind of no common order. they were filled with amusing details, and profound reflections. while here, he often partook of our evening conversations at the temple; and since his departure, his correspondence had frequently supplied us with topics of discourse. one afternoon in may, the blandness of the air, and brightness of the verdure, induced us to assemble, earlier than usual, in the temple. we females were busy at the needle, while my brother and pleyel were bandying quotations and syllogisms. the point discussed was the merit of the oration for cluentius, as descriptive, first, of the genius of the speaker; and, secondly, of the manners of the times. pleyel laboured to extenuate both these species of merit, and tasked his ingenuity, to shew that the orator had embraced a bad cause; or, at least, a doubtful one. he urged, that to rely on the exaggerations of an advocate, or to make the picture of a single family a model from which to sketch the condition of a nation, was absurd. the controversy was suddenly diverted into a new channel, by a misquotation. pleyel accused his companion of saying "polliciatur" when he should have said "polliceretur." nothing would decide the contest, but an appeal to the volume. my brother was returning to the house for this purpose, when a servant met him with a letter from major stuart. he immediately returned to read it in our company. besides affectionate compliments to us, and paternal benedictions on louisa, his letter contained a description of a waterfall on the monongahela. a sudden gust of rain falling, we were compelled to remove to the house. the storm passed away, and a radiant moon-light succeeded. there was no motion to resume our seats in the temple. we therefore remained where we were, and engaged in sprightly conversation. the letter lately received naturally suggested the topic. a parallel was drawn between the cataract there described, and one which pleyel had discovered among the alps of glarus. in the state of the former, some particular was mentioned, the truth of which was questionable. to settle the dispute which thence arose, it was proposed to have recourse to the letter. my brother searched for it in his pocket. it was no where to be found. at length, he remembered to have left it in the temple, and he determined to go in search of it. his wife, pleyel, louisa, and myself, remained where we were. in a few minutes he returned. i was somewhat interested in the dispute, and was therefore impatient for his return; yet, as i heard him ascending the stairs, i could not but remark, that he had executed his intention with remarkable dispatch. my eyes were fixed upon him on his entrance. methought he brought with him looks considerably different from those with which he departed. wonder, and a slight portion of anxiety were mingled in them. his eyes seemed to be in search of some object. they passed quickly from one person to another, till they rested on his wife. she was seated in a careless attitude on the sofa, in the same spot as before. she had the same muslin in her hand, by which her attention was chiefly engrossed. the moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased. he quietly seated himself, and fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to be absorbed in meditation. these singularities suspended the inquiry which i was preparing to make respecting the letter. in a short time, the company relinquished the subject which engaged them, and directed their attention to wieland. they thought that he only waited for a pause in the discourse, to produce the letter. the pause was uninterrupted by him. at length pleyel said, "well, i suppose you have found the letter." "no," said he, without any abatement of his gravity, and looking stedfastly at his wife, "i did not mount the hill."--"why not?"--"catharine, have you not moved from that spot since i left the room?"--she was affected with the solemnity of his manner, and laying down her work, answered in a tone of surprise, "no; why do you ask that question?"--his eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did not immediately answer. at length, he said, looking round upon us, "is it true that catharine did not follow me to the hill? that she did not just now enter the room?"--we assured him, with one voice, that she had not been absent for a moment, and inquired into the motive of his questions. "your assurances," said he, "are solemn and unanimous; and yet i must deny credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the testimony of my senses, which informed me, when i was half way up the hill, that catharine was at the bottom." we were confounded at this declaration. pleyel rallied him with great levity on his behaviour. he listened to his friend with calmness, but without any relaxation of features. "one thing," said he with emphasis, "is true; either i heard my wife's voice at the bottom of the hill, or i do not hear your voice at present." "truly," returned pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to which you have reduced yourself. certain it is, if our eyes can give us certainty that your wife has been sitting in that spot during every moment of your absence. you have heard her voice, you say, upon the hill. in general, her voice, like her temper, is all softness. to be heard across the room, she is obliged to exert herself. while you were gone, if i mistake not, she did not utter a word. clara and i had all the talk to ourselves. still it may be that she held a whispering conference with you on the hill; but tell us the particulars." "the conference," said he, "was short; and far from being carried on in a whisper. you know with what intention i left the house. half way to the rock, the moon was for a moment hidden from us by a cloud. i never knew the air to be more bland and more calm. in this interval i glanced at the temple, and thought i saw a glimmering between the columns. it was so faint, that it would not perhaps have been visible, if the moon had not been shrowded. i looked again, but saw nothing. i never visit this building alone, or at night, without being reminded of the fate of my father. there was nothing wonderful in this appearance; yet it suggested something more than mere solitude and darkness in the same place would have done. "i kept on my way. the images that haunted me were solemn; and i entertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, as to the nature of this object. i had ascended the hill little more than half way, when a voice called me from behind. the accents were clear, distinct, powerful, and were uttered, as i fully believed, by my wife. her voice is not commonly so loud. she has seldom occasion to exert it, but, nevertheless, i have sometimes heard her call with force and eagerness. if my ear was not deceived, it was her voice which i heard. "stop, go no further. there is danger in your path." the suddenness and unexpectedness of this warning, the tone of alarm with which it was given, and, above all, the persuasion that it was my wife who spoke, were enough to disconcert and make me pause. i turned and listened to assure myself that i was not mistaken. the deepest silence succeeded. at length, i spoke in my turn. who calls? is it you, catharine? i stopped and presently received an answer. "yes, it is i; go not up; return instantly; you are wanted at the house." still the voice was catharine's, and still it proceeded from the foot of the stairs. "what could i do? the warning was mysterious. to be uttered by catharine at a place, and on an occasion like these, enhanced the mystery. i could do nothing but obey. accordingly, i trod back my steps, expecting that she waited for me at the bottom of the hill. when i reached the bottom, no one was visible. the moon-light was once more universal and brilliant, and yet, as far as i could see no human or moving figure was discernible. if she had returned to the house, she must have used wondrous expedition to have passed already beyond the reach of my eye. i exerted my voice, but in vain. to my repeated exclamations, no answer was returned. "ruminating on these incidents, i returned hither. there was no room to doubt that i had heard my wife's voice; attending incidents were not easily explained; but you now assure me that nothing extraordinary has happened to urge my return, and that my wife has not moved from her seat." such was my brother's narrative. it was heard by us with different emotions. pleyel did not scruple to regard the whole as a deception of the senses. perhaps a voice had been heard; but wieland's imagination had misled him in supposing a resemblance to that of his wife, and giving such a signification to the sounds. according to his custom he spoke what he thought. sometimes, he made it the theme of grave discussion, but more frequently treated it with ridicule. he did not believe that sober reasoning would convince his friend, and gaiety, he thought, was useful to take away the solemnities which, in a mind like wieland's, an accident of this kind was calculated to produce. pleyel proposed to go in search of the letter. he went and speedily returned, bearing it in his hand. he had found it open on the pedestal; and neither voice nor visage had risen to impede his design. catharine was endowed with an uncommon portion of good sense; but her mind was accessible, on this quarter, to wonder and panic. that her voice should be thus inexplicably and unwarrantably assumed, was a source of no small disquietude. she admitted the plausibility of the arguments by which pleyel endeavoured to prove, that this was no more than an auricular deception; but this conviction was sure to be shaken, when she turned her eyes upon her husband, and perceived that pleyel's logic was far from having produced the same effect upon him. as to myself, my attention was engaged by this occurrence. i could not fail to perceive a shadowy resemblance between it and my father's death. on the latter event, i had frequently reflected; my reflections never conducted me to certainty, but the doubts that existed were not of a tormenting kind. i could not deny that the event was miraculous, and yet i was invincibly averse to that method of solution. my wonder was excited by the inscrutableness of the cause, but my wonder was unmixed with sorrow or fear. it begat in me a thrilling, and not unpleasing solemnity. similar to these were the sensations produced by the recent adventure. but its effect upon my brother's imagination was of chief moment. all that was desirable was, that it should be regarded by him with indifference. the worst effect that could flow, was not indeed very formidable. yet i could not bear to think that his senses should be the victims of such delusion. it argued a diseased condition of his frame, which might show itself hereafter in more dangerous symptoms. the will is the tool of the understanding, which must fashion its conclusions on the notices of sense. if the senses be depraved, it is impossible to calculate the evils that may flow from the consequent deductions of the understanding. i said, this man is of an ardent and melancholy character. those ideas which, in others, are casual or obscure, which are entertained in moments of abstraction and solitude, and easily escape when the scene is changed, have obtained an immoveable hold upon his mind. the conclusions which long habit has rendered familiar, and, in some sort, palpable to his intellect, are drawn from the deepest sources. all his actions and practical sentiments are linked with long and abstruse deductions from the system of divine government and the laws of our intellectual constitution. he is, in some respects, an enthusiast, but is fortified in his belief by innumerable arguments and subtilties. his father's death was always regarded by him as flowing from a direct and supernatural decree. it visited his meditations oftener than it did mine. the traces which it left were more gloomy and permanent. this new incident had a visible effect in augmenting his gravity. he was less disposed than formerly to converse and reading. when we sifted his thoughts, they were generally found to have a relation, more or less direct, with this incident. it was difficult to ascertain the exact species of impression which it made upon him. he never introduced the subject into conversation, and listened with a silent and half-serious smile to the satirical effusions of pleyel. one evening we chanced to be alone together in the temple. i seized that opportunity of investigating the state of his thoughts. after a pause, which he seemed in no wise inclined to interrupt, i spoke to him--"how almost palpable is this dark; yet a ray from above would dispel it." "ay," said wieland, with fervor, "not only the physical, but moral night would be dispelled." "but why," said i, "must the divine will address its precepts to the eye?" he smiled significantly. "true," said he, "the understanding has other avenues." "you have never," said i, approaching nearer to the point--"you have never told me in what way you considered the late extraordinary incident." "there is no determinate way in which the subject can be viewed. here is an effect, but the cause is utterly inscrutable. to suppose a deception will not do. such is possible, but there are twenty other suppositions more probable. they must all be set aside before we reach that point." "what are these twenty suppositions?" "it is needless to mention them. they are only less improbable than pleyel's. time may convert one of them into certainty. till then it is useless to expatiate on them." chapter v some time had elapsed when there happened another occurrence, still more remarkable. pleyel, on his return from europe, brought information of considerable importance to my brother. my ancestors were noble saxons, and possessed large domains in lusatia. the prussian wars had destroyed those persons whose right to these estates precluded my brother's. pleyel had been exact in his inquiries, and had discovered that, by the law of male-primogeniture, my brother's claims were superior to those of any other person now living. nothing was wanting but his presence in that country, and a legal application to establish this claim. pleyel strenuously recommended this measure. the advantages he thought attending it were numerous, and it would argue the utmost folly to neglect them. contrary to his expectation he found my brother averse to the scheme. slight efforts, he, at first, thought would subdue his reluctance; but he found this aversion by no means slight. the interest that he took in the happiness of his friend and his sister, and his own partiality to the saxon soil, from which he had likewise sprung, and where he had spent several years of his youth, made him redouble his exertions to win wieland's consent. for this end he employed every argument that his invention could suggest. he painted, in attractive colours, the state of manners and government in that country, the security of civil rights, and the freedom of religious sentiments. he dwelt on the privileges of wealth and rank, and drew from the servile condition of one class, an argument in favor of his scheme, since the revenue and power annexed to a german principality afford so large a field for benevolence. the evil flowing from this power, in malignant hands, was proportioned to the good that would arise from the virtuous use of it. hence, wieland, in forbearing to claim his own, withheld all the positive felicity that would accrue to his vassals from his success, and hazarded all the misery that would redound from a less enlightened proprietor. it was easy for my brother to repel these arguments, and to shew that no spot on the globe enjoyed equal security and liberty to that which he at present inhabited. that if the saxons had nothing to fear from mis-government, the external causes of havoc and alarm were numerous and manifest. the recent devastations committed by the prussians furnished a specimen of these. the horrors of war would always impend over them, till germany were seized and divided by austrian and prussian tyrants; an event which he strongly suspected was at no great distance. but setting these considerations aside, was it laudable to grasp at wealth and power even when they were within our reach? were not these the two great sources of depravity? what security had he, that in this change of place and condition, he should not degenerate into a tyrant and voluptuary? power and riches were chiefly to be dreaded on account of their tendency to deprave the possessor. he held them in abhorrence, not only as instruments of misery to others, but to him on whom they were conferred. besides, riches were comparative, and was he not rich already? he lived at present in the bosom of security and luxury. all the instruments of pleasure, on which his reason or imagination set any value, were within his reach. but these he must forego, for the sake of advantages which, whatever were their value, were as yet uncertain. in pursuit of an imaginary addition to his wealth, he must reduce himself to poverty, he must exchange present certainties for what was distant and contingent; for who knows not that the law is a system of expence, delay and uncertainty? if he should embrace this scheme, it would lay him under the necessity of making a voyage to europe, and remaining for a certain period, separate from his family. he must undergo the perils and discomforts of the ocean; he must divest himself of all domestic pleasures; he must deprive his wife of her companion, and his children of a father and instructor, and all for what? for the ambiguous advantages which overgrown wealth and flagitious tyranny have to bestow? for a precarious possession in a land of turbulence and war? advantages, which will not certainly be gained, and of which the acquisition, if it were sure, is necessarily distant. pleyel was enamoured of his scheme on account of its intrinsic benefits, but, likewise, for other reasons. his abode at leipsig made that country appear to him like home. he was connected with this place by many social ties. while there he had not escaped the amorous contagion. but the lady, though her heart was impressed in his favor, was compelled to bestow her hand upon another. death had removed this impediment, and he was now invited by the lady herself to return. this he was of course determined to do, but was anxious to obtain the company of wieland; he could not bear to think of an eternal separation from his present associates. their interest, he thought, would be no less promoted by the change than his own. hence he was importunate and indefatigable in his arguments and solicitations. he knew that he could not hope for mine or his sister's ready concurrence in this scheme. should the subject be mentioned to us, we should league our efforts against him, and strengthen that reluctance in wieland which already was sufficiently difficult to conquer. he, therefore, anxiously concealed from us his purpose. if wieland were previously enlisted in his cause, he would find it a less difficult task to overcome our aversion. my brother was silent on this subject, because he believed himself in no danger of changing his opinion, and he was willing to save us from any uneasiness. the mere mention of such a scheme, and the possibility of his embracing it, he knew, would considerably impair our tranquillity. one day, about three weeks subsequent to the mysterious call, it was agreed that the family should be my guests. seldom had a day been passed by us, of more serene enjoyment. pleyel had promised us his company, but we did not see him till the sun had nearly declined. he brought with him a countenance that betokened disappointment and vexation. he did not wait for our inquiries, but immediately explained the cause. two days before a packet had arrived from hamburgh, by which he had flattered himself with the expectation of receiving letters, but no letters had arrived. i never saw him so much subdued by an untoward event. his thoughts were employed in accounting for the silence of his friends. he was seized with the torments of jealousy, and suspected nothing less than the infidelity of her to whom he had devoted his heart. the silence must have been concerted. her sickness, or absence, or death, would have increased the certainty of some one's having written. no supposition could be formed but that his mistress had grown indifferent, or that she had transferred her affections to another. the miscarriage of a letter was hardly within the reach of possibility. from leipsig to hamburgh, and from hamburgh hither, the conveyance was exposed to no hazard. he had been so long detained in america chiefly in consequence of wieland's aversion to the scheme which he proposed. he now became more impatient than ever to return to europe. when he reflected that, by his delays, he had probably forfeited the affections of his mistress, his sensations amounted to agony. it only remained, by his speedy departure, to repair, if possible, or prevent so intolerable an evil. already he had half resolved to embark in this very ship which, he was informed, would set out in a few weeks on her return. meanwhile he determined to make a new attempt to shake the resolution of wieland. the evening was somewhat advanced when he invited the latter to walk abroad with him. the invitation was accepted, and they left catharine, louisa and me, to amuse ourselves by the best means in our power. during this walk, pleyel renewed the subject that was nearest his heart. he re-urged all his former arguments, and placed them in more forcible lights. they promised to return shortly; but hour after hour passed, and they made not their appearance. engaged in sprightly conversation, it was not till the clock struck twelve that we were reminded of the lapse of time. the absence of our friends excited some uneasy apprehensions. we were expressing our fears, and comparing our conjectures as to what might be the cause, when they entered together. there were indications in their countenances that struck me mute. these were unnoticed by catharine, who was eager to express her surprize and curiosity at the length of their walk. as they listened to her, i remarked that their surprize was not less than ours. they gazed in silence on each other, and on her. i watched their looks, but could not understand the emotions that were written in them. these appearances diverted catharine's inquiries into a new channel. what did they mean, she asked, by their silence, and by their thus gazing wildly at each other, and at her? pleyel profited by this hint, and assuming an air of indifference, framed some trifling excuse, at the same time darting significant glances at wieland, as if to caution him against disclosing the truth. my brother said nothing, but delivered himself up to meditation. i likewise was silent, but burned with impatience to fathom this mystery. presently my brother and his wife, and louisa, returned home. pleyel proposed, of his own accord, to be my guest for the night. this circumstance, in addition to those which preceded, gave new edge to my wonder. as soon as we were left alone, pleyel's countenance assumed an air of seriousness, and even consternation, which i had never before beheld in him. the steps with which he measured the floor betokened the trouble of his thoughts. my inquiries were suspended by the hope that he would give me the information that i wanted without the importunity of questions. i waited some time, but the confusion of his thoughts appeared in no degree to abate. at length i mentioned the apprehensions which their unusual absence had occasioned, and which were increased by their behaviour since their return, and solicited an explanation. he stopped when i began to speak, and looked stedfastly at me. when i had done, he said, to me, in a tone which faultered through the vehemence of his emotions, "how were you employed during our absence?" "in turning over the della crusca dictionary, and talking on different subjects; but just before your entrance, we were tormenting ourselves with omens and prognosticks relative to your absence." "catherine was with you the whole time?" "yes." "but are you sure?" "most sure. she was not absent a moment." he stood, for a time, as if to assure himself of my sincerity. then, clinching his hands, and wildly lifting them above his head, "lo," cried he, "i have news to tell you. the baroness de stolberg is dead?" this was her whom he loved. i was not surprised at the agitations which he betrayed. "but how was the information procured? how was the truth of this news connected with the circumstance of catharine's remaining in our company?" he was for some time inattentive to my questions. when he spoke, it seemed merely a continuation of the reverie into which he had been plunged. "and yet it might be a mere deception. but could both of us in that case have been deceived? a rare and prodigious coincidence! barely not impossible. and yet, if the accent be oracular--theresa is dead. no, no," continued he, covering his face with his hands, and in a tone half broken into sobs, "i cannot believe it. she has not written, but if she were dead, the faithful bertrand would have given me the earliest information. and yet if he knew his master, he must have easily guessed at the effect of such tidings. in pity to me he was silent." "clara, forgive me; to you, this behaviour is mysterious. i will explain as well as i am able. but say not a word to catharine. her strength of mind is inferior to your's. she will, besides, have more reason to be startled. she is wieland's angel." pleyel proceeded to inform me, for the first time, of the scheme which he had pressed, with so much earnestness, on my brother. he enumerated the objections which had been made, and the industry with which he had endeavoured to confute them. he mentioned the effect upon his resolutions produced by the failure of a letter. "during our late walk," continued he, "i introduced the subject that was nearest my heart. i re-urged all my former arguments, and placed them in more forcible lights. wieland was still refractory. he expatiated on the perils of wealth and power, on the sacredness of conjugal and parental duties, and the happiness of mediocrity. "no wonder that the time passed, unperceived, away. our whole souls were engaged in this cause. several times we came to the foot of the rock; as soon as we perceived it, we changed our course, but never failed to terminate our circuitous and devious ramble at this spot. at length your brother observed, 'we seem to be led hither by a kind of fatality. since we are so near, let us ascend and rest ourselves a while. if you are not weary of this argument we will resume it there.' "i tacitly consented. we mounted the stairs, and drawing the sofa in front of the river, we seated ourselves upon it. i took up the thread of our discourse where we had dropped it. i ridiculed his dread of the sea, and his attachment to home. i kept on in this strain, so congenial with my disposition, for some time, uninterrupted by him. at length, he said to me, "suppose now that i, whom argument has not convinced, should yield to ridicule, and should agree that your scheme is eligible; what will you have gained? nothing. you have other enemies beside myself to encounter. when you have vanquished me, your toil has scarcely begun. there are my sister and wife, with whom it will remain for you to maintain the contest. and trust me, they are adversaries whom all your force and stratagem will never subdue." i insinuated that they would model themselves by his will: that catharine would think obedience her duty. he answered, with some quickness, "you mistake. their concurrence is indispensable. it is not my custom to exact sacrifices of this kind. i live to be their protector and friend, and not their tyrant and foe. if my wife shall deem her happiness, and that of her children, most consulted by remaining where she is, here she shall remain." "but," said i, "when she knows your pleasure, will she not conform to it?" before my friend had time to answer this question, a negative was clearly and distinctly uttered from another quarter. it did not come from one side or the other, from before us or behind. whence then did it come? by whose organs was it fashioned? "if any uncertainty had existed with regard to these particulars, it would have been removed by a deliberate and equally distinct repetition of the same monosyllable, "no." the voice was my sister's. it appeared to come from the roof. i started from my seat. catharine, exclaimed i, where are you? no answer was returned. i searched the room, and the area before it, but in vain. your brother was motionless in his seat. i returned to him, and placed myself again by his side. my astonishment was not less than his." "well," said he, at length, "what think you of this? this is the self-same voice which i formerly heard; you are now convinced that my ears were well informed." "yes," said i, "this, it is plain, is no fiction of the fancy." we again sunk into mutual and thoughtful silence. a recollection of the hour, and of the length of our absence, made me at last propose to return. we rose up for this purpose. in doing this, my mind reverted to the contemplation of my own condition. "yes," said i aloud, but without particularly addressing myself to wieland, "my resolution is taken. i cannot hope to prevail with my friends to accompany me. they may doze away their days on the banks of schuylkill, but as to me, i go in the next vessel; i will fly to her presence, and demand the reason of this extraordinary silence." "i had scarcely finished the sentence, when the same mysterious voice exclaimed, "you shall not go. the seal of death is on her lips. her silence is the silence of the tomb." think of the effects which accents like these must have had upon me. i shuddered as i listened. as soon as i recovered from my first amazement, "who is it that speaks?" said i, "whence did you procure these dismal tidings?" i did not wait long for an answer. "from a source that cannot fail. be satisfied. she is dead." you may justly be surprised, that, in the circumstances in which i heard the tidings, and notwithstanding the mystery which environed him by whom they were imparted, i could give an undivided attention to the facts, which were the subject of our dialogue. i eagerly inquired, when and where did she die? what was the cause of her death? was her death absolutely certain? an answer was returned only to the last of these questions. "yes," was pronounced by the same voice; but it now sounded from a greater distance, and the deepest silence was all the return made to my subsequent interrogatories. "it was my sister's voice; but it could not be uttered by her; and yet, if not by her, by whom was it uttered? when we returned hither, and discovered you together, the doubt that had previously existed was removed. it was manifest that the intimation came not from her. yet if not from her, from whom could it come? are the circumstances attending the imparting of this news proof that the tidings are true? god forbid that they should be true." here pleyel sunk into anxious silence, and gave me leisure to ruminate on this inexplicable event. i am at a loss to describe the sensations that affected me. i am not fearful of shadows. the tales of apparitions and enchantments did not possess that power over my belief which could even render them interesting. i saw nothing in them but ignorance and folly, and was a stranger even to that terror which is pleasing. but this incident was different from any that i had ever before known. here were proofs of a sensible and intelligent existence, which could not be denied. here was information obtained and imparted by means unquestionably super-human. that there are conscious beings, beside ourselves, in existence, whose modes of activity and information surpass our own, can scarcely be denied. is there a glimpse afforded us into a world of these superior beings? my heart was scarcely large enough to give admittance to so swelling a thought. an awe, the sweetest and most solemn that imagination can conceive, pervaded my whole frame. it forsook me not when i parted from pleyel and retired to my chamber. an impulse was given to my spirits utterly incompatible with sleep. i passed the night wakeful and full of meditation. i was impressed with the belief of mysterious, but not of malignant agency. hitherto nothing had occurred to persuade me that this airy minister was busy to evil rather than to good purposes. on the contrary, the idea of superior virtue had always been associated in my mind with that of superior power. the warnings that had thus been heard appeared to have been prompted by beneficent intentions. my brother had been hindered by this voice from ascending the hill. he was told that danger lurked in his path, and his obedience to the intimation had perhaps saved him from a destiny similar to that of my father. pleyel had been rescued from tormenting uncertainty, and from the hazards and fatigues of a fruitless voyage, by the same interposition. it had assured him of the death of his theresa. this woman was then dead. a confirmation of the tidings, if true, would speedily arrive. was this confirmation to be deprecated or desired? by her death, the tie that attached him to europe, was taken away. henceforward every motive would combine to retain him in his native country, and we were rescued from the deep regrets that would accompany his hopeless absence from us. propitious was the spirit that imparted these tidings. propitious he would perhaps have been, if he had been instrumental in producing, as well as in communicating the tidings of her death. propitious to us, the friends of pleyel, to whom has thereby been secured the enjoyment of his society; and not unpropitious to himself; for though this object of his love be snatched away, is there not another who is able and willing to console him for her loss? twenty days after this, another vessel arrived from the same port. in this interval, pleyel, for the most part, estranged himself from his old companions. he was become the prey of a gloomy and unsociable grief. his walks were limited to the bank of the delaware. this bank is an artificial one. reeds and the river are on one side, and a watery marsh on the other, in that part which bounded his lands, and which extended from the mouth of hollander's creek to that of schuylkill. no scene can be imagined less enticing to a lover of the picturesque than this. the shore is deformed with mud, and incumbered with a forest of reeds. the fields, in most seasons, are mire; but when they afford a firm footing, the ditches by which they are bounded and intersected, are mantled with stagnating green, and emit the most noxious exhalations. health is no less a stranger to those seats than pleasure. spring and autumn are sure to be accompanied with agues and bilious remittents. the scenes which environed our dwellings at mettingen constituted the reverse of this. schuylkill was here a pure and translucid current, broken into wild and ceaseless music by rocky points, murmuring on a sandy margin, and reflecting on its surface, banks of all varieties of height and degrees of declivity. these banks were chequered by patches of dark verdure and shapeless masses of white marble, and crowned by copses of cedar, or by the regular magnificence of orchards, which, at this season, were in blossom, and were prodigal of odours. the ground which receded from the river was scooped into valleys and dales. its beauties were enhanced by the horticultural skill of my brother, who bedecked this exquisite assemblage of slopes and risings with every species of vegetable ornament, from the giant arms of the oak to the clustering tendrils of the honey-suckle. to screen him from the unwholesome airs of his own residence, it had been proposed to pleyel to spend the months of spring with us. he had apparently acquiesced in this proposal; but the late event induced him to change his purpose. he was only to be seen by visiting him in his retirements. his gaiety had flown, and every passion was absorbed in eagerness to procure tidings from saxony. i have mentioned the arrival of another vessel from the elbe. he descried her early one morning as he was passing along the skirt of the river. she was easily recognized, being the ship in which he had performed his first voyage to germany. he immediately went on board, but found no letters directed to him. this omission was, in some degree, compensated by meeting with an old acquaintance among the passengers, who had till lately been a resident in leipsig. this person put an end to all suspense respecting the fate of theresa, by relating the particulars of her death and funeral. thus was the truth of the former intimation attested. no longer devoured by suspense, the grief of pleyel was not long in yielding to the influence of society. he gave himself up once more to our company. his vivacity had indeed been damped; but even in this respect he was a more acceptable companion than formerly, since his seriousness was neither incommunicative nor sullen. these incidents, for a time, occupied all our thoughts. in me they produced a sentiment not unallied to pleasure, and more speedily than in the case of my friends were intermixed with other topics. my brother was particularly affected by them. it was easy to perceive that most of his meditations were tinctured from this source. to this was to be ascribed a design in which his pen was, at this period, engaged, of collecting and investigating the facts which relate to that mysterious personage, the daemon of socrates. my brother's skill in greek and roman learning was exceeded by that of few, and no doubt the world would have accepted a treatise upon this subject from his hand with avidity; but alas! this and every other scheme of felicity and honor, were doomed to sudden blast and hopeless extermination. chapter vi i now come to the mention of a person with whose name the most turbulent sensations are connected. it is with a shuddering reluctance that i enter on the province of describing him. now it is that i begin to perceive the difficulty of the task which i have undertaken; but it would be weakness to shrink from it. my blood is congealed: and my fingers are palsied when i call up his image. shame upon my cowardly and infirm heart! hitherto i have proceeded with some degree of composure, but now i must pause. i mean not that dire remembrance shall subdue my courage or baffle my design, but this weakness cannot be immediately conquered. i must desist for a little while. i have taken a few turns in my chamber, and have gathered strength enough to proceed. yet have i not projected a task beyond my power to execute? if thus, on the very threshold of the scene, my knees faulter and i sink, how shall i support myself, when i rush into the midst of horrors such as no heart has hitherto conceived, nor tongue related? i sicken and recoil at the prospect, and yet my irresolution is momentary. i have not formed this design upon slight grounds, and though i may at times pause and hesitate, i will not be finally diverted from it. and thou, o most fatal and potent of mankind, in what terms shall i describe thee? what words are adequate to the just delineation of thy character? how shall i detail the means which rendered the secrecy of thy purposes unfathomable? but i will not anticipate. let me recover if possible, a sober strain. let me keep down the flood of passion that would render me precipitate or powerless. let me stifle the agonies that are awakened by thy name. let me, for a time, regard thee as a being of no terrible attributes. let me tear myself from contemplation of the evils of which it is but too certain that thou wast the author, and limit my view to those harmless appearances which attended thy entrance on the stage. one sunny afternoon, i was standing in the door of my house, when i marked a person passing close to the edge of the bank that was in front. his pace was a careless and lingering one, and had none of that gracefulness and ease which distinguish a person with certain advantages of education from a clown. his gait was rustic and aukward. his form was ungainly and disproportioned. shoulders broad and square, breast sunken, his head drooping, his body of uniform breadth, supported by long and lank legs, were the ingredients of his frame. his garb was not ill adapted to such a figure. a slouched hat, tarnished by the weather, a coat of thick grey cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country tailor, blue worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs, and deeply discoloured by dust, which brush had never disturbed, constituted his dress. there was nothing remarkable in these appearances; they were frequently to be met with on the road, and in the harvest field. i cannot tell why i gazed upon them, on this occasion, with more than ordinary attention, unless it were that such figures were seldom seen by me, except on the road or field. this lawn was only traversed by men whose views were directed to the pleasures of the walk, or the grandeur of the scenery. he passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine the prospect more deliberately, but never turning his eye towards the house, so as to allow me a view of his countenance. presently, he entered a copse at a small distance, and disappeared. my eye followed him while he remained in sight. if his image remained for any duration in my fancy after his departure, it was because no other object occurred sufficient to expel it. i continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely, and by fits, contemplating the image of this wanderer, and drawing, from outward appearances, those inferences with respect to the intellectual history of this person, which experience affords us. i reflected on the alliance which commonly subsists between ignorance and the practice of agriculture, and indulged myself in airy speculations as to the influence of progressive knowledge in dissolving this alliance, and embodying the dreams of the poets. i asked why the plough and the hoe might not become the trade of every human being, and how this trade might be made conducive to, or, at least, consistent with the acquisition of wisdom and eloquence. weary with these reflections, i returned to the kitchen to perform some household office. i had usually but one servant, and she was a girl about my own age. i was busy near the chimney, and she was employed near the door of the apartment, when some one knocked. the door was opened by her, and she was immediately addressed with "pry'thee, good girl, canst thou supply a thirsty man with a glass of buttermilk?" she answered that there was none in the house. "aye, but there is some in the dairy yonder. thou knowest as well as i, though hermes never taught thee, that though every dairy be an house, every house is not a dairy." to this speech, though she understood only a part of it, she replied by repeating her assurances, that she had none to give. "well then," rejoined the stranger, "for charity's sweet sake, hand me forth a cup of cold water." the girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it. "nay, give me the cup, and suffer me to help myself. neither manacled nor lame, i should merit burial in the maw of carrion crows, if i laid this task upon thee." she gave him the cup, and he turned to go to the spring. i listened to this dialogue in silence. the words uttered by the person without, affected me as somewhat singular, but what chiefly rendered them remarkable, was the tone that accompanied them. it was wholly new. my brother's voice and pleyel's were musical and energetic. i had fondly imagined, that, in this respect, they were surpassed by none. now my mistake was detected. i cannot pretend to communicate the impression that was made upon me by these accents, or to depict the degree in which force and sweetness were blended in them. they were articulated with a distinctness that was unexampled in my experience. but this was not all. the voice was not only mellifluent and clear, but the emphasis was so just, and the modulation so impassioned, that it seemed as if an heart of stone could not fail of being moved by it. it imparted to me an emotion altogether involuntary and incontroulable. when he uttered the words "for charity's sweet sake," i dropped the cloth that i held in my hand, my heart overflowed with sympathy, and my eyes with unbidden tears. this description will appear to you trifling or incredible. the importance of these circumstances will be manifested in the sequel. the manner in which i was affected on this occasion, was, to my own apprehension, a subject of astonishment. the tones were indeed such as i never heard before; but that they should, in an instant, as it were, dissolve me in tears, will not easily be believed by others, and can scarcely be comprehended by myself. it will be readily supposed that i was somewhat inquisitive as to the person and demeanour of our visitant. after a moment's pause, i stepped to the door and looked after him. judge my surprize, when i beheld the self-same figure that had appeared an half hour before upon the bank. my fancy had conjured up a very different image. a form, and attitude, and garb, were instantly created worthy to accompany such elocution; but this person was, in all visible respects, the reverse of this phantom. strange as it may seem, i could not speedily reconcile myself to this disappointment. instead of returning to my employment, i threw myself in a chair that was placed opposite the door, and sunk into a fit of musing. my attention was, in a few minutes, recalled by the stranger, who returned with the empty cup in his hand. i had not thought of the circumstance, or should certainly have chosen a different seat. he no sooner shewed himself, than a confused sense of impropriety, added to the suddenness of the interview, for which, not having foreseen it, i had made no preparation, threw me into a state of the most painful embarrassment. he brought with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon me, than his face was as glowingly suffused as my own. he placed the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and retired. it was some time before i could recover my wonted composure. i had snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. the impression that it made was vivid and indelible. his cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken, his forehead overshadowed by coarse straggling hairs, his teeth large and irregular, though sound and brilliantly white, and his chin discoloured by a tetter. his skin was of coarse grain, and sallow hue. every feature was wide of beauty, and the outline of his face reminded you of an inverted cone. and yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would allow it to be seen, his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the midst of haggardness, a radiance inexpressibly serene and potent, and something in the rest of his features, which it would be in vain to describe, but which served to betoken a mind of the highest order, were essential ingredients in the portrait. this, in the effects which immediately flowed from it, i count among the most extraordinary incidents of my life. this face, seen for a moment, continued for hours to occupy my fancy, to the exclusion of almost every other image. i had purposed to spend the evening with my brother, but i could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch upon paper of this memorable visage. whether my hand was aided by any peculiar inspiration, or i was deceived by my own fond conceptions, this portrait, though hastily executed, appeared unexceptionable to my own taste. i placed it at all distances, and in all lights; my eyes were rivetted upon it. half the night passed away in wakefulness and in contemplation of this picture. so flexible, and yet so stubborn, is the human mind. so obedient to impulses the most transient and brief, and yet so unalterably observant of the direction which is given to it! how little did i then foresee the termination of that chain, of which this may be regarded as the first link? next day arose in darkness and storm. torrents of rain fell during the whole day, attended with incessant thunder, which reverberated in stunning echoes from the opposite declivity. the inclemency of the air would not allow me to walk-out. i had, indeed, no inclination to leave my apartment. i betook myself to the contemplation of this portrait, whose attractions time had rather enhanced than diminished. i laid aside my usual occupations, and seating myself at a window, consumed the day in alternately looking out upon the storm, and gazing at the picture which lay upon a table before me. you will, perhaps, deem this conduct somewhat singular, and ascribe it to certain peculiarities of temper. i am not aware of any such peculiarities. i can account for my devotion to this image no otherwise, than by supposing that its properties were rare and prodigious. perhaps you will suspect that such were the first inroads of a passion incident to every female heart, and which frequently gains a footing by means even more slight, and more improbable than these. i shall not controvert the reasonableness of the suspicion, but leave you at liberty to draw, from my narrative, what conclusions you please. night at length returned, and the storm ceased. the air was once more clear and calm, and bore an affecting contrast to that uproar of the elements by which it had been preceded. i spent the darksome hours, as i spent the day, contemplative and seated at the window. why was my mind absorbed in thoughts ominous and dreary? why did my bosom heave with sighs, and my eyes overflow with tears? was the tempest that had just past a signal of the ruin which impended over me? my soul fondly dwelt upon the images of my brother and his children, yet they only increased the mournfulness of my contemplations. the smiles of the charming babes were as bland as formerly. the same dignity sat on the brow of their father, and yet i thought of them with anguish. something whispered that the happiness we at present enjoyed was set on mutable foundations. death must happen to all. whether our felicity was to be subverted by it to-morrow, or whether it was ordained that we should lay down our heads full of years and of honor, was a question that no human being could solve. at other times, these ideas seldom intruded. i either forbore to reflect upon the destiny that is reserved for all men, or the reflection was mixed up with images that disrobed it of terror; but now the uncertainty of life occurred to me without any of its usual and alleviating accompaniments. i said to myself, we must die. sooner or later, we must disappear for ever from the face of the earth. whatever be the links that hold us to life, they must be broken. this scene of existence is, in all its parts, calamitous. the greater number is oppressed with immediate evils, and those, the tide of whose fortunes is full, how small is their portion of enjoyment, since they know that it will terminate. for some time i indulged myself, without reluctance, in these gloomy thoughts; but at length, the dejection which they produced became insupportably painful. i endeavoured to dissipate it with music. i had all my grand-father's melody as well as poetry by rote. i now lighted by chance on a ballad, which commemorated the fate of a german cavalier, who fell at the siege of nice under godfrey of bouillon. my choice was unfortunate, for the scenes of violence and carnage which were here wildly but forcibly pourtrayed, only suggested to my thoughts a new topic in the horrors of war. i sought refuge, but ineffectually, in sleep. my mind was thronged by vivid, but confused images, and no effort that i made was sufficient to drive them away. in this situation i heard the clock, which hung in the room, give the signal for twelve. it was the same instrument which formerly hung in my father's chamber, and which, on account of its being his workmanship, was regarded, by every one of our family, with veneration. it had fallen to me, in the division of his property, and was placed in this asylum. the sound awakened a series of reflections, respecting his death. i was not allowed to pursue them; for scarcely had the vibrations ceased, when my attention was attracted by a whisper, which, at first, appeared to proceed from lips that were laid close to my ear. no wonder that a circumstance like this startled me. in the first impulse of my terror, i uttered a slight scream, and shrunk to the opposite side of the bed. in a moment, however, i recovered from my trepidation. i was habitually indifferent to all the causes of fear, by which the majority are afflicted. i entertained no apprehension of either ghosts or robbers. our security had never been molested by either, and i made use of no means to prevent or counterwork their machinations. my tranquillity, on this occasion, was quickly retrieved. the whisper evidently proceeded from one who was posted at my bed-side. the first idea that suggested itself was, that it was uttered by the girl who lived with me as a servant. perhaps, somewhat had alarmed her, or she was sick, and had come to request my assistance. by whispering in my ear, she intended to rouse without alarming me. full of this persuasion, i called; "judith," said i, "is it you? what do you want? is there any thing the matter with you?" no answer was returned. i repeated my inquiry, but equally in vain. cloudy as was the atmosphere, and curtained as my bed was, nothing was visible. i withdrew the curtain, and leaning my head on my elbow, i listened with the deepest attention to catch some new sound. meanwhile, i ran over in my thoughts, every circumstance that could assist my conjectures. my habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two stories. in each story were two rooms, separated by an entry, or middle passage, with which they communicated by opposite doors. the passage, on the lower story, had doors at the two ends, and a stair-case. windows answered to the doors on the upper story. annexed to this, on the eastern side, were wings, divided, in like manner, into an upper and lower room; one of them comprized a kitchen, and chamber above it for the servant, and communicated, on both stories, with the parlour adjoining it below, and the chamber adjoining it above. the opposite wing is of smaller dimensions, the rooms not being above eight feet square. the lower of these was used as a depository of household implements, the upper was a closet in which i deposited my books and papers. they had but one inlet, which was from the room adjoining. there was no window in the lower one, and in the upper, a small aperture which communicated light and air, but would scarcely admit the body. the door which led into this, was close to my bed-head, and was always locked, but when i myself was within. the avenues below were accustomed to be closed and bolted at nights. the maid was my only companion, and she could not reach my chamber without previously passing through the opposite chamber, and the middle passage, of which, however, the doors were usually unfastened. if she had occasioned this noise, she would have answered my repeated calls. no other conclusion, therefore, was left me, but that i had mistaken the sounds, and that my imagination had transformed some casual noise into the voice of a human creature. satisfied with this solution, i was preparing to relinquish my listening attitude, when my ear was again saluted with a new and yet louder whispering. it appeared, as before, to issue from lips that touched my pillow. a second effort of attention, however, clearly shewed me, that the sounds issued from within the closet, the door of which was not more than eight inches from my pillow. this second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement than the former. i started, but gave no audible token of alarm. i was so much mistress of my feelings, as to continue listening to what should be said. the whisper was distinct, hoarse, and uttered so as to shew that the speaker was desirous of being heard by some one near, but, at the same time, studious to avoid being overheard by any other. "stop, stop, i say; madman as you are! there are better means than that. curse upon your rashness! there is no need to shoot." such were the words uttered in a tone of eagerness and anger, within so small a distance of my pillow. what construction could i put upon them? my heart began to palpitate with dread of some unknown danger. presently, another voice, but equally near me, was heard whispering in answer. "why not? i will draw a trigger in this business, but perdition be my lot if i do more." to this, the first voice returned, in a tone which rage had heightened in a small degree above a whisper, "coward! stand aside, and see me do it. i will grasp her throat; i will do her business in an instant; she shall not have time so much as to groan." what wonder that i was petrified by sounds so dreadful! murderers lurked in my closet. they were planning the means of my destruction. one resolved to shoot, and the other menaced suffocation. their means being chosen, they would forthwith break the door. flight instantly suggested itself as most eligible in circumstances so perilous. i deliberated not a moment; but, fear adding wings to my speed, i leaped out of bed, and scantily robed as i was, rushed out of the chamber, down stairs, and into the open air. i can hardly recollect the process of turning keys, and withdrawing bolts. my terrors urged me forward with almost a mechanical impulse. i stopped not till i reached my brother's door. i had not gained the threshold, when, exhausted by the violence of my emotions, and by my speed, i sunk down in a fit. how long i remained in this situation i know not. when i recovered, i found myself stretched on a bed, surrounded by my sister and her female servants. i was astonished at the scene before me, but gradually recovered the recollection of what had happened. i answered their importunate inquiries as well as i was able. my brother and pleyel, whom the storm of the preceding day chanced to detain here, informing themselves of every particular, proceeded with lights and weapons to my deserted habitation. they entered my chamber and my closet, and found every thing in its proper place and customary order. the door of the closet was locked, and appeared not to have been opened in my absence. they went to judith's apartment. they found her asleep and in safety. pleyel's caution induced him to forbear alarming the girl; and finding her wholly ignorant of what had passed, they directed her to return to her chamber. they then fastened the doors, and returned. my friends were disposed to regard this transaction as a dream. that persons should be actually immured in this closet, to which, in the circumstances of the time, access from without or within was apparently impossible, they could not seriously believe. that any human beings had intended murder, unless it were to cover a scheme of pillage, was incredible; but that no such design had been formed, was evident from the security in which the furniture of the house and the closet remained. i revolved every incident and expression that had occurred. my senses assured me of the truth of them, and yet their abruptness and improbability made me, in my turn, somewhat incredulous. the adventure had made a deep impression on my fancy, and it was not till after a week's abode at my brother's, that i resolved to resume the possession of my own dwelling. there was another circumstance that enhanced the mysteriousness of this event. after my recovery it was obvious to inquire by what means the attention of the family had been drawn to my situation. i had fallen before i had reached the threshold, or was able to give any signal. my brother related, that while this was transacting in my chamber, he himself was awake, in consequence of some slight indisposition, and lay, according to his custom, musing on some favorite topic. suddenly the silence, which was remarkably profound, was broken by a voice of most piercing shrillness, that seemed to be uttered by one in the hall below his chamber. "awake! arise!" it exclaimed: "hasten to succour one that is dying at your door." this summons was effectual. there was no one in the house who was not roused by it. pleyel was the first to obey, and my brother overtook him before he reached the hall. what was the general astonishment when your friend was discovered stretched upon the grass before the door, pale, ghastly, and with every mark of death! this was the third instance of a voice, exerted for the benefit of this little community. the agent was no less inscrutable in this, than in the former case. when i ruminated upon these events, my soul was suspended in wonder and awe. was i really deceived in imagining that i heard the closet conversation? i was no longer at liberty to question the reality of those accents which had formerly recalled my brother from the hill; which had imparted tidings of the death of the german lady to pleyel; and which had lately summoned them to my assistance. but how was i to regard this midnight conversation? hoarse and manlike voices conferring on the means of death, so near my bed, and at such an hour! how had my ancient security vanished! that dwelling, which had hitherto been an inviolate asylum, was now beset with danger to my life. that solitude, formerly so dear to me, could no longer be endured. pleyel, who had consented to reside with us during the months of spring, lodged in the vacant chamber, in order to quiet my alarms. he treated my fears with ridicule, and in a short time very slight traces of them remained: but as it was wholly indifferent to him whether his nights were passed at my house or at my brother's, this arrangement gave general satisfaction. chapter vii i will not enumerate the various inquiries and conjectures which these incidents occasioned. after all our efforts, we came no nearer to dispelling the mist in which they were involved; and time, instead of facilitating a solution, only accumulated our doubts. in the midst of thoughts excited by these events, i was not unmindful of my interview with the stranger. i related the particulars, and shewed the portrait to my friends. pleyel recollected to have met with a figure resembling my description in the city; but neither his face or garb made the same impression upon him that it made upon me. it was a hint to rally me upon my prepossessions, and to amuse us with a thousand ludicrous anecdotes which he had collected in his travels. he made no scruple to charge me with being in love; and threatened to inform the swain, when he met him, of his good fortune. pleyel's temper made him susceptible of no durable impressions. his conversation was occasionally visited by gleams of his ancient vivacity; but, though his impetuosity was sometimes inconvenient, there was nothing to dread from his malice. i had no fear that my character or dignity would suffer in his hands, and was not heartily displeased when he declared his intention of profiting by his first meeting with the stranger to introduce him to our acquaintance. some weeks after this i had spent a toilsome day, and, as the sun declined, found myself disposed to seek relief in a walk. the river bank is, at this part of it, and for some considerable space upward, so rugged and steep as not to be easily descended. in a recess of this declivity, near the southern verge of my little demesne, was placed a slight building, with seats and lattices. from a crevice of the rock, to which this edifice was attached, there burst forth a stream of the purest water, which, leaping from ledge to ledge, for the space of sixty feet, produced a freshness in the air, and a murmur, the most delicious and soothing imaginable. these, added to the odours of the cedars which embowered it, and of the honey-suckle which clustered among the lattices, rendered this my favorite retreat in summer. on this occasion i repaired hither. my spirits drooped through the fatigue of long attention, and i threw myself upon a bench, in a state, both mentally and personally, of the utmost supineness. the lulling sounds of the waterfall, the fragrance and the dusk combined to becalm my spirits, and, in a short time, to sink me into sleep. either the uneasiness of my posture, or some slight indisposition molested my repose with dreams of no cheerful hue. after various incoherences had taken their turn to occupy my fancy, i at length imagined myself walking, in the evening twilight, to my brother's habitation. a pit, methought, had been dug in the path i had taken, of which i was not aware. as i carelessly pursued my walk, i thought i saw my brother, standing at some distance before me, beckoning and calling me to make haste. he stood on the opposite edge of the gulph. i mended my pace, and one step more would have plunged me into this abyss, had not some one from behind caught suddenly my arm, and exclaimed, in a voice of eagerness and terror, "hold! hold!" the sound broke my sleep, and i found myself, at the next moment, standing on my feet, and surrounded by the deepest darkness. images so terrific and forcible disabled me, for a time, from distinguishing between sleep and wakefulness, and withheld from me the knowledge of my actual condition. my first panics were succeeded by the perturbations of surprize, to find myself alone in the open air, and immersed in so deep a gloom. i slowly recollected the incidents of the afternoon, and how i came hither. i could not estimate the time, but saw the propriety of returning with speed to the house. my faculties were still too confused, and the darkness too intense, to allow me immediately to find my way up the steep. i sat down, therefore, to recover myself, and to reflect upon my situation. this was no sooner done, than a low voice was heard from behind the lattice, on the side where i sat. between the rock and the lattice was a chasm not wide enough to admit a human body; yet, in this chasm he that spoke appeared to be stationed. "attend! attend! but be not terrified." i started and exclaimed, "good heavens! what is that? who are you?" "a friend; one come, not to injure, but to save you; fear nothing." this voice was immediately recognized to be the same with one of those which i had heard in the closet; it was the voice of him who had proposed to shoot, rather than to strangle, his victim. my terror made me, at once, mute and motionless. he continued, "i leagued to murder you. i repent. mark my bidding, and be safe. avoid this spot. the snares of death encompass it. elsewhere danger will be distant; but this spot, shun it as you value your life. mark me further; profit by this warning, but divulge it not. if a syllable of what has passed escape you, your doom is sealed. remember your father, and be faithful." here the accents ceased, and left me overwhelmed with dismay. i was fraught with the persuasion, that during every moment i remained here, my life was endangered; but i could not take a step without hazard of falling to the bottom of the precipice. the path, leading to the summit, was short, but rugged and intricate. even star-light was excluded by the umbrage, and not the faintest gleam was afforded to guide my steps. what should i do? to depart or remain was equally and eminently perilous. in this state of uncertainty, i perceived a ray flit across the gloom and disappear. another succeeded, which was stronger, and remained for a passing moment. it glittered on the shrubs that were scattered at the entrance, and gleam continued to succeed gleam for a few seconds, till they, finally, gave place to unintermitted darkness. the first visitings of this light called up a train of horrors in my mind; destruction impended over this spot; the voice which i had lately heard had warned me to retire, and had menaced me with the fate of my father if i refused. i was desirous, but unable, to obey; these gleams were such as preluded the stroke by which he fell; the hour, perhaps, was the same--i shuddered as if i had beheld, suspended over me, the exterminating sword. presently a new and stronger illumination burst through the lattice on the right hand, and a voice, from the edge of the precipice above, called out my name. it was pleyel. joyfully did i recognize his accents; but such was the tumult of my thoughts that i had not power to answer him till he had frequently repeated his summons. i hurried, at length, from the fatal spot, and, directed by the lanthorn which he bore, ascended the hill. pale and breathless, it was with difficulty i could support myself. he anxiously inquired into the cause of my affright, and the motive of my unusual absence. he had returned from my brother's at a late hour, and was informed by judith, that i had walked out before sun-set, and had not yet returned. this intelligence was somewhat alarming. he waited some time; but, my absence continuing, he had set out in search of me. he had explored the neighbourhood with the utmost care, but, receiving no tidings of me, he was preparing to acquaint my brother with this circumstance, when he recollected the summer-house on the bank, and conceived it possible that some accident had detained me there. he again inquired into the cause of this detention, and of that confusion and dismay which my looks testified. i told him that i had strolled hither in the afternoon, that sleep had overtaken me as i sat, and that i had awakened a few minutes before his arrival. i could tell him no more. in the present impetuosity of my thoughts, i was almost dubious, whether the pit, into which my brother had endeavoured to entice me, and the voice that talked through the lattice, were not parts of the same dream. i remembered, likewise, the charge of secrecy, and the penalty denounced, if i should rashly divulge what i had heard. for these reasons, i was silent on that subject, and shutting myself in my chamber, delivered myself up to contemplation. what i have related will, no doubt, appear to you a fable. you will believe that calamity has subverted my reason, and that i am amusing you with the chimeras of my brain, instead of facts that have really happened. i shall not be surprized or offended, if these be your suspicions. i know not, indeed, how you can deny them admission. for, if to me, the immediate witness, they were fertile of perplexity and doubt, how must they affect another to whom they are recommended only by my testimony? it was only by subsequent events, that i was fully and incontestibly assured of the veracity of my senses. meanwhile what was i to think? i had been assured that a design had been formed against my life. the ruffians had leagued to murder me. whom had i offended? who was there with whom i had ever maintained intercourse, who was capable of harbouring such atrocious purposes? my temper was the reverse of cruel and imperious. my heart was touched with sympathy for the children of misfortune. but this sympathy was not a barren sentiment. my purse, scanty as it was, was ever open, and my hands ever active, to relieve distress. many were the wretches whom my personal exertions had extricated from want and disease, and who rewarded me with their gratitude. there was no face which lowered at my approach, and no lips which uttered imprecations in my hearing. on the contrary, there was none, over whose fate i had exerted any influence, or to whom i was known by reputation, who did not greet me with smiles, and dismiss me with proofs of veneration; yet did not my senses assure me that a plot was laid against my life? i am not destitute of courage. i have shewn myself deliberative and calm in the midst of peril. i have hazarded my own life, for the preservation of another, but now was i confused and panic struck. i have not lived so as to fear death, yet to perish by an unseen and secret stroke, to be mangled by the knife of an assassin was a thought at which i shuddered; what had i done to deserve to be made the victim of malignant passions? but soft! was i not assured, that my life was safe in all places but one? and why was the treason limited to take effect in this spot? i was every where equally defenceless. my house and chamber were, at all times, accessible. danger still impended over me; the bloody purpose was still entertained, but the hand that was to execute it, was powerless in all places but one! here i had remained for the last four or five hours, without the means of resistance or defence, yet i had not been attacked. a human being was at hand, who was conscious of my presence, and warned me hereafter to avoid this retreat. his voice was not absolutely new, but had i never heard it but once before? but why did he prohibit me from relating this incident to others, and what species of death will be awarded if i disobey? he talked of my father. he intimated, that disclosure would pull upon my head, the same destruction. was then the death of my father, portentous and inexplicable as it was, the consequence of human machinations? it should seem, that this being is apprised of the true nature of this event, and is conscious of the means that led to it. whether it shall likewise fall upon me, depends upon the observance of silence. was it the infraction of a similar command, that brought so horrible a penalty upon my father? such were the reflections that haunted me during the night, and which effectually deprived me of sleep. next morning, at breakfast, pleyel related an event which my disappearance had hindered him from mentioning the night before. early the preceding morning, his occasions called him to the city; he had stepped into a coffee-house to while away an hour; here he had met a person whose appearance instantly bespoke him to be the same whose hasty visit i have mentioned, and whose extraordinary visage and tones had so powerfully affected me. on an attentive survey, however, he proved, likewise, to be one with whom my friend had had some intercourse in europe. this authorised the liberty of accosting him, and after some conversation, mindful, as pleyel said, of the footing which this stranger had gained in my heart, he had ventured to invite him to mettingen. the invitation had been cheerfully accepted, and a visit promised on the afternoon of the next day. this information excited no sober emotions in my breast. i was, of course, eager to be informed as to the circumstances of their ancient intercourse. when, and where had they met? what knew he of the life and character of this man? in answer to my inquiries, he informed me that, three years before, he was a traveller in spain. he had made an excursion from valencia to murviedro, with a view to inspect the remains of roman magnificence, scattered in the environs of that town. while traversing the scite of the theatre of old saguntum, he lighted upon this man, seated on a stone, and deeply engaged in perusing the work of the deacon marti. a short conversation ensued, which proved the stranger to be english. they returned to valencia together. his garb, aspect, and deportment, were wholly spanish. a residence of three years in the country, indefatigable attention to the language, and a studious conformity with the customs of the people, had made him indistinguishable from a native, when he chose to assume that character. pleyel found him to be connected, on the footing of friendship and respect, with many eminent merchants in that city. he had embraced the catholic religion, and adopted a spanish name instead of his own, which was carwin, and devoted himself to the literature and religion of his new country. he pursued no profession, but subsisted on remittances from england. while pleyel remained in valencia, carwin betrayed no aversion to intercourse, and the former found no small attractions in the society of this new acquaintance. on general topics he was highly intelligent and communicative. he had visited every corner of spain, and could furnish the most accurate details respecting its ancient and present state. on topics of religion and of his own history, previous to his transformation into a spaniard, he was invariably silent. you could merely gather from his discourse that he was english, and that he was well acquainted with the neighbouring countries. his character excited considerable curiosity in this observer. it was not easy to reconcile his conversion to the romish faith, with those proofs of knowledge and capacity that were exhibited by him on different occasions. a suspicion was, sometimes, admitted, that his belief was counterfeited for some political purpose. the most careful observation, however, produced no discovery. his manners were, at all times, harmless and inartificial, and his habits those of a lover of contemplation and seclusion. he appeared to have contracted an affection for pleyel, who was not slow to return it. my friend, after a month's residence in this city, returned into france, and, since that period, had heard nothing concerning carwin till his appearance at mettingen. on this occasion carwin had received pleyel's greeting with a certain distance and solemnity to which the latter had not been accustomed. he had waved noticing the inquiries of pleyel respecting his desertion of spain, in which he had formerly declared that it was his purpose to spend his life. he had assiduously diverted the attention of the latter to indifferent topics, but was still, on every theme, as eloquent and judicious as formerly. why he had assumed the garb of a rustic, pleyel was unable to conjecture. perhaps it might be poverty, perhaps he was swayed by motives which it was his interest to conceal, but which were connected with consequences of the utmost moment. such was the sum of my friend's information. i was not sorry to be left alone during the greater part of this day. every employment was irksome which did not leave me at liberty to meditate. i had now a new subject on which to exercise my thoughts. before evening i should be ushered into his presence, and listen to those tones whose magical and thrilling power i had already experienced. but with what new images would he then be accompanied? carwin was an adherent to the romish faith, yet was an englishman by birth, and, perhaps, a protestant by education. he had adopted spain for his country, and had intimated a design to spend his days there, yet now was an inhabitant of this district, and disguised by the habiliments of a clown! what could have obliterated the impressions of his youth, and made him abjure his religion and his country? what subsequent events had introduced so total a change in his plans? in withdrawing from spain, had he reverted to the religion of his ancestors; or was it true, that his former conversion was deceitful, and that his conduct had been swayed by motives which it was prudent to conceal? hours were consumed in revolving these ideas. my meditations were intense; and, when the series was broken, i began to reflect with astonishment on my situation. from the death of my parents, till the commencement of this year, my life had been serene and blissful, beyond the ordinary portion of humanity; but, now, my bosom was corroded by anxiety. i was visited by dread of unknown dangers, and the future was a scene over which clouds rolled, and thunders muttered. i compared the cause with the effect, and they seemed disproportioned to each other. all unaware, and in a manner which i had no power to explain, i was pushed from my immoveable and lofty station, and cast upon a sea of troubles. i determined to be my brother's visitant on this evening, yet my resolves were not unattended with wavering and reluctance. pleyel's insinuations that i was in love, affected, in no degree, my belief, yet the consciousness that this was the opinion of one who would, probably, be present at our introduction to each other, would excite all that confusion which the passion itself is apt to produce. this would confirm him in his error, and call forth new railleries. his mirth, when exerted upon this topic, was the source of the bitterest vexation. had he been aware of its influence upon my happiness, his temper would not have allowed him to persist; but this influence, it was my chief endeavour to conceal. that the belief of my having bestowed my heart upon another, produced in my friend none but ludicrous sensations, was the true cause of my distress; but if this had been discovered by him, my distress would have been unspeakably aggravated. chapter viii as soon as evening arrived, i performed my visit. carwin made one of the company, into which i was ushered. appearances were the same as when i before beheld him. his garb was equally negligent and rustic. i gazed upon his countenance with new curiosity. my situation was such as to enable me to bestow upon it a deliberate examination. viewed at more leisure, it lost none of its wonderful properties. i could not deny my homage to the intelligence expressed in it, but was wholly uncertain, whether he were an object to be dreaded or adored, and whether his powers had been exerted to evil or to good. he was sparing in discourse; but whatever he said was pregnant with meaning, and uttered with rectitude of articulation, and force of emphasis, of which i had entertained no conception previously to my knowledge of him. notwithstanding the uncouthness of his garb, his manners were not unpolished. all topics were handled by him with skill, and without pedantry or affectation. he uttered no sentiment calculated to produce a disadvantageous impression: on the contrary, his observations denoted a mind alive to every generous and heroic feeling. they were introduced without parade, and accompanied with that degree of earnestness which indicates sincerity. he parted from us not till late, refusing an invitation to spend the night here, but readily consented to repeat his visit. his visits were frequently repeated. each day introduced us to a more intimate acquaintance with his sentiments, but left us wholly in the dark, concerning that about which we were most inquisitive. he studiously avoided all mention of his past or present situation. even the place of his abode in the city he concealed from us. our sphere, in this respect, being somewhat limited, and the intellectual endowments of this man being indisputably great, his deportment was more diligently marked, and copiously commented on by us, than you, perhaps, will think the circumstances warranted. not a gesture, or glance, or accent, that was not, in our private assemblies, discussed, and inferences deduced from it. it may well be thought that he modelled his behaviour by an uncommon standard, when, with all our opportunities and accuracy of observation, we were able, for a long time, to gather no satisfactory information. he afforded us no ground on which to build even a plausible conjecture. there is a degree of familiarity which takes place between constant associates, that justifies the negligence of many rules of which, in an earlier period of their intercourse, politeness requires the exact observance. inquiries into our condition are allowable when they are prompted by a disinterested concern for our welfare; and this solicitude is not only pardonable, but may justly be demanded from those who chuse us for their companions. this state of things was more slow to arrive on this occasion than on most others, on account of the gravity and loftiness of this man's behaviour. pleyel, however, began, at length, to employ regular means for this end. he occasionally alluded to the circumstances in which they had formerly met, and remarked the incongruousness between the religion and habits of a spaniard, with those of a native of britain. he expressed his astonishment at meeting our guest in this corner of the globe, especially as, when they parted in spain, he was taught to believe that carwin should never leave that country. he insinuated, that a change so great must have been prompted by motives of a singular and momentous kind. no answer, or an answer wide of the purpose, was generally made to these insinuations. britons and spaniards, he said, are votaries of the same deity, and square their faith by the same precepts; their ideas are drawn from the same fountains of literature, and they speak dialects of the same tongue; their government and laws have more resemblances than differences; they were formerly provinces of the same civil, and till lately, of the same religious, empire. as to the motives which induce men to change the place of their abode, these must unavoidably be fleeting and mutable. if not bound to one spot by conjugal or parental ties, or by the nature of that employment to which we are indebted for subsistence, the inducements to change are far more numerous and powerful, than opposite inducements. he spoke as if desirous of shewing that he was not aware of the tendency of pleyel's remarks; yet, certain tokens were apparent, that proved him by no means wanting in penetration. these tokens were to be read in his countenance, and not in his words. when any thing was said, indicating curiosity in us, the gloom of his countenance was deepened, his eyes sunk to the ground, and his wonted air was not resumed without visible struggle. hence, it was obvious to infer, that some incidents of his life were reflected on by him with regret; and that, since these incidents were carefully concealed, and even that regret which flowed from them laboriously stifled, they had not been merely disastrous. the secrecy that was observed appeared not designed to provoke or baffle the inquisitive, but was prompted by the shame, or by the prudence of guilt. these ideas, which were adopted by pleyel and my brother, as well as myself, hindered us from employing more direct means for accomplishing our wishes. questions might have been put in such terms, that no room should be left for the pretence of misapprehension, and if modesty merely had been the obstacle, such questions would not have been wanting; but we considered, that, if the disclosure were productive of pain or disgrace, it was inhuman to extort it. amidst the various topics that were discussed in his presence, allusions were, of course, made to the inexplicable events that had lately happened. at those times, the words and looks of this man were objects of my particular attention. the subject was extraordinary; and any one whose experience or reflections could throw any light upon it, was entitled to my gratitude. as this man was enlightened by reading and travel, i listened with eagerness to the remarks which he should make. at first, i entertained a kind of apprehension, that the tale would be heard by him with incredulity and secret ridicule. i had formerly heard stories that resembled this in some of their mysterious circumstances, but they were, commonly, heard by me with contempt. i was doubtful, whether the same impression would not now be made on the mind of our guest; but i was mistaken in my fears. he heard them with seriousness, and without any marks either of surprize or incredulity. he pursued, with visible pleasure, that kind of disquisition which was naturally suggested by them. his fancy was eminently vigorous and prolific, and if he did not persuade us, that human beings are, sometimes, admitted to a sensible intercourse with the author of nature, he, at least, won over our inclination to the cause. he merely deduced, from his own reasonings, that such intercourse was probable; but confessed that, though he was acquainted with many instances somewhat similar to those which had been related by us, none of them were perfectly exempted from the suspicion of human agency. on being requested to relate these instances, he amused us with many curious details. his narratives were constructed with so much skill, and rehearsed with so much energy, that all the effects of a dramatic exhibition were frequently produced by them. those that were most coherent and most minute, and, of consequence, least entitled to credit, were yet rendered probable by the exquisite art of this rhetorician. for every difficulty that was suggested, a ready and plausible solution was furnished. mysterious voices had always a share in producing the catastrophe, but they were always to be explained on some known principles, either as reflected into a focus, or communicated through a tube. i could not but remark that his narratives, however complex or marvellous, contained no instance sufficiently parallel to those that had befallen ourselves, and in which the solution was applicable to our own case. my brother was a much more sanguine reasoner than our guest. even in some of the facts which were related by carwin, he maintained the probability of celestial interference, when the latter was disposed to deny it, and had found, as he imagined, footsteps of an human agent. pleyel was by no means equally credulous. he scrupled not to deny faith to any testimony but that of his senses, and allowed the facts which had lately been supported by this testimony, not to mould his belief, but merely to give birth to doubts. it was soon observed that carwin adopted, in some degree, a similar distinction. a tale of this kind, related by others, he would believe, provided it was explicable upon known principles; but that such notices were actually communicated by beings of an higher order, he would believe only when his own ears were assailed in a manner which could not be otherwise accounted for. civility forbad him to contradict my brother or myself, but his understanding refused to acquiesce in our testimony. besides, he was disposed to question whether the voices heard in the temple, at the foot of the hill, and in my closet, were not really uttered by human organs. on this supposition he was desired to explain how the effect was produced. he answered, that the power of mimickry was very common. catharine's voice might easily be imitated by one at the foot of the hill, who would find no difficulty in eluding, by flight, the search of wieland. the tidings of the death of the saxon lady were uttered by one near at hand, who overheard the conversation, who conjectured her death, and whose conjecture happened to accord with the truth. that the voice appeared to come from the cieling was to be considered as an illusion of the fancy. the cry for help, heard in the hall on the night of my adventure, was to be ascribed to an human creature, who actually stood in the hall when he uttered it. it was of no moment, he said, that we could not explain by what motives he that made the signal was led hither. how imperfectly acquainted were we with the condition and designs of the beings that surrounded us? the city was near at hand, and thousands might there exist whose powers and purposes might easily explain whatever was mysterious in this transaction. as to the closet dialogue, he was obliged to adopt one of two suppositions, and affirm either that it was fashioned in my own fancy, or that it actually took place between two persons in the closet. such was carwin's mode of explaining these appearances. it is such, perhaps, as would commend itself as most plausible to the most sagacious minds, but it was insufficient to impart conviction to us. as to the treason that was meditated against me, it was doubtless just to conclude that it was either real or imaginary; but that it was real was attested by the mysterious warning in the summer-house, the secret of which i had hitherto locked up in my own breast. a month passed away in this kind of intercourse. as to carwin, our ignorance was in no degree enlightened respecting his genuine character and views. appearances were uniform. no man possessed a larger store of knowledge, or a greater degree of skill in the communication of it to others; hence he was regarded as an inestimable addition to our society. considering the distance of my brother's house from the city, he was frequently prevailed upon to pass the night where he spent the evening. two days seldom elapsed without a visit from him; hence he was regarded as a kind of inmate of the house. he entered and departed without ceremony. when he arrived he received an unaffected welcome, and when he chose to retire, no importunities were used to induce him to remain. the temple was the principal scene of our social enjoyments; yet the felicity that we tasted when assembled in this asylum, was but the gleam of a former sun-shine. carwin never parted with his gravity. the inscrutableness of his character, and the uncertainty whether his fellowship tended to good or to evil, were seldom absent from our minds. this circumstance powerfully contributed to sadden us. my heart was the seat of growing disquietudes. this change in one who had formerly been characterized by all the exuberances of soul, could not fail to be remarked by my friends. my brother was always a pattern of solemnity. my sister was clay, moulded by the circumstances in which she happened to be placed. there was but one whose deportment remains to be described as being of importance to our happiness. had pleyel likewise dismissed his vivacity? he was as whimsical and jestful as ever, but he was not happy. the truth, in this respect, was of too much importance to me not to make me a vigilant observer. his mirth was easily perceived to be the fruit of exertion. when his thoughts wandered from the company, an air of dissatisfaction and impatience stole across his features. even the punctuality and frequency of his visits were somewhat lessened. it may be supposed that my own uneasiness was heightened by these tokens; but, strange as it may seem, i found, in the present state of my mind, no relief but in the persuasion that pleyel was unhappy. that unhappiness, indeed, depended, for its value in my eyes, on the cause that produced it. it did not arise from the death of the saxon lady: it was not a contagious emanation from the countenances of wieland or carwin. there was but one other source whence it could flow. a nameless ecstacy thrilled through my frame when any new proof occurred that the ambiguousness of my behaviour was the cause. chapter ix my brother had received a new book from germany. it was a tragedy, and the first attempt of a saxon poet, of whom my brother had been taught to entertain the highest expectations. the exploits of zisca, the bohemian hero, were woven into a dramatic series and connection. according to german custom, it was minute and diffuse, and dictated by an adventurous and lawless fancy. it was a chain of audacious acts, and unheard-of disasters. the moated fortress, and the thicket; the ambush and the battle; and the conflict of headlong passions, were pourtrayed in wild numbers, and with terrific energy. an afternoon was set apart to rehearse this performance. the language was familiar to all of us but carwin, whose company, therefore, was tacitly dispensed with. the morning previous to this intended rehearsal, i spent at home. my mind was occupied with reflections relative to my own situation. the sentiment which lived with chief energy in my heart, was connected with the image of pleyel. in the midst of my anguish, i had not been destitute of consolation. his late deportment had given spring to my hopes. was not the hour at hand, which should render me the happiest of human creatures? he suspected that i looked with favorable eyes upon carwin. hence arose disquietudes, which he struggled in vain to conceal. he loved me, but was hopeless that his love would be compensated. is it not time, said i, to rectify this error? but by what means is this to be effected? it can only be done by a change of deportment in me; but how must i demean myself for this purpose? i must not speak. neither eyes, nor lips, must impart the information. he must not be assured that my heart is his, previous to the tender of his own; but he must be convinced that it has not been given to another; he must be supplied with space whereon to build a doubt as to the true state of my affections; he must be prompted to avow himself. the line of delicate propriety; how hard it is, not to fall short, and not to overleap it! this afternoon we shall meet at the temple. we shall not separate till late. it will be his province to accompany me home. the airy expanse is without a speck. this breeze is usually stedfast, and its promise of a bland and cloudless evening, may be trusted. the moon will rise at eleven, and at that hour, we shall wind along this bank. possibly that hour may decide my fate. if suitable encouragement be given, pleyel will reveal his soul to me; and i, ere i reach this threshold, will be made the happiest of beings. and is this good to be mine? add wings to thy speed, sweet evening; and thou, moon, i charge thee, shroud thy beams at the moment when my pleyel whispers love. i would not for the world, that the burning blushes, and the mounting raptures of that moment, should be visible. but what encouragement is wanting? i must be regardful of insurmountable limits. yet when minds are imbued with a genuine sympathy, are not words and looks superfluous? are not motion and touch sufficient to impart feelings such as mine? has he not eyed me at moments, when the pressure of his hand has thrown me into tumults, and was it possible that he mistook the impetuosities of love, for the eloquence of indignation? but the hastening evening will decide. would it were come! and yet i shudder at its near approach. an interview that must thus terminate, is surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is not without its terrors. would to heaven it were come and gone! i feel no reluctance, my friends to be thus explicit. time was, when these emotions would be hidden with immeasurable solicitude, from every human eye. alas! these airy and fleeting impulses of shame are gone. my scruples were preposterous and criminal. they are bred in all hearts, by a perverse and vicious education, and they would still have maintained their place in my heart, had not my portion been set in misery. my errors have taught me thus much wisdom; that those sentiments which we ought not to disclose, it is criminal to harbour. it was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o'clock; i counted the minutes as they passed; their flight was at once too rapid and too slow; my sensations were of an excruciating kind; i could taste no food, nor apply to any task, nor enjoy a moment's repose: when the hour arrived, i hastened to my brother's. pleyel was not there. he had not yet come. on ordinary occasions, he was eminent for punctuality. he had testified great eagerness to share in the pleasures of this rehearsal. he was to divide the task with my brother, and, in tasks like these, he always engaged with peculiar zeal. his elocution was less sweet than sonorous; and, therefore, better adapted than the mellifluences of his friend, to the outrageous vehemence of this drama. what could detain him? perhaps he lingered through forgetfulness. yet this was incredible. never had his memory been known to fail upon even more trivial occasions. not less impossible was it, that the scheme had lost its attractions, and that he staid, because his coming would afford him no gratification. but why should we expect him to adhere to the minute? an half hour elapsed, but pleyel was still at a distance. perhaps he had misunderstood the hour which had been proposed. perhaps he had conceived that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been selected for this purpose: but no. a review of preceding circumstances demonstrated that such misapprehension was impossible; for he had himself proposed this day, and this hour. this day, his attention would not otherwise be occupied; but to-morrow, an indispensible engagement was foreseen, by which all his time would be engrossed: his detention, therefore, must be owing to some unforeseen and extraordinary event. our conjectures were vague, tumultuous, and sometimes fearful. his sickness and his death might possibly have detained him. tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other, and at the path which led from the road. every horseman that passed was, for a moment, imagined to be him. hour succeeded hour, and the sun, gradually declining, at length, disappeared. every signal of his coming proved fallacious, and our hopes were at length dismissed. his absence affected my friends in no insupportable degree. they should be obliged, they said, to defer this undertaking till the morrow; and, perhaps, their impatient curiosity would compel them to dispense entirely with his presence. no doubt, some harmless occurrence had diverted him from his purpose; and they trusted that they should receive a satisfactory account of him in the morning. it may be supposed that this disappointment affected me in a very different manner. i turned aside my head to conceal my tears. i fled into solitude, to give vent to my reproaches, without interruption or restraint. my heart was ready to burst with indignation and grief. pleyel was not the only object of my keen but unjust upbraiding. deeply did i execrate my own folly. thus fallen into ruins was the gay fabric which i had reared! thus had my golden vision melted into air! how fondly did i dream that pleyel was a lover! if he were, would he have suffered any obstacle to hinder his coming? blind and infatuated man! i exclaimed. thou sportest with happiness. the good that is offered thee, thou hast the insolence and folly to refuse. well, i will henceforth intrust my felicity to no one's keeping but my own. the first agonies of this disappointment would not allow me to be reasonable or just. every ground on which i had built the persuasion that pleyel was not unimpressed in my favor, appeared to vanish. it seemed as if i had been misled into this opinion, by the most palpable illusions. i made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier than i expected, to my own house. i retired early to my chamber, without designing to sleep. i placed myself at a window, and gave the reins to reflection. the hateful and degrading impulses which had lately controuled me were, in some degree, removed. new dejection succeeded, but was now produced by contemplating my late behaviour. surely that passion is worthy to be abhorred which obscures our understanding, and urges us to the commission of injustice. what right had i to expect his attendance? had i not demeaned myself like one indifferent to his happiness, and as having bestowed my regards upon another? his absence might be prompted by the love which i considered his absence as a proof that he wanted. he came not because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or aversion, contributed to his despair. why should i prolong, by hypocrisy or silence, his misery as well as my own? why not deal with him explicitly, and assure him of the truth? you will hardly believe that, in obedience to this suggestion, i rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that i might instantly make this confession in a letter. a second thought shewed me the rashness of this scheme, and i wondered by what infirmity of mind i could be betrayed into a momentary approbation of it. i saw with the utmost clearness that a confession like that would be the most remediless and unpardonable outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly unworthy of that passion which controuled me. i resumed my seat and my musing. to account for the absence of pleyel became once more the scope of my conjectures. how many incidents might occur to raise an insuperable impediment in his way? when i was a child, a scheme of pleasure, in which he and his sister were parties, had been, in like manner, frustrated by his absence; but his absence, in that instance, had been occasioned by his falling from a boat into the river, in consequence of which he had run the most imminent hazard of being drowned. here was a second disappointment endured by the same persons, and produced by his failure. might it not originate in the same cause? had he not designed to cross the river that morning to make some necessary purchases in jersey? he had preconcerted to return to his own house to dinner; but, perhaps, some disaster had befallen him. experience had taught me the insecurity of a canoe, and that was the only kind of boat which pleyel used: i was, likewise, actuated by an hereditary dread of water. these circumstances combined to bestow considerable plausibility on this conjecture; but the consternation with which i began to be seized was allayed by reflecting, that if this disaster had happened my brother would have received the speediest information of it. the consolation which this idea imparted was ravished from me by a new thought. this disaster might have happened, and his family not be apprized of it. the first intelligence of his fate may be communicated by the livid corpse which the tide may cast, many days hence, upon the shore. thus was i distressed by opposite conjectures: thus was i tormented by phantoms of my own creation. it was not always thus. i can ascertain the date when my mind became the victim of this imbecility; perhaps it was coeval with the inroad of a fatal passion; a passion that will never rank me in the number of its eulogists; it was alone sufficient to the extermination of my peace: it was itself a plenteous source of calamity, and needed not the concurrence of other evils to take away the attractions of existence, and dig for me an untimely grave. the state of my mind naturally introduced a train of reflections upon the dangers and cares which inevitably beset an human being. by no violent transition was i led to ponder on the turbulent life and mysterious end of my father. i cherished, with the utmost veneration, the memory of this man, and every relique connected with his fate was preserved with the most scrupulous care. among these was to be numbered a manuscript, containing memoirs of his own life. the narrative was by no means recommended by its eloquence; but neither did all its value flow from my relationship to the author. its stile had an unaffected and picturesque simplicity. the great variety and circumstantial display of the incidents, together with their intrinsic importance, as descriptive of human manners and passions, made it the most useful book in my collection. it was late; but being sensible of no inclination to sleep, i resolved to betake myself to the perusal of it. to do this it was requisite to procure a light. the girl had long since retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to wait upon myself. a lamp, and the means of lighting it, were only to be found in the kitchen. thither i resolved forthwith to repair; but the light was of use merely to enable me to read the book. i knew the shelf and the spot where it stood. whether i took down the book, or prepared the lamp in the first place, appeared to be a matter of no moment. the latter was preferred, and, leaving my seat, i approached the closet in which, as i mentioned formerly, my books and papers were deposited. suddenly the remembrance of what had lately passed in this closet occurred. whether midnight was approaching, or had passed, i knew not. i was, as then, alone, and defenceless. the wind was in that direction in which, aided by the deathlike repose of nature, it brought to me the murmur of the water-fall. this was mingled with that solemn and enchanting sound, which a breeze produces among the leaves of pines. the words of that mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the wild excess to which i was transported by my terrors, filled my imagination anew. my steps faultered, and i stood a moment to recover myself. i prevailed on myself at length to move towards the closet. i touched the lock, but my fingers were powerless; i was visited afresh by unconquerable apprehensions. a sort of belief darted into my mind, that some being was concealed within, whose purposes were evil. i began to contend with those fears, when it occurred to me that i might, without impropriety, go for a lamp previously to opening the closet. i receded a few steps; but before i reached my chamber door my thoughts took a new direction. motion seemed to produce a mechanical influence upon me. i was ashamed of my weakness. besides, what aid could be afforded me by a lamp? my fears had pictured to themselves no precise object. it would be difficult to depict, in words, the ingredients and hues of that phantom which haunted me. an hand invisible and of preternatural strength, lifted by human passions, and selecting my life for its aim, were parts of this terrific image. all places were alike accessible to this foe, or if his empire were restricted by local bounds, those bounds were utterly inscrutable by me. but had i not been told by some one in league with this enemy, that every place but the recess in the bank was exempt from danger? i returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the lock. o! may my ears lose their sensibility, ere they be again assailed by a shriek so terrible! not merely my understanding was subdued by the sound: it acted on my nerves like an edge of steel. it appeared to cut asunder the fibres of my brain, and rack every joint with agony. the cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human. no articulation was ever more distinct. the breath which accompanied it did not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance combine to persuade me that the lips which uttered it touched my very shoulder. "hold! hold!" were the words of this tremendous prohibition, in whose tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every energy converted into eagerness and terror. shuddering, i dashed myself against the wall, and by the same involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the mysterious monitor. the moon-light streamed into each window, and every corner of the room was conspicuous, and yet i beheld nothing! the interval was too brief to be artificially measured, between the utterance of these words, and my scrutiny directed to the quarter whence they came. yet if a human being had been there, could he fail to have been visible? which of my senses was the prey of a fatal illusion? the shock which the sound produced was still felt in every part of my frame. the sound, therefore, could not but be a genuine commotion. but that i had heard it, was not more true than that the being who uttered it was stationed at my right ear; yet my attendant was invisible. i cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment. surprize had mastered my faculties. my frame shook, and the vital current was congealed. i was conscious only to the vehemence of my sensations. this condition could not be lasting. like a tide, which suddenly mounts to an overwhelming height, and then gradually subsides, my confusion slowly gave place to order, and my tumults to a calm. i was able to deliberate and move. i resumed my feet, and advanced into the midst of the room. upward, and behind, and on each side, i threw penetrating glances. i was not satisfied with one examination. he that hitherto refused to be seen, might change his purpose, and on the next survey be clearly distinguishable. solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. dark is less fertile of images than the feeble lustre of the moon. i was alone, and the walls were chequered by shadowy forms. as the moon passed behind a cloud and emerged, these shadows seemed to be endowed with life, and to move. the apartment was open to the breeze, and the curtain was occasionally blown from its ordinary position. this motion was not unaccompanied with sound. i failed not to snatch a look, and to listen when this motion and this sound occurred. my belief that my monitor was posted near, was strong, and instantly converted these appearances to tokens of his presence, and yet i could discern nothing. when my thoughts were at length permitted to revert to the past, the first idea that occurred was the resemblance between the words of the voice which i had just heard, and those which had terminated my dream in the summer-house. there are means by which we are able to distinguish a substance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom of a dream. the pit, my brother beckoning me forward, the seizure of my arm, and the voice behind, were surely imaginary. that these incidents were fashioned in my sleep, is supported by the same indubitable evidence that compels me to believe myself awake at present; yet the words and the voice were the same. then, by some inexplicable contrivance, i was aware of the danger, while my actions and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted with it. now, was it not equally true that my actions and persuasions were at war? had not the belief, that evil lurked in the closet, gained admittance, and had not my actions betokened an unwarrantable security? to obviate the effects of my infatuation, the same means had been used. in my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction, was my brother. death was ambushed in my path. from what evil was i now rescued? what minister or implement of ill was shut up in this recess? who was it whose suffocating grasp i was to feel, should i dare to enter it? what monstrous conception is this? my brother! no; protection, and not injury is his province. strange and terrible chimera! yet it would not be suddenly dismissed. it was surely no vulgar agency that gave this form to my fears. he to whom all parts of time are equally present, whom no contingency approaches, was the author of that spell which now seized upon me. life was dear to me. no consideration was present that enjoined me to relinquish it. sacred duty combined with every spontaneous sentiment to endear to me my being. should i not shudder when my being was endangered? but what emotion should possess me when the arm lifted aginst me was wieland's? ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no established laws. why did i dream that my brother was my foe? why but because an omen of my fate was ordained to be communicated? yet what salutary end did it serve? did it arm me with caution to elude, or fortitude to bear the evils to which i was reserved? my present thoughts were, no doubt, indebted for their hue to the similitude existing between these incidents and those of my dream. surely it was phrenzy that dictated my deed. that a ruffian was hidden in the closet, was an idea, the genuine tendency of which was to urge me to flight. such had been the effect formerly produced. had my mind been simply occupied with this thought at present, no doubt, the same impulse would have been experienced; but now it was my brother whom i was irresistably persuaded to regard as the contriver of that ill of which i had been forewarned. this persuasion did not extenuate my fears or my danger. why then did i again approach the closet and withdraw the bolt? my resolution was instantly conceived, and executed without faultering. the door was formed of light materials. the lock, of simple structure, easily forewent its hold. it opened into the room, and commonly moved upon its hinges, after being unfastened, without any effort of mine. this effort, however, was bestowed upon the present occasion. it was my purpose to open it with quickness, but the exertion which i made was ineffectual. it refused to open. at another time, this circumstance would not have looked with a face of mystery. i should have supposed some casual obstruction, and repeated my efforts to surmount it. but now my mind was accessible to no conjecture but one. the door was hindered from opening by human force. surely, here was new cause for affright. this was confirmation proper to decide my conduct. now was all ground of hesitation taken away. what could be supposed but that i deserted the chamber and the house? that i at least endeavoured no longer to withdraw the door? have i not said that my actions were dictated by phrenzy? my reason had forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my resolves. i reiterated my endeavours. i exerted all my force to overcome the obstacle, but in vain. the strength that was exerted to keep it shut, was superior to mine. a casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness of this conduct. whence, but from an habitual defiance of danger, could my perseverance arise? i have already assigned, as distinctly as i am able, the cause of it. the frantic conception that my brother was within, that the resistance made to my design was exerted by him, had rooted itself in my mind. you will comprehend the height of this infatuation, when i tell you, that, finding all my exertions vain, i betook myself to exclamations. surely i was utterly bereft of understanding. now had i arrived at the crisis of my fate. "o! hinder not the door to open," i exclaimed, in a tone that had less of fear than of grief in it. "i know you well. come forth, but harm me not. i beseech you come forth." i had taken my hand from the lock, and removed to a small distance from the door. i had scarcely uttered these words, when the door swung upon its hinges, and displayed to my view the interior of the closet. whoever was within, was shrouded in darkness. a few seconds passed without interruption of the silence. i knew not what to expect or to fear. my eyes would not stray from the recess. presently, a deep sigh was heard. the quarter from which it came heightened the eagerness of my gaze. some one approached from the farther end. i quickly perceived the outlines of a human figure. its steps were irresolute and slow. i recoiled as it advanced. by coming at length within the verge of the room, his form was clearly distinguishable. i had prefigured to myself a very different personage. the face that presented itself was the last that i should desire to meet at an hour, and in a place like this. my wonder was stifled by my fears. assassins had lurked in this recess. some divine voice warned me of danger, that at this moment awaited me. i had spurned the intimation, and challenged my adversary. i recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious character of carwin. what motive but atrocious ones could guide his steps hither? i was alone. my habit suited the hour, and the place, and the warmth of the season. all succour was remote. he had placed himself between me and the door. my frame shook with the vehemence of my apprehensions. yet i was not wholly lost to myself: i vigilantly marked his demeanour. his looks were grave, but not without perturbation. what species of inquietude it betrayed, the light was not strong enough to enable me to discover. he stood still; but his eyes wandered from one object to another. when these powerful organs were fixed upon me, i shrunk into myself. at length, he broke silence. earnestness, and not embarrassment, was in his tone. he advanced close to me while he spoke. "what voice was that which lately addressed you?" he paused for an answer; but observing my trepidation, he resumed, with undiminished solemnity: "be not terrified. whoever he was, he hast done you an important service. i need not ask you if it were the voice of a companion. that sound was beyond the compass of human organs. the knowledge that enabled him to tell you who was in the closet, was obtained by incomprehensible means. "you knew that carwin was there. were you not apprized of his intents? the same power could impart the one as well as the other. yet, knowing these, you persisted. audacious girl! but, perhaps, you confided in his guardianship. your confidence was just. with succour like this at hand you may safely defy me. "he is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best concerted schemes. twice have you been saved by his accursed interposition. but for him i should long ere now have borne away the spoils of your honor." he looked at me with greater stedfastness than before. i became every moment more anxious for my safety. it was with difficulty i stammered out an entreaty that he would instantly depart, or suffer me to do so. he paid no regard to my request, but proceeded in a more impassioned manner. "what is it you fear? have i not told you, you are safe? has not one in whom you more reasonably place trust assured you of it? even if i execute my purpose, what injury is done? your prejudices will call it by that name, but it merits it not. i was impelled by a sentiment that does you honor; a sentiment, that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever it be, you are safe. be this chimera still worshipped; i will do nothing to pollute it." there he stopped. the accents and gestures of this man left me drained of all courage. surely, on no other occasion should i have been thus pusillanimous. my state i regarded as a hopeless one. i was wholly at the mercy of this being. whichever way i turned my eyes, i saw no avenue by which i might escape. the resources of my personal strength, my ingenuity, and my eloquence, i estimated at nothing. the dignity of virtue, and the force of truth, i had been accustomed to celebrate; and had frequently vaunted of the conquests which i should make with their assistance. i used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with energy which vice can never resist; that it was always in our power to obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at less than our life. how was it that a sentiment like despair had now invaded me, and that i trusted to the protection of chance, or to the pity of my persecutor? his words imparted some notion of the injury which he had meditated. he talked of obstacles that had risen in his way. he had relinquished his design. these sources supplied me with slender consolation. there was no security but in his absence. when i looked at myself, when i reflected on the hour and the place, i was overpowered by horror and dejection. he was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet made no motion to depart. i was silent in my turn. what could i say? i was confident that reason in this contest would be impotent. i must owe my safety to his own suggestions. whatever purpose brought him hither, he had changed it. why then did he remain? his resolutions might fluctuate, and the pause of a few minutes restore to him his first resolutions. yet was not this the man whom we had treated with unwearied kindness? whose society was endeared to us by his intellectual elevation and accomplishments? who had a thousand times expatiated on the usefulness and beauty of virtue? why should such a one be dreaded? if i could have forgotten the circumstances in which our interview had taken place, i might have treated his words as jests. presently, he resumed: "fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all visible succour is distant. you believe yourself completely in my power; that you stand upon the brink of ruin. such are your groundless fears. i cannot lift a finger to hurt you. easier it would be to stop the moon in her course than to injure you. the power that protects you would crumble my sinews, and reduce me to a heap of ashes in a moment, if i were to harbour a thought hostile to your safety. thus are appearances at length solved. little did i expect that they originated hence. what a portion is assigned to you? scanned by the eyes of this intelligence, your path will be without pits to swallow, or snares to entangle you. environed by the arms of this protection, all artifices will be frustrated, and all malice repelled." here succeeded a new pause. i was still observant of every gesture and look. the tranquil solemnity that had lately possessed his countenance gave way to a new expression. all now was trepidation and anxiety. "i must be gone," said he in a faltering accent. "why do i linger here? i will not ask your forgiveness. i see that your terrors are invincible. your pardon will be extorted by fear, and not dictated by compassion. i must fly from you forever. he that could plot against your honor, must expect from you and your friends persecution and death. i must doom myself to endless exile." saying this, he hastily left the room. i listened while he descended the stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went forth. i did not follow him with my eyes, as the moon-light would have enabled me to do. relieved by his absence, and exhausted by the conflict of my fears, i threw myself on a chair, and resigned myself to those bewildering ideas which incidents like these could not fail to produce. chapter x order could not readily be introduced into my thoughts. the voice still rung in my ears. every accent that was uttered by carwin was fresh in my remembrance. his unwelcome approach, the recognition of his person, his hasty departure, produced a complex impression on my mind which no words can delineate. i strove to give a slower motion to my thoughts, and to regulate a confusion which became painful; but my efforts were nugatory. i covered my eyes with my hand, and sat, i know not how long, without power to arrange or utter my conceptions. i had remained for hours, as i believed, in absolute solitude. no thought of personal danger had molested my tranquillity. i had made no preparation for defence. what was it that suggested the design of perusing my father's manuscript? if, instead of this, i had retired to bed, and to sleep, to what fate might i not have been reserved? the ruffian, who must almost have suppressed his breathing to screen himself from discovery, would have noticed this signal, and i should have awakened only to perish with affright, and to abhor myself. could i have remained unconscious of my danger? could i have tranquilly slept in the midst of so deadly a snare? and who was he that threatened to destroy me? by what means could he hide himself in this closet? surely he is gifted with supernatural power. such is the enemy of whose attempts i was forewarned. daily i had seen him and conversed with him. nothing could be discerned through the impenetrable veil of his duplicity. when busied in conjectures, as to the author of the evil that was threatened, my mind did not light, for a moment, upon his image. yet has he not avowed himself my enemy? why should he be here if he had not meditated evil? he confesses that this has been his second attempt. what was the scene of his former conspiracy? was it not he whose whispers betrayed him? am i deceived; or was there not a faint resemblance between the voice of this man and that which talked of grasping my throat, and extinguishing my life in a moment? then he had a colleague in his crime; now he is alone. then death was the scope of his thoughts; now an injury unspeakably more dreadful. how thankful should i be to the power that has interposed to save me! that power is invisible. it is subject to the cognizance of one of my senses. what are the means that will inform me of what nature it is? he has set himself to counterwork the machinations of this man, who had menaced destruction to all that is dear to me, and whose cunning had surmounted every human impediment. there was none to rescue me from his grasp. my rashness even hastened the completion of his scheme, and precluded him from the benefits of deliberation. i had robbed him of the power to repent and forbear. had i been apprized of the danger, i should have regarded my conduct as the means of rendering my escape from it impossible. such, likewise, seem to have been the fears of my invisible protector. else why that startling intreaty to refrain from opening the closet? by what inexplicable infatuation was i compelled to proceed? yet my conduct was wise. carwin, unable to comprehend my folly, ascribed my behaviour to my knowledge. he conceived himself previously detected, and such detection being possible to flow only from my heavenly friend, and his enemy, his fears acquired additional strength. he is apprized of the nature and intentions of this being. perhaps he is a human agent. yet, on that supposition his atchievements are incredible. why should i be selected as the object of his care; or, if a mere mortal, should i not recognize some one, whom, benefits imparted and received had prompted to love me? what were the limits and duration of his guardianship? was the genius of my birth entrusted by divine benignity with this province? are human faculties adequate to receive stronger proofs of the existence of unfettered and beneficent intelligences than i have received? but who was this man's coadjutor? the voice that acknowledged an alliance in treachery with carwin warned me to avoid the summer-house. he assured me that there only my safety was endangered. his assurance, as it now appears, was fallacious. was there not deceit in his admonition? was his compact really annulled? some purpose was, perhaps, to be accomplished by preventing my future visits to that spot. why was i enjoined silence to others, on the subject of this admonition, unless it were for some unauthorized and guilty purpose? no one but myself was accustomed to visit it. backward, it was hidden from distant view by the rock, and in front, it was screened from all examination, by creeping plants, and the branches of cedars. what recess could be more propitious to secrecy? the spirit which haunted it formerly was pure and rapturous. it was a fane sacred to the memory of infantile days, and to blissful imaginations of the future! what a gloomy reverse had succeeded since the ominous arrival of this stranger! now, perhaps, it is the scene of his meditations. purposes fraught with horror, that shun the light, and contemplate the pollution of innocence, are here engendered, and fostered, and reared to maturity. such were the ideas that, during the night, were tumultuously revolved by me. i reviewed every conversation in which carwin had borne a part. i studied to discover the true inferences deducible from his deportment and words with regard to his former adventures and actual views. i pondered on the comments which he made on the relation which i had given of the closet dialogue. no new ideas suggested themselves in the course of this review. my expectation had, from the first, been disappointed on the small degree of surprize which this narrative excited in him. he never explicitly declared his opinion as to the nature of those voices, or decided whether they were real or visionary. he recommended no measures of caution or prevention. but what measures were now to be taken? was the danger which threatened me at an end? had i nothing more to fear? i was lonely, and without means of defence. i could not calculate the motives and regulate the footsteps of this person. what certainty was there, that he would not re-assume his purposes, and swiftly return to the execution of them? this idea covered me once more with dismay. how deeply did i regret the solitude in which i was placed, and how ardently did i desire the return of day! but neither of these inconveniencies were susceptible of remedy. at first, it occurred to me to summon my servant, and make her spend the night in my chamber; but the inefficacy of this expedient to enhance my safety was easily seen. once i resolved to leave the house, and retire to my brother's, but was deterred by reflecting on the unseasonableness of the hour, on the alarm which my arrival, and the account which i should be obliged to give, might occasion, and on the danger to which i might expose myself in the way thither. i began, likewise, to consider carwin's return to molest me as exceedingly improbable. he had relinquished, of his own accord, his design, and departed without compulsion. "surely," said i, "there is omnipotence in the cause that changed the views of a man like carwin. the divinity that shielded me from his attempts will take suitable care of my future safety. thus to yield to my fears is to deserve that they should be real." scarcely had i uttered these words, when my attention was startled by the sound of footsteps. they denoted some one stepping into the piazza in front of my house. my new-born confidence was extinguished in a moment. carwin, i thought, had repented his departure, and was hastily returning. the possibility that his return was prompted by intentions consistent with my safety, found no place in my mind. images of violation and murder assailed me anew, and the terrors which succeeded almost incapacitated me from taking any measures for my defence. it was an impulse of which i was scarcely conscious, that made me fasten the lock and draw the bolts of my chamber door. having done this, i threw myself on a seat; for i trembled to a degree which disabled me from standing, and my soul was so perfectly absorbed in the act of listening, that almost the vital motions were stopped. the door below creaked on its hinges. it was not again thrust to, but appeared to remain open. footsteps entered, traversed the entry, and began to mount the stairs. how i detested the folly of not pursuing the man when he withdrew, and bolting after him the outer door! might he not conceive this omission to be a proof that my angel had deserted me, and be thereby fortified in guilt? every step on the stairs, which brought him nearer to my chamber, added vigor to my desperation. the evil with which i was menaced was to be at any rate eluded. how little did i preconceive the conduct which, in an exigence like this, i should be prone to adopt. you will suppose that deliberation and despair would have suggested the same course of action, and that i should have, unhesitatingly, resorted to the best means of personal defence within my power. a penknife lay open upon my table. i remembered that it was there, and seized it. for what purpose you will scarcely inquire. it will be immediately supposed that i meant it for my last refuge, and that if all other means should fail, i should plunge it into the heart of my ravisher. i have lost all faith in the stedfastness of human resolves. it was thus that in periods of calm i had determined to act. no cowardice had been held by me in greater abhorrence than that which prompted an injured female to destroy, not her injurer ere the injury was perpetrated, but herself when it was without remedy. yet now this penknife appeared to me of no other use than to baffle my assailant, and prevent the crime by destroying myself. to deliberate at such a time was impossible; but among the tumultuous suggestions of the moment, i do not recollect that it once occurred to me to use it as an instrument of direct defence. the steps had now reached the second floor. every footfall accelerated the completion, without augmenting, the certainty of evil. the consciousness that the door was fast, now that nothing but that was interposed between me and danger, was a source of some consolation. i cast my eye towards the window. this, likewise, was a new suggestion. if the door should give way, it was my sudden resolution to throw myself from the window. its height from the ground, which was covered beneath by a brick pavement, would insure my destruction; but i thought not of that. when opposite to my door the footsteps ceased. was he listening whether my fears were allayed, and my caution were asleep? did he hope to take me by surprize? yet, if so, why did he allow so many noisy signals to betray his approach? presently the steps were again heard to approach the door. an hand was laid upon the lock, and the latch pulled back. did he imagine it possible that i should fail to secure the door? a slight effort was made to push it open, as if all bolts being withdrawn, a slight effort only was required. i no sooner perceived this, than i moved swiftly towards the window. carwin's frame might be said to be all muscle. his strength and activity had appeared, in various instances, to be prodigious. a slight exertion of his force would demolish the door. would not that exertion be made? too surely it would; but, at the same moment that this obstacle should yield, and he should enter the apartment, my determination was formed to leap from the window. my senses were still bound to this object. i gazed at the door in momentary expectation that the assault would be made. the pause continued. the person without was irresolute and motionless. suddenly, it occurred to me that carwin might conceive me to have fled. that i had not betaken myself to flight was, indeed, the least probable of all conclusions. in this persuasion he must have been confirmed on finding the lower door unfastened, and the chamber door locked. was it not wise to foster this persuasion? should i maintain deep silence, this, in addition to other circumstances, might encourage the belief, and he would once more depart. every new reflection added plausibility to this reasoning. it was presently more strongly enforced, when i noticed footsteps withdrawing from the door. the blood once more flowed back to my heart, and a dawn of exultation began to rise: but my joy was short lived. instead of descending the stairs, he passed to the door of the opposite chamber, opened it, and having entered, shut it after him with a violence that shook the house. how was i to interpret this circumstance? for what end could he have entered this chamber? did the violence with which he closed the door testify the depth of his vexation? this room was usually occupied by pleyel. was carwin aware of his absence on this night? could he be suspected of a design so sordid as pillage? if this were his view there were no means in my power to frustrate it. it behoved me to seize the first opportunity to escape; but if my escape were supposed by my enemy to have been already effected, no asylum was more secure than the present. how could my passage from the house be accomplished without noises that might incite him to pursue me? utterly at a loss to account for his going into pleyel's chamber, i waited in instant expectation of hearing him come forth. all, however, was profoundly still. i listened in vain for a considerable period, to catch the sound of the door when it should again be opened. there was no other avenue by which he could escape, but a door which led into the girl's chamber. would any evil from this quarter befall the girl? hence arose a new train of apprehensions. they merely added to the turbulence and agony of my reflections. whatever evil impended over her, i had no power to avert it. seclusion and silence were the only means of saving myself from the perils of this fatal night. what solemn vows did i put up, that if i should once more behold the light of day, i would never trust myself again within the threshold of this dwelling! minute lingered after minute, but no token was given that carwin had returned to the passage. what, i again asked, could detain him in this room? was it possible that he had returned, and glided, unperceived, away? i was speedily aware of the difficulty that attended an enterprize like this; and yet, as if by that means i were capable of gaining any information on that head, i cast anxious looks from the window. the object that first attracted my attention was an human figure standing on the edge of the bank. perhaps my penetration was assisted by my hopes. be that as it will, the figure of carwin was clearly distinguishable. from the obscurity of my station, it was impossible that i should be discerned by him, and yet he scarcely suffered me to catch a glimpse of him. he turned and went down the steep, which, in this part, was not difficult to be scaled. my conjecture then had been right. carwin has softly opened the door, descended the stairs, and issued forth. that i should not have overheard his steps, was only less incredible than that my eyes had deceived me. but what was now to be done? the house was at length delivered from this detested inmate. by one avenue might he again re-enter. was it not wise to bar the lower door? perhaps he had gone out by the kitchen door. for this end, he must have passed through judith's chamber. these entrances being closed and bolted, as great security was gained as was compatible with my lonely condition. the propriety of these measures was too manifest not to make me struggle successfully with my fears. yet i opened my own door with the utmost caution, and descended as if i were afraid that carwin had been still immured in pleyel's chamber. the outer door was a-jar. i shut, with trembling eagerness, and drew every bolt that appended to it. i then passed with light and less cautious steps through the parlour, but was surprized to discover that the kitchen door was secure. i was compelled to acquiesce in the first conjecture that carwin had escaped through the entry. my heart was now somewhat eased of the load of apprehension. i returned once more to my chamber, the door of which i was careful to lock. it was no time to think of repose. the moon-light began already to fade before the light of the day. the approach of morning was betokened by the usual signals. i mused upon the events of this night, and determined to take up my abode henceforth at my brother's. whether i should inform him of what had happened was a question which seemed to demand some consideration. my safety unquestionably required that i should abandon my present habitation. as my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments, the image of pleyel, and the dubiousness of his condition, again recurred to me. i again ran over the possible causes of his absence on the preceding day. my mind was attuned to melancholy. i dwelt, with an obstinacy for which i could not account, on the idea of his death. i painted to myself his struggles with the billows, and his last appearance. i imagined myself a midnight wanderer on the shore, and to have stumbled on his corpse, which the tide had cast up. these dreary images affected me even to tears. i endeavoured not to restrain them. they imparted a relief which i had not anticipated. the more copiously they flowed, the more did my general sensations appear to subside into calm, and a certain restlessness give way to repose. perhaps, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much wanted might have stolen on my senses, had there been no new cause of alarm. chapter xi i was aroused from this stupor by sounds that evidently arose in the next chamber. was it possible that i had been mistaken in the figure which i had seen on the bank? or had carwin, by some inscrutable means, penetrated once more into this chamber? the opposite door opened; footsteps came forth, and the person, advancing to mine, knocked. so unexpected an incident robbed me of all presence of mind, and, starting up, i involuntarily exclaimed, "who is there?" an answer was immediately given. the voice, to my inexpressible astonishment, was pleyel's. "it is i. have you risen? if you have not, make haste; i want three minutes conversation with you in the parlour--i will wait for you there." saying this he retired from the door. should i confide in the testimony of my ears? if that were true, it was pleyel that had been hitherto immured in the opposite chamber: he whom my rueful fancy had depicted in so many ruinous and ghastly shapes: he whose footsteps had been listened to with such inquietude! what is man, that knowledge is so sparingly conferred upon him! that his heart should be wrung with distress, and his frame be exanimated with fear, though his safety be encompassed with impregnable walls! what are the bounds of human imbecility! he that warned me of the presence of my foe refused the intimation by which so many racking fears would have been precluded. yet who would have imagined the arrival of pleyel at such an hour? his tone was desponding and anxious. why this unseasonable summons? and why this hasty departure? some tidings he, perhaps, bears of mysterious and unwelcome import. my impatience would not allow me to consume much time in deliberation: i hastened down. pleyel i found standing at a window, with eyes cast down as in meditation, and arms folded on his breast. every line in his countenance was pregnant with sorrow. to this was added a certain wanness and air of fatigue. the last time i had seen him appearances had been the reverse of these. i was startled at the change. the first impulse was to question him as to the cause. this impulse was supplanted by some degree of confusion, flowing from a consciousness that love had too large, and, as it might prove, a perceptible share in creating this impulse. i was silent. presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. i read in them an anguish altogether ineffable. never had i witnessed a like demeanour in pleyel. never, indeed, had i observed an human countenance in which grief was more legibly inscribed. he seemed struggling for utterance; but his struggles being fruitless, he shook his head and turned away from me. my impatience would not allow me to be longer silent: "what," said i, "for heaven's sake, my friend, what is the matter?" he started at the sound of my voice. his looks, for a moment, became convulsed with an emotion very different from grief. his accents were broken with rage. "the matter--o wretch!--thus exquisitely fashioned--on whom nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces; with charms so awful and so pure! how art thou fallen! from what height fallen! a ruin so complete--so unheard of!" his words were again choaked by emotion. grief and pity were again mingled in his features. he resumed, in a tone half suffocated by sobs: "but why should i upbraid thee? could i restore to thee what thou hast lost; efface this cursed stain; snatch thee from the jaws of this fiend; i would do it. yet what will avail my efforts? i have not arms with which to contend with so consummate, so frightful a depravity. "evidence less than this would only have excited resentment and scorn. the wretch who should have breathed a suspicion injurious to thy honor, would have been regarded without anger; not hatred or envy could have prompted him; it would merely be an argument of madness. that my eyes, that my ears, should bear witness to thy fall! by no other way could detestible conviction be imparted. "why do i summon thee to this conference? why expose myself to thy derision? here admonition and entreaty are vain. thou knowest him already, for a murderer and thief. i had thought to have been the first to disclose to thee his infamy; to have warned thee of the pit to which thou art hastening; but thy eyes are open in vain. o foul and insupportable disgrace! "there is but one path. i know you will disappear together. in thy ruin, how will the felicity and honor of multitudes be involved! but it must come. this scene shall not be blotted by his presence. no doubt thou wilt shortly see thy detested paramour. this scene will be again polluted by a midnight assignation. inform him of his danger; tell him that his crimes are known; let him fly far and instantly from this spot, if he desires to avoid the fate which menaced him in ireland. "and wilt thou not stay behind?--but shame upon my weakness. i know not what i would say.--i have done what i purposed. to stay longer, to expostulate, to beseech, to enumerate the consequences of thy act--what end can it serve but to blazon thy infamy and embitter our woes? and yet, o think, think ere it be too late, on the distresses which thy flight will entail upon us; on the base, grovelling, and atrocious character of the wretch to whom thou hast sold thy honor. but what is this? is not thy effrontery impenetrable, and thy heart thoroughly cankered? o most specious, and most profligate of women!" saying this, he rushed out of the house. i saw him in a few moments hurrying along the path which led to my brother's. i had no power to prevent his going, or to recall, or to follow him. the accents i had heard were calculated to confound and bewilder. i looked around me to assure myself that the scene was real. i moved that i might banish the doubt that i was awake. such enormous imputations from the mouth of pleyel! to be stigmatized with the names of wanton and profligate! to be charged with the sacrifice of honor! with midnight meetings with a wretch known to be a murderer and thief! with an intention to fly in his company! what i had heard was surely the dictate of phrenzy, or it was built upon some fatal, some incomprehensible mistake. after the horrors of the night; after undergoing perils so imminent from this man, to be summoned to an interview like this; to find pleyel fraught with a belief that, instead of having chosen death as a refuge from the violence of this man, i had hugged his baseness to my heart, had sacrificed for him my purity, my spotless name, my friendships, and my fortune! that even madness could engender accusations like these was not to be believed. what evidence could possibly suggest conceptions so wild? after the unlooked-for interview with carwin in my chamber, he retired. could pleyel have observed his exit? it was not long after that pleyel himself entered. did he build on this incident, his odious conclusions? could the long series of my actions and sentiments grant me no exemption from suspicions so foul? was it not more rational to infer that carwin's designs had been illicit; that my life had been endangered by the fury of one whom, by some means, he had discovered to be an assassin and robber; that my honor had been assailed, not by blandishments, but by violence? he has judged me without hearing. he has drawn from dubious appearances, conclusions the most improbable and unjust. he has loaded me with all outrageous epithets. he has ranked me with prostitutes and thieves. i cannot pardon thee, pleyel, for this injustice. thy understanding must be hurt. if it be not, if thy conduct was sober and deliberate, i can never forgive an outrage so unmanly, and so gross. these thoughts gradually gave place to others. pleyel was possessed by some momentary phrenzy: appearances had led him into palpable errors. whence could his sagacity have contracted this blindness? was it not love? previously assured of my affection for carwin, distracted with grief and jealousy, and impelled hither at that late hour by some unknown instigation, his imagination transformed shadows into monsters, and plunged him into these deplorable errors. this idea was not unattended with consolation. my soul was divided between indignation at his injustice, and delight on account of the source from which i conceived it to spring. for a long time they would allow admission to no other thoughts. surprize is an emotion that enfeebles, not invigorates. all my meditations were accompanied with wonder. i rambled with vagueness, or clung to one image with an obstinacy which sufficiently testified the maddening influence of late transactions. gradually i proceeded to reflect upon the consequences of pleyel's mistake, and on the measures i should take to guard myself against future injury from carwin. should i suffer this mistake to be detected by time? when his passion should subside, would he not perceive the flagrancy of his injustice, and hasten to atone for it? did it not become my character to testify resentment for language and treatment so opprobrious? wrapt up in the consciousness of innocence, and confiding in the influence of time and reflection to confute so groundless a charge, it was my province to be passive and silent. as to the violences meditated by carwin, and the means of eluding them, the path to be taken by me was obvious. i resolved to tell the tale to my brother, and regulate myself by his advice. for this end, when the morning was somewhat advanced, i took the way to his house. my sister was engaged in her customary occupations. as soon as i appeared, she remarked a change in my looks. i was not willing to alarm her by the information which i had to communicate. her health was in that condition which rendered a disastrous tale particularly unsuitable. i forbore a direct answer to her inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for wieland. "why," said she, "i suspect something mysterious and unpleasant has happened this morning. scarcely had we risen when pleyel dropped among us. what could have prompted him to make us so early and so unseasonable a visit i cannot tell. to judge from the disorder of his dress, and his countenance, something of an extraordinary nature has occurred. he permitted me merely to know that he had slept none, nor even undressed, during the past night. he took your brother to walk with him. some topic must have deeply engaged them, for wieland did not return till the breakfast hour was passed, and returned alone. his disturbance was excessive; but he would not listen to my importunities, or tell me what had happened. i gathered from hints which he let fall, that your situation was, in some way, the cause: yet he assured me that you were at your own house, alive, in good health, and in perfect safety. he scarcely ate a morsel, and immediately after breakfast went out again. he would not inform me whither he was going, but mentioned that he probably might not return before night." i was equally astonished and alarmed by this information. pleyel had told his tale to my brother, and had, by a plausible and exaggerated picture, instilled into him unfavorable thoughts of me. yet would not the more correct judgment of wieland perceive and expose the fallacy of his conclusions? perhaps his uneasiness might arise from some insight into the character of carwin, and from apprehensions for my safety. the appearances by which pleyel had been misled, might induce him likewise to believe that i entertained an indiscreet, though not dishonorable affection for carwin. such were the conjectures rapidly formed. i was inexpressibly anxious to change them into certainty. for this end an interview with my brother was desirable. he was gone, no one knew whither, and was not expected speedily to return. i had no clue by which to trace his footsteps. my anxieties could not be concealed from my sister. they heightened her solicitude to be acquainted with the cause. there were many reasons persuading me to silence: at least, till i had seen my brother, it would be an act of inexcusable temerity to unfold what had lately passed. no other expedient for eluding her importunities occurred to me, but that of returning to my own house. i recollected my determination to become a tenant of this roof. i mentioned it to her. she joyfully acceded to this proposal, and suffered me, with less reluctance, to depart, when i told her that it was with a view to collect and send to my new dwelling what articles would be immediately useful to me. once more i returned to the house which had been the scene of so much turbulence and danger. i was at no great distance from it when i observed my brother coming out. on seeing me he stopped, and after ascertaining, as it seemed, which way i was going, he returned into the house before me. i sincerely rejoiced at this event, and i hastened to set things, if possible, on their right footing. his brow was by no means expressive of those vehement emotions with which pleyel had been agitated. i drew a favorable omen from this circumstance. without delay i began the conversation. "i have been to look for you," said i, "but was told by catharine that pleyel had engaged you on some important and disagreeable affair. before his interview with you he spent a few minutes with me. these minutes he employed in upbraiding me for crimes and intentions with which i am by no means chargeable. i believe him to have taken up his opinions on very insufficient grounds. his behaviour was in the highest degree precipitate and unjust, and, until i receive some atonement, i shall treat him, in my turn, with that contempt which he justly merits: meanwhile i am fearful that he has prejudiced my brother against me. that is an evil which i most anxiously deprecate, and which i shall indeed exert myself to remove. has he made me the subject of this morning's conversation?" my brother's countenance testified no surprize at my address. the benignity of his looks were no wise diminished. "it is true," said he, "your conduct was the subject of our discourse. i am your friend, as well as your brother. there is no human being whom i love with more tenderness, and whose welfare is nearer my heart. judge then with what emotions i listened to pleyel's story. i expect and desire you to vindicate yourself from aspersions so foul, if vindication be possible." the tone with which he uttered the last words affected me deeply. "if vindication be possible!" repeated i. "from what you know, do you deem a formal vindication necessary? can you harbour for a moment the belief of my guilt?" he shook his head with an air of acute anguish. "i have struggled," said he, "to dismiss that belief. you speak before a judge who will profit by any pretence to acquit you: who is ready to question his own senses when they plead against you." these words incited a new set of thoughts in my mind. i began to suspect that pleyel had built his accusations on some foundation unknown to me. "i may be a stranger to the grounds of your belief. pleyel loaded me with indecent and virulent invectives, but he withheld from me the facts that generated his suspicions. events took place last night of which some of the circumstances were of an ambiguous nature. i conceived that these might possibly have fallen under his cognizance, and that, viewed through the mists of prejudice and passion, they supplied a pretence for his conduct, but believed that your more unbiassed judgment would estimate them at their just value. perhaps his tale has been different from what i suspect it to be. listen then to my narrative. if there be any thing in his story inconsistent with mine, his story is false." i then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the incidents of the last night. wieland listened with deep attention. having finished, "this," continued i, "is the truth; you see in what circumstances an interview took place between carwin and me. he remained for hours in my closet, and for some minutes in my chamber. he departed without haste or interruption. if pleyel marked him as he left the house, and it is not impossible that he did, inferences injurious to my character might suggest themselves to him. in admitting them, he gave proofs of less discernment and less candor than i once ascribed to him." "his proofs," said wieland, after a considerable pause, "are different. that he should be deceived, is not possible. that he himself is not the deceiver, could not be believed, if his testimony were not inconsistent with yours; but the doubts which i entertained are now removed. your tale, some parts of it, is marvellous; the voice which exclaimed against your rashness in approaching the closet, your persisting notwithstanding that prohibition, your belief that i was the ruffian, and your subsequent conduct, are believed by me, because i have known you from childhood, because a thousand instances have attested your veracity, and because nothing less than my own hearing and vision would convince me, in opposition to her own assertions, that my sister had fallen into wickedness like this." i threw my arms around him, and bathed his cheek with my tears. "that," said i, "is spoken like my brother. but what are the proofs?" he replied--"pleyel informed me that, in going to your house, his attention was attracted by two voices. the persons speaking sat beneath the bank out of sight. these persons, judging by their voices, were carwin and you. i will not repeat the dialogue. if my sister was the female, pleyel was justified in concluding you to be, indeed, one of the most profligate of women. hence, his accusations of you, and his efforts to obtain my concurrence to a plan by which an eternal separation should be brought about between my sister and this man." i made wieland repeat this recital. here, indeed, was a tale to fill me with terrible foreboding. i had vainly thought that my safety could be sufficiently secured by doors and bars, but this is a foe from whose grasp no power of divinity can save me! his artifices will ever lay my fame and happiness at his mercy. how shall i counterwork his plots, or detect his coadjutor? he has taught some vile and abandoned female to mimic my voice. pleyel's ears were the witnesses of my dishonor. this is the midnight assignation to which he alluded. thus is the silence he maintained when attempting to open the door of my chamber, accounted for. he supposed me absent, and meant, perhaps, had my apartment been accessible, to leave in it some accusing memorial. pleyel was no longer equally culpable. the sincerity of his anguish, the depth of his despair, i remembered with some tendencies to gratitude. yet was he not precipitate? was the conjecture that my part was played by some mimic so utterly untenable? instances of this faculty are common. the wickedness of carwin must, in his opinion, have been adequate to such contrivances, and yet the supposition of my guilt was adopted in preference to that. but how was this error to be unveiled? what but my own assertion had i to throw in the balance against it? would this be permitted to outweigh the testimony of his senses? i had no witnesses to prove my existence in another place. the real events of that night are marvellous. few, to whom they should be related, would scruple to discredit them. pleyel is sceptical in a transcendant degree. i cannot summon carwin to my bar, and make him the attestor of my innocence, and the accuser of himself. my brother saw and comprehended my distress. he was unacquainted, however, with the full extent of it. he knew not by how many motives i was incited to retrieve the good opinion of pleyel. he endeavored to console me. some new event, he said, would occur to disentangle the maze. he did not question the influence of my eloquence, if i thought proper to exert it. why not seek an interview with pleyel, and exact from him a minute relation, in which something may be met with serving to destroy the probability of the whole? i caught, with eagerness, at this hope; but my alacrity was damped by new reflections. should i, perfect in this respect, and unblemished as i was, thrust myself, uncalled, into his presence, and make my felicity depend upon his arbitrary verdict? "if you chuse to seek an interview," continued wieland, "you must make haste, for pleyel informed me of his intention to set out this evening or to-morrow on a long journey." no intelligence was less expected or less welcome than this. i had thrown myself in a window seat; but now, starting on my feet, i exclaimed, "good heavens! what is it you say? a journey? whither? when?" "i cannot say whither. it is a sudden resolution i believe. i did not hear of it till this morning. he promises to write to me as soon as he is settled." i needed no further information as to the cause and issue of this journey. the scheme of happiness to which he had devoted his thoughts was blasted by the discovery of last night. my preference of another, and my unworthiness to be any longer the object of his adoration, were evinced by the same act and in the same moment. the thought of utter desertion, a desertion originating in such a cause, was the prelude to distraction. that pleyel should abandon me forever, because i was blind to his excellence, because i coveted pollution, and wedded infamy, when, on the contrary, my heart was the shrine of all purity, and beat only for his sake, was a destiny which, as long as my life was in my own hands, i would by no means consent to endure. i remembered that this evil was still preventable; that this fatal journey it was still in my power to procrastinate, or, perhaps, to occasion it to be laid aside. there were no impediments to a visit: i only dreaded lest the interview should be too long delayed. my brother befriended my impatience, and readily consented to furnish me with a chaise and servant to attend me. my purpose was to go immediately to pleyel's farm, where his engagements usually detained him during the day. chapter xii my way lay through the city. i had scarcely entered it when i was seized with a general sensation of sickness. every object grew dim and swam before my sight. it was with difficulty i prevented myself from sinking to the bottom of the carriage. i ordered myself to be carried to mrs. baynton's, in hope that an interval of repose would invigorate and refresh me. my distracted thoughts would allow me but little rest. growing somewhat better in the afternoon, i resumed my journey. my contemplations were limited to a few objects. i regarded my success, in the purpose which i had in view, as considerably doubtful. i depended, in some degree, on the suggestions of the moment, and on the materials which pleyel himself should furnish me. when i reflected on the nature of the accusation, i burned with disdain. would not truth, and the consciousness of innocence, render me triumphant? should i not cast from me, with irresistible force, such atrocious imputations? what an entire and mournful change has been effected in a few hours! the gulf that separates man from insects is not wider than that which severs the polluted from the chaste among women. yesterday and to-day i am the same. there is a degree of depravity to which it is impossible for me to sink; yet, in the apprehension of another, my ancient and intimate associate, the perpetual witness of my actions, and partaker of my thoughts, i had ceased to be the same. my integrity was tarnished and withered in his eyes. i was the colleague of a murderer, and the paramour of a thief! his opinion was not destitute of evidence: yet what proofs could reasonably avail to establish an opinion like this? if the sentiments corresponded not with the voice that was heard, the evidence was deficient; but this want of correspondence would have been supposed by me if i had been the auditor and pleyel the criminal. but mimicry might still more plausibly have been employed to explain the scene. alas! it is the fate of clara wieland to fall into the hands of a precipitate and inexorable judge. but what, o man of mischief! is the tendency of thy thoughts? frustrated in thy first design, thou wilt not forego the immolation of thy victim. to exterminate my reputation was all that remained to thee, and this my guardian has permitted. to dispossess pleyel of this prejudice may be impossible; but if that be effected, it cannot be supposed that thy wiles are exhausted; thy cunning will discover innumerable avenues to the accomplishment of thy malignant purpose. why should i enter the lists against thee? would to heaven i could disarm thy vengeance by my deprecations! when i think of all the resources with which nature and education have supplied thee; that thy form is a combination of steely fibres and organs of exquisite ductility and boundless compass, actuated by an intelligence gifted with infinite endowments, and comprehending all knowledge, i perceive that my doom is fixed. what obstacle will be able to divert thy zeal or repel thy efforts? that being who has hitherto protected me has borne testimony to the formidableness of thy attempts, since nothing less than supernatural interference could check thy career. musing on these thoughts, i arrived, towards the close of the day, at pleyel's house. a month before, i had traversed the same path; but how different were my sensations! now i was seeking the presence of one who regarded me as the most degenerate of human kind. i was to plead the cause of my innocence, against witnesses the most explicit and unerring, of those which support the fabric of human knowledge. the nearer i approached the crisis, the more did my confidence decay. when the chaise stopped at the door, my strength refused to support me, and i threw myself into the arms of an ancient female domestic. i had not courage to inquire whether her master was at home. i was tormented with fears that the projected journey was already undertaken. these fears were removed, by her asking me whether she should call her young master, who had just gone into his own room. i was somewhat revived by this intelligence, and resolved immediately to seek him there. in my confusion of mind, i neglected to knock at the door, but entered his apartment without previous notice. this abruptness was altogether involuntary. absorbed in reflections of such unspeakable moment, i had no leisure to heed the niceties of punctilio. i discovered him standing with his back towards the entrance. a small trunk, with its lid raised, was before him in which it seemed as if he had been busy in packing his clothes. the moment of my entrance, he was employed in gazing at something which he held in his hand. i imagined that i fully comprehended this scene. the image which he held before him, and by which his attention was so deeply engaged, i doubted not to be my own. these preparations for his journey, the cause to which it was to be imputed, the hopelessness of success in the undertaking on which i had entered, rushed at once upon my feelings, and dissolved me into a flood of tears. startled by this sound, he dropped the lid of the trunk and turned. the solemn sadness that previously overspread his countenance, gave sudden way to an attitude and look of the most vehement astonishment. perceiving me unable to uphold myself, he stepped towards me without speaking, and supported me by his arm. the kindness of this action called forth a new effusion from my eyes. weeping was a solace to which, at that time, i had not grown familiar, and which, therefore, was peculiarly delicious. indignation was no longer to be read in the features of my friend. they were pregnant with a mixture of wonder and pity. their expression was easily interpreted. this visit, and these tears, were tokens of my penitence. the wretch whom he had stigmatized as incurably and obdurately wicked, now shewed herself susceptible of remorse, and had come to confess her guilt. this persuasion had no tendency to comfort me. it only shewed me, with new evidence, the difficulty of the task which i had assigned myself. we were mutually silent. i had less power and less inclination than ever to speak. i extricated myself from his hold, and threw myself on a sofa. he placed himself by my side, and appeared to wait with impatience and anxiety for some beginning of the conversation. what could i say? if my mind had suggested any thing suitable to the occasion, my utterance was suffocated by tears. frequently he attempted to speak, but seemed deterred by some degree of uncertainty as to the true nature of the scene. at length, in faltering accents he spoke: "my friend! would to heaven i were still permitted to call you by that name. the image that i once adored existed only in my fancy; but though i cannot hope to see it realized, you may not be totally insensible to the horrors of that gulf into which you are about to plunge. what heart is forever exempt from the goadings of compunction and the influx of laudable propensities? "i thought you accomplished and wise beyond the rest of women. not a sentiment you uttered, not a look you assumed, that were not, in my apprehension, fraught with the sublimities of rectitude and the illuminations of genius. deceit has some bounds. your education could not be without influence. a vigorous understanding cannot be utterly devoid of virtue; but you could not counterfeit the powers of invention and reasoning. i was rash in my invectives. i will not, but with life, relinquish all hopes of you. i will shut out every proof that would tell me that your heart is incurably diseased. "you come to restore me once more to happiness; to convince me that you have torn her mask from vice, and feel nothing but abhorrence for the part you have hitherto acted." at these words my equanimity forsook me. for a moment i forgot the evidence from which pleyel's opinions were derived, the benevolence of his remonstrances, and the grief which his accents bespoke; i was filled with indignation and horror at charges so black; i shrunk back and darted at him a look of disdain and anger. my passion supplied me with words. "what detestable infatuation was it that led me hither! why do i patiently endure these horrible insults! my offences exist only in your own distempered imagination: you are leagued with the traitor who assailed my life: you have vowed the destruction of my peace and honor. i deserve infamy for listening to calumnies so base!" these words were heard by pleyel without visible resentment. his countenance relapsed into its former gloom; but he did not even look at me. the ideas which had given place to my angry emotions returned, and once more melted me into tears. "o!" i exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, "what a task is mine! compelled to hearken to charges which i feel to be false, but which i know to be believed by him that utters them; believed too not without evidence, which, though fallacious, is not unplausible. "i came hither not to confess, but to vindicate. i know the source of your opinions. wieland has informed me on what your suspicions are built. these suspicions are fostered by you as certainties; the tenor of my life, of all my conversations and letters, affords me no security; every sentiment that my tongue and my pen have uttered, bear testimony to the rectitude of my mind; but this testimony is rejected. i am condemned as brutally profligate: i am classed with the stupidly and sordidly wicked. "and where are the proofs that must justify so foul and so improbable an accusation? you have overheard a midnight conference. voices have saluted your ear, in which you imagine yourself to have recognized mine, and that of a detected villain. the sentiments expressed were not allowed to outweigh the casual or concerted resemblance of voice. sentiments the reverse of all those whose influence my former life had attested, denoting a mind polluted by grovelling vices, and entering into compact with that of a thief and a murderer. the nature of these sentiments did not enable you to detect the cheat, did not suggest to you the possibility that my voice had been counterfeited by another. "you were precipitate and prone to condemn. instead of rushing on the impostors, and comparing the evidence of sight with that of hearing, you stood aloof, or you fled. my innocence would not now have stood in need of vindication, if this conduct had been pursued. that you did not pursue it, your present thoughts incontestibly prove. yet this conduct might surely have been expected from pleyel. that he would not hastily impute the blackest of crimes, that he would not couple my name with infamy, and cover me with ruin for inadequate or slight reasons, might reasonably have been expected." the sobs which convulsed my bosom would not suffer me to proceed. pleyel was for a moment affected. he looked at me with some expression of doubt; but this quickly gave place to a mournful solemnity. he fixed his eyes on the floor as in reverie, and spoke: "two hours hence i am gone. shall i carry away with me the sorrow that is now my guest? or shall that sorrow be accumulated tenfold? what is she that is now before me? shall every hour supply me with new proofs of a wickedness beyond example? already i deem her the most abandoned and detestable of human creatures. her coming and her tears imparted a gleam of hope, but that gleam has vanished." he now fixed his eyes upon me, and every muscle in his face trembled. his tone was hollow and terrible--"thou knowest that i was a witness of your interview, yet thou comest hither to upbraid me for injustice! thou canst look me in the face and say that i am deceived!--an inscrutable providence has fashioned thee for some end. thou wilt live, no doubt, to fulfil the purposes of thy maker, if he repent not of his workmanship, and send not his vengeance to exterminate thee, ere the measure of thy days be full. surely nothing in the shape of man can vie with thee! "but i thought i had stifled this fury. i am not constituted thy judge. my office is to pity and amend, and not to punish and revile. i deemed myself exempt from all tempestuous passions. i had almost persuaded myself to weep over thy fall; but i am frail as dust, and mutable as water; i am calm, i am compassionate only in thy absence.--make this house, this room, thy abode as long as thou wilt, but forgive me if i prefer solitude for the short time during which i shall stay." saying this, he motioned as if to leave the apartment. the stormy passions of this man affected me by sympathy. i ceased to weep. i was motionless and speechless with agony. i sat with my hands clasped, mutely gazing after him as he withdrew. i desired to detain him, but was unable to make any effort for that purpose, till he had passed out of the room. i then uttered an involuntary and piercing cry--"pleyel! art thou gone? gone forever?" at this summons he hastily returned. he beheld me wild, pale, gasping for breath, and my head already sinking on my bosom. a painful dizziness seized me, and i fainted away. when i recovered, i found myself stretched on a bed in the outer apartment, and pleyel, with two female servants standing beside it. all the fury and scorn which the countenance of the former lately expressed, had now disappeared, and was succeeded by the most tender anxiety. as soon as he perceived that my senses were returned to me, he clasped his hands, and exclaimed, "god be thanked! you are once more alive. i had almost despaired of your recovery. i fear i have been precipitate and unjust. my senses must have been the victims of some inexplicable and momentary phrenzy. forgive me, i beseech you, forgive my reproaches. i would purchase conviction of your purity, at the price of my existence here and hereafter." he once more, in a tone of the most fervent tenderness, besought me to be composed, and then left me to the care of the women. chapter xiii here was wrought a surprizing change in my friend. what was it that had shaken conviction so firm? had any thing occurred during my fit, adequate to produce so total an alteration? my attendants informed me that he had not left my apartment; that the unusual duration of my fit, and the failure, for a time, of all the means used for my recovery, had filled him with grief and dismay. did he regard the effect which his reproaches had produced as a proof of my sincerity? in this state of mind, i little regarded my languors of body. i rose and requested an interview with him before my departure, on which i was resolved, notwithstanding his earnest solicitation to spend the night at his house. he complied with my request. the tenderness which he had lately betrayed, had now disappeared, and he once more relapsed into a chilling solemnity. i told him that i was preparing to return to my brother's; that i had come hither to vindicate my innocence from the foul aspersions which he had cast upon it. my pride had not taken refuge in silence or distance. i had not relied upon time, or the suggestion of his cooler thoughts, to confute his charges. conscious as i was that i was perfectly guiltless, and entertaining some value for his good opinion, i could not prevail upon myself to believe that my efforts to make my innocence manifest, would be fruitless. adverse appearances might be numerous and specious, but they were unquestionably false. i was willing to believe him sincere, that he made no charges which he himself did not believe; but these charges were destitute of truth. the grounds of his opinion were fallacious; and i desired an opportunity of detecting their fallacy. i entreated him to be explicit, and to give me a detail of what he had heard, and what he had seen. at these words, my companion's countenance grew darker. he appeared to be struggling with his rage. he opened his lips to speak, but his accents died away ere they were formed. this conflict lasted for some minutes, but his fortitude was finally successful. he spoke as follows: "i would fain put an end to this hateful scene: what i shall say, will be breath idly and unprofitably consumed. the clearest narrative will add nothing to your present knowledge. you are acquainted with the grounds of my opinion, and yet you avow yourself innocent: why then should i rehearse these grounds? you are apprized of the character of carwin: why then should i enumerate the discoveries which i have made respecting him? yet, since it is your request; since, considering the limitedness of human faculties, some error may possibly lurk in those appearances which i have witnessed, i will briefly relate what i know. "need i dwell upon the impressions which your conversation and deportment originally made upon me? we parted in childhood; but our intercourse, by letter, was copious and uninterrupted. how fondly did i anticipate a meeting with one whom her letters had previously taught me to consider as the first of women, and how fully realized were the expectations that i had formed! "here, said i, is a being, after whom sages may model their transcendent intelligence, and painters, their ideal beauty. here is exemplified, that union between intellect and form, which has hitherto existed only in the conceptions of the poet. i have watched your eyes; my attention has hung upon your lips. i have questioned whether the enchantments of your voice were more conspicuous in the intricacies of melody, or the emphasis of rhetoric. i have marked the transitions of your discourse, the felicities of your expression, your refined argumentation, and glowing imagery; and been forced to acknowledge, that all delights were meagre and contemptible, compared with those connected with the audience and sight of you. i have contemplated your principles, and been astonished at the solidity of their foundation, and the perfection of their structure. i have traced you to your home. i have viewed you in relation to your servants, to your family, to your neighbours, and to the world. i have seen by what skilful arrangements you facilitate the performance of the most arduous and complicated duties; what daily accessions of strength your judicious discipline bestowed upon your memory; what correctness and abundance of knowledge was daily experienced by your unwearied application to books, and to writing. if she that possesses so much in the bloom of youth, will go on accumulating her stores, what, said i, is the picture she will display at a mature age? "you know not the accuracy of my observation. i was desirous that others should profit by an example so rare. i therefore noted down, in writing, every particular of your conduct. i was anxious to benefit by an opportunity so seldom afforded us. i laboured not to omit the slightest shade, or the most petty line in your portrait. here there was no other task incumbent on me but to copy; there was no need to exaggerate or overlook, in order to produce a more unexceptionable pattern. here was a combination of harmonies and graces, incapable of diminution or accession without injury to its completeness. "i found no end and no bounds to my task. no display of a scene like this could be chargeable with redundancy or superfluity. even the colour of a shoe, the knot of a ribband, or your attitude in plucking a rose, were of moment to be recorded. even the arrangements of your breakfast-table and your toilet have been amply displayed. "i know that mankind are more easily enticed to virtue by example than by precept. i know that the absoluteness of a model, when supplied by invention, diminishes its salutary influence, since it is useless, we think, to strive after that which we know to be beyond our reach. but the picture which i drew was not a phantom; as a model, it was devoid of imperfection; and to aspire to that height which had been really attained, was by no means unreasonable. i had another and more interesting object in view. one existed who claimed all my tenderness. here, in all its parts, was a model worthy of assiduous study, and indefatigable imitation. i called upon her, as she wished to secure and enhance my esteem, to mould her thoughts, her words, her countenance, her actions, by this pattern. "the task was exuberant of pleasure, and i was deeply engaged in it, when an imp of mischief was let loose in the form of carwin. i admired his powers and accomplishments. i did not wonder that they were admired by you. on the rectitude of your judgement, however, i relied to keep this admiration within discreet and scrupulous bounds. i assured myself, that the strangeness of his deportment, and the obscurity of his life, would teach you caution. of all errors, my knowledge of your character informed me that this was least likely to befall you. "you were powerfully affected by his first appearance; you were bewitched by his countenance and his tones; your description was ardent and pathetic: i listened to you with some emotions of surprize. the portrait you drew in his absence, and the intensity with which you mused upon it, were new and unexpected incidents. they bespoke a sensibility somewhat too vivid; but from which, while subjected to the guidance of an understanding like yours, there was nothing to dread. "a more direct intercourse took place between you. i need not apologize for the solicitude which i entertained for your safety. he that gifted me with perception of excellence, compelled me to love it. in the midst of danger and pain, my contemplations have ever been cheered by your image. every object in competition with you, was worthless and trivial. no price was too great by which your safety could be purchased. for that end, the sacrifice of ease, of health, and even of life, would cheerfully have been made by me. what wonder then, that i scrutinized the sentiments and deportment of this man with ceaseless vigilance; that i watched your words and your looks when he was present; and that i extracted cause for the deepest inquietudes, from every token which you gave of having put your happiness into this man's keeping? "i was cautious in deciding. i recalled the various conversations in which the topics of love and marriage had been discussed. as a woman, young, beautiful, and independent, it behoved you to have fortified your mind with just principles on this subject. your principles were eminently just. had not their rectitude and their firmness been attested by your treatment of that specious seducer dashwood? these principles, i was prone to believe, exempted you from danger in this new state of things. i was not the last to pay my homage to the unrivalled capacity, insinuation, and eloquence of this man. i have disguised, but could never stifle the conviction, that his eyes and voice had a witchcraft in them, which rendered him truly formidable: but i reflected on the ambiguous expression of his countenance--an ambiguity which you were the first to remark; on the cloud which obscured his character; and on the suspicious nature of that concealment which he studied; and concluded you to be safe. i denied the obvious construction to appearances. i referred your conduct to some principle which had not been hitherto disclosed, but which was reconcileable with those already known. "i was not suffered to remain long in this suspence. one evening, you may recollect, i came to your house, where it was my purpose, as usual, to lodge, somewhat earlier than ordinary. i spied a light in your chamber as i approached from the outside, and on inquiring of judith, was informed that you were writing. as your kinsman and friend, and fellow-lodger, i thought i had a right to be familiar. you were in your chamber, but your employment and the time were such as to make it no infraction of decorum to follow you thither. the spirit of mischievous gaiety possessed me. i proceeded on tiptoe. you did not perceive my entrance; and i advanced softly till i was able to overlook your shoulder. "i had gone thus far in error, and had no power to recede. how cautiously should we guard against the first inroads of temptation! i knew that to pry into your papers was criminal; but i reflected that no sentiment of yours was of a nature which made it your interest to conceal it. you wrote much more than you permitted your friends to peruse. my curiosity was strong, and i had only to throw a glance upon the paper, to secure its gratification. i should never have deliberately committed an act like this. the slightest obstacle would have repelled me; but my eye glanced almost spontaneously upon the paper. i caught only parts of sentences; but my eyes comprehended more at a glance, because the characters were short-hand. i lighted on the words summer-house, midnight, and made out a passage which spoke of the propriety and of the effects to be expected from another interview. all this passed in less than a moment. i then checked myself, and made myself known to you, by a tap upon your shoulder. "i could pardon and account for some trifling alarm; but your trepidation and blushes were excessive. you hurried the paper out of sight, and seemed too anxious to discover whether i knew the contents to allow yourself to make any inquiries. i wondered at these appearances of consternation, but did not reason on them until i had retired. when alone, these incidents suggested themselves to my reflections anew. "to what scene, or what interview, i asked, did you allude? your disappearance on a former evening, my tracing you to the recess in the bank, your silence on my first and second call, your vague answers and invincible embarrassment, when you, at length, ascended the hill, i recollected with new surprize. could this be the summerhouse alluded to? a certain timidity and consciousness had generally attended you, when this incident and this recess had been the subjects of conversation. nay, i imagined that the last time that adventure was mentioned, which happened in the presence of carwin, the countenance of the latter betrayed some emotion. could the interview have been with him? "this was an idea calculated to rouse every faculty to contemplation. an interview at that hour, in this darksome retreat, with a man of this mysterious but formidable character; a clandestine interview, and one which you afterwards endeavoured with so much solicitude to conceal! it was a fearful and portentous occurrence. i could not measure his power, or fathom his designs. had he rifled from you the secret of your love, and reconciled you to concealment and noctural meetings? i scarcely ever spent a night of more inquietude. "i knew not how to act. the ascertainment of this man's character and views seemed to be, in the first place, necessary. had he openly preferred his suit to you, we should have been impowered to make direct inquiries; but since he had chosen this obscure path, it seemed reasonable to infer that his character was exceptionable. it, at least, subjected us to the necessity of resorting to other means of information. yet the improbability that you should commit a deed of such rashness, made me reflect anew upon the insufficiency of those grounds on which my suspicions had been built, and almost to condemn myself for harbouring them. "though it was mere conjecture that the interview spoken of had taken place with carwin, yet two ideas occurred to involve me in the most painful doubts. this man's reasonings might be so specious, and his artifices so profound, that, aided by the passion which you had conceived for him, he had finally succeeded; or his situation might be such as to justify the secrecy which you maintained. in neither case did my wildest reveries suggest to me, that your honor had been forfeited. "i could not talk with you on this subject. if the imputation was false, its atrociousness would have justly drawn upon me your resentment, and i must have explained by what facts it had been suggested. if it were true, no benefit would follow from the mention of it. you had chosen to conceal it for some reasons, and whether these reasons were true or false, it was proper to discover and remove them in the first place. finally, i acquiesced in the least painful supposition, trammelled as it was with perplexities, that carwin was upright, and that, if the reasons of your silence were known, they would be found to be just." chapter xiv "three days have elapsed since this occurrence. i have been haunted by perpetual inquietude. to bring myself to regard carwin without terror, and to acquiesce in the belief of your safety, was impossible. yet to put an end to my doubts, seemed to be impracticable. if some light could be reflected on the actual situation of this man, a direct path would present itself. if he were, contrary to the tenor of his conversation, cunning and malignant, to apprize you of this, would be to place you in security. if he were merely unfortunate and innocent, most readily would i espouse his cause; and if his intentions were upright with regard to you, most eagerly would i sanctify your choice by my approbation. "it would be vain to call upon carwin for an avowal of his deeds. it was better to know nothing, than to be deceived by an artful tale. what he was unwilling to communicate, and this unwillingness had been repeatedly manifested, could never be extorted from him. importunity might be appeased, or imposture effected by fallacious representations. to the rest of the world he was unknown. i had often made him the subject of discourse; but a glimpse of his figure in the street was the sum of their knowledge who knew most. none had ever seen him before, and received as new, the information which my intercourse with him in valencia, and my present intercourse, enabled me to give. "wieland was your brother. if he had really made you the object of his courtship, was not a brother authorized to interfere and demand from him the confession of his views? yet what were the grounds on which i had reared this supposition? would they justify a measure like this? surely not. "in the course of my restless meditations, it occurred to me, at length, that my duty required me to speak to you, to confess the indecorum of which i had been guilty, and to state the reflections to which it had led me. i was prompted by no mean or selfish views. the heart within my breast was not more precious than your safety: most cheerfully would i have interposed my life between you and danger. would you cherish resentment at my conduct? when acquainted with the motive which produced it, it would not only exempt me from censure, but entitle me to gratitude. "yesterday had been selected for the rehearsal of the newly-imported tragedy. i promised to be present. the state of my thoughts but little qualified me for a performer or auditor in such a scene; but i reflected that, after it was finished, i should return home with you, and should then enjoy an opportunity of discoursing with you fully on this topic. my resolution was not formed without a remnant of doubt, as to its propriety. when i left this house to perform the visit i had promised, my mind was full of apprehension and despondency. the dubiousness of the event of our conversation, fear that my interference was too late to secure your peace, and the uncertainty to which hope gave birth, whether i had not erred in believing you devoted to this man, or, at least, in imagining that he had obtained your consent to midnight conferences, distracted me with contradictory opinions, and repugnant emotions. "i can assign no reason for calling at mrs. baynton's. i had seen her in the morning, and knew her to be well. the concerted hour had nearly arrived, and yet i turned up the street which leads to her house, and dismounted at her door. i entered the parlour and threw myself in a chair. i saw and inquired for no one. my whole frame was overpowered by dreary and comfortless sensations. one idea possessed me wholly; the inexpressible importance of unveiling the designs and character of carwin, and the utter improbability that this ever would be effected. some instinct induced me to lay my hand upon a newspaper. i had perused all the general intelligence it contained in the morning, and at the same spot. the act was rather mechanical than voluntary. "i threw a languid glance at the first column that presented itself. the first words which i read, began with the offer of a reward of three hundred guineas for the apprehension of a convict under sentence of death, who had escaped from newgate prison in dublin. good heaven! how every fibre of my frame tingled when i proceeded to read that the name of the criminal was francis carwin! "the descriptions of his person and address were minute. his stature, hair, complexion, the extraordinary position and arrangement of his features, his aukward and disproportionate form, his gesture and gait, corresponded perfectly with those of our mysterious visitant. he had been found guilty in two indictments. one for the murder of the lady jane conway, and the other for a robbery committed on the person of the honorable mr. ludloe. "i repeatedly perused this passage. the ideas which flowed in upon my mind, affected me like an instant transition from death to life. the purpose dearest to my heart was thus effected, at a time and by means the least of all others within the scope of my foresight. but what purpose? carwin was detected. acts of the blackest and most sordid guilt had been committed by him. here was evidence which imparted to my understanding the most luminous certainty. the name, visage, and deportment, were the same. between the time of his escape, and his appearance among us, there was a sufficient agreement. such was the man with whom i suspected you to maintain a clandestine correspondence. should i not haste to snatch you from the talons of this vulture? should i see you rushing to the verge of a dizzy precipice, and not stretch forth a hand to pull you back? i had no need to deliberate. i thrust the paper in my pocket, and resolved to obtain an immediate conference with you. for a time, no other image made its way to my understanding. at length, it occurred to me, that though the information i possessed was, in one sense, sufficient, yet if more could be obtained, more was desirable. this passage was copied from a british paper; part of it only, perhaps, was transcribed. the printer was in possession of the original. "towards his house i immediately turned my horse's head. he produced the paper, but i found nothing more than had already been seen. while busy in perusing it, the printer stood by my side. he noticed the object of which i was in search. "aye," said he, "that is a strange affair. i should never have met with it, had not mr. hallet sent to me the paper, with a particular request to republish that advertisement." "mr. hallet! what reasons could he have for making this request? had the paper sent to him been accompanied by any information respecting the convict? had he personal or extraordinary reasons for desiring its republication? this was to be known only in one way. i speeded to his house. in answer to my interrogations, he told me that ludloe had formerly been in america, and that during his residence in this city, considerable intercourse had taken place between them. hence a confidence arose, which has since been kept alive by occasional letters. he had lately received a letter from him, enclosing the newspaper from which this extract had been made. he put it into my hands, and pointed out the passages which related to carwin. "ludloe confirms the facts of his conviction and escape; and adds, that he had reason to believe him to have embarked for america. he describes him in general terms, as the most incomprehensible and formidable among men; as engaged in schemes, reasonably suspected to be, in the highest degree, criminal, but such as no human intelligence is able to unravel: that his ends are pursued by means which leave it in doubt whether he be not in league with some infernal spirit: that his crimes have hitherto been perpetrated with the aid of some unknown but desperate accomplices: that he wages a perpetual war against the happiness of mankind, and sets his engines of destruction at work against every object that presents itself. "this is the substance of the letter. hallet expressed some surprize at the curiosity which was manifested by me on this occasion. i was too much absorbed by the ideas suggested by this letter, to pay attention to his remarks. i shuddered with the apprehension of the evil to which our indiscreet familiarity with this man had probably exposed us. i burnt with impatience to see you, and to do what in me lay to avert the calamity which threatened us. it was already five o'clock. night was hastening, and there was no time to be lost. on leaving mr. hallet's house, who should meet me in the street, but bertrand, the servant whom i left in germany. his appearance and accoutrements bespoke him to have just alighted from a toilsome and long journey. i was not wholly without expectation of seeing him about this time, but no one was then more distant from my thoughts. you know what reasons i have for anxiety respecting scenes with which this man was conversant. carwin was for a moment forgotten. in answer to my vehement inquiries, bertrand produced a copious packet. i shall not at present mention its contents, nor the measures which they obliged me to adopt. i bestowed a brief perusal on these papers, and having given some directions to bertrand, resumed my purpose with regard to you. my horse i was obliged to resign to my servant, he being charged with a commission that required speed. the clock had struck ten, and mettingen was five miles distant. i was to journey thither on foot. these circumstances only added to my expedition. "as i passed swiftly along, i reviewed all the incidents accompanying the appearance and deportment of that man among us. late events have been inexplicable and mysterious beyond any of which i have either read or heard. these events were coeval with carwin's introduction. i am unable to explain their origin and mutual dependance; but i do not, on that account, believe them to have a supernatural origin. is not this man the agent? some of them seem to be propitious; but what should i think of those threats of assassination with which you were lately alarmed? bloodshed is the trade, and horror is the element of this man. the process by which the sympathies of nature are extinguished in our hearts, by which evil is made our good, and by which we are made susceptible of no activity but in the infliction, and no joy but in the spectacle of woes, is an obvious process. as to an alliance with evil geniuses, the power and the malice of daemons have been a thousand times exemplified in human beings. there are no devils but those which are begotten upon selfishness, and reared by cunning. "now, indeed, the scene was changed. it was not his secret poniard that i dreaded. it was only the success of his efforts to make you a confederate in your own destruction, to make your will the instrument by which he might bereave you of liberty and honor. "i took, as usual, the path through your brother's ground. i ranged with celerity and silence along the bank. i approached the fence, which divides wieland's estate from yours. the recess in the bank being near this line, it being necessary for me to pass near it, my mind being tainted with inveterate suspicions concerning you; suspicions which were indebted for their strength to incidents connected with this spot; what wonder that it seized upon my thoughts! "i leaped on the fence; but before i descended on the opposite side, i paused to survey the scene. leaves dropping with dew, and glistening in the moon's rays, with no moving object to molest the deep repose, filled me with security and hope. i left the station at length, and tended forward. you were probably at rest. how should i communicate without alarming you, the intelligence of my arrival? an immediate interview was to be procured. i could not bear to think that a minute should be lost by remissness or hesitation. should i knock at the door? or should i stand under your chamber windows, which i perceived to be open, and awaken you by my calls? "these reflections employed me, as i passed opposite to the summer-house. i had scarcely gone by, when my ear caught a sound unusual at this time and place. it was almost too faint and too transient to allow me a distinct perception of it. i stopped to listen; presently it was heard again, and now it was somewhat in a louder key. it was laughter; and unquestionably produced by a female voice. that voice was familiar to my senses. it was yours. "whence it came, i was at first at a loss to conjecture; but this uncertainty vanished when it was heard the third time. i threw back my eyes towards the recess. every other organ and limb was useless to me. i did not reason on the subject. i did not, in a direct manner, draw my conclusions from the hour, the place, the hilarity which this sound betokened, and the circumstance of having a companion, which it no less incontestably proved. in an instant, as it were, my heart was invaded with cold, and the pulses of life at a stand. "why should i go further? why should i return? should i not hurry to a distance from a sound, which, though formerly so sweet and delectable, was now more hideous than the shrieks of owls? "i had no time to yield to this impulse. the thought of approaching and listening occurred to me. i had no doubt of which i was conscious. yet my certainty was capable of increase. i was likewise stimulated by a sentiment that partook of rage. i was governed by an half-formed and tempestuous resolution to break in upon your interview, and strike you dead with my upbraiding. "i approached with the utmost caution. when i reached the edge of the bank immediately above the summer-house, i thought i heard voices from below, as busy in conversation. the steps in the rock are clear of bushy impediments. they allowed me to descend into a cavity beside the building without being detected. thus to lie in wait could only be justified by the momentousness of the occasion." here pleyel paused in his narrative, and fixed his eyes upon me. situated as i was, my horror and astonishment at this tale gave way to compassion for the anguish which the countenance of my friend betrayed. i reflected on his force of understanding. i reflected on the powers of my enemy. i could easily divine the substance of the conversation that was overheard. carwin had constructed his plot in a manner suited to the characters of those whom he had selected for his victims. i saw that the convictions of pleyel were immutable. i forbore to struggle against the storm, because i saw that all struggles would be fruitless. i was calm; but my calmness was the torpor of despair, and not the tranquillity of fortitude. it was calmness invincible by any thing that his grief and his fury could suggest to pleyel. he resumed-"woman! wilt thou hear me further? shall i go on to repeat the conversation? is it shame that makes thee tongue-tied? shall i go on? or art thou satisfied with what has been already said?" i bowed my head. "go on," said i. "i make not this request in the hope of undeceiving you. i shall no longer contend with my own weakness. the storm is let loose, and i shall peaceably submit to be driven by its fury. but go on. this conference will end only with affording me a clearer foresight of my destiny; but that will be some satisfaction, and i will not part without it." why, on hearing these words, did pleyel hesitate? did some unlooked-for doubt insinuate itself into his mind? was his belief suddenly shaken by my looks, or my words, or by some newly recollected circumstance? whencesoever it arose, it could not endure the test of deliberation. in a few minutes the flame of resentment was again lighted up in his bosom. he proceeded with his accustomed vehemence-"i hate myself for this folly. i can find no apology for this tale. yet i am irresistibly impelled to relate it. she that hears me is apprized of every particular. i have only to repeat to her her own words. she will listen with a tranquil air, and the spectacle of her obduracy will drive me to some desperate act. why then should i persist! yet persist i must." again he paused. "no," said he, "it is impossible to repeat your avowals of love, your appeals to former confessions of your tenderness, to former deeds of dishonor, to the circumstances of the first interview that took place between you. it was on that night when i traced you to this recess. thither had he enticed you, and there had you ratified an unhallowed compact by admitting him-"great god! thou witnessedst the agonies that tore my bosom at that moment! thou witnessedst my efforts to repel the testimony of my ears! it was in vain that you dwelt upon the confusion which my unlooked-for summons excited in you; the tardiness with which a suitable excuse occurred to you; your resentment that my impertinent intrusion had put an end to that charming interview: a disappointment for which you endeavoured to compensate yourself, by the frequency and duration of subsequent meetings. "in vain you dwelt upon incidents of which you only could be conscious; incidents that occurred on occasions on which none beside your own family were witnesses. in vain was your discourse characterized by peculiarities inimitable of sentiment and language. my conviction was effected only by an accumulation of the same tokens. i yielded not but to evidence which took away the power to withhold my faith. "my sight was of no use to me. beneath so thick an umbrage, the darkness was intense. hearing was the only avenue to information, which the circumstances allowed to be open. i was couched within three feet of you. why should i approach nearer? i could not contend with your betrayer. what could be the purpose of a contest? you stood in no need of a protector. what could i do, but retire from the spot overwhelmed with confusion and dismay? i sought my chamber, and endeavoured to regain my composure. the door of the house, which i found open, your subsequent entrance, closing, and fastening it, and going into your chamber, which had been thus long deserted, were only confirmations of the truth. "why should i paint the tempestuous fluctuation of my thoughts between grief and revenge, between rage and despair? why should i repeat my vows of eternal implacability and persecution, and the speedy recantation of these vows? "i have said enough. you have dismissed me from a place in your esteem. what i think, and what i feel, is of no importance in your eyes. may the duty which i owe myself enable me to forget your existence. in a few minutes i go hence. be the maker of your fortune, and may adversity instruct you in that wisdom, which education was unable to impart to you." those were the last words which pleyel uttered. he left the room, and my new emotions enabled me to witness his departure without any apparent loss of composure. as i sat alone, i ruminated on these incidents. nothing was more evident than that i had taken an eternal leave of happiness. life was a worthless thing, separate from that good which had now been wrested from me; yet the sentiment that now possessed me had no tendency to palsy my exertions, and overbear my strength. i noticed that the light was declining, and perceived the propriety of leaving this house. i placed myself again in the chaise, and returned slowly towards the city. chapter xv before i reached the city it was dusk. it was my purpose to spend the night at mettingen. i was not solicitous, as long as i was attended by a faithful servant, to be there at an early hour. my exhausted strength required me to take some refreshment. with this view, and in order to pay respect to one whose affection for me was truly maternal, i stopped at mrs. baynton's. she was absent from home; but i had scarcely entered the house when one of her domestics presented me a letter. i opened and read as follows: "to clara wieland, "what shall i say to extenuate the misconduct of last night? it is my duty to repair it to the utmost of my power, but the only way in which it can be repaired, you will not, i fear, be prevailed on to adopt. it is by granting me an interview, at your own house, at eleven o'clock this night. i have no means of removing any fears that you may entertain of my designs, but my simple and solemn declarations. these, after what has passed between us, you may deem unworthy of confidence. i cannot help it. my folly and rashness has left me no other resource. i will be at your door by that hour. if you chuse to admit me to a conference, provided that conference has no witnesses, i will disclose to you particulars, the knowledge of which is of the utmost importance to your happiness. farewell. "carwin." what a letter was this! a man known to be an assassin and robber; one capable of plotting against my life and my fame; detected lurking in my chamber, and avowing designs the most flagitious and dreadful, now solicits me to grant him a midnight interview! to admit him alone into my presence! could he make this request with the expectation of my compliance? what had he seen in me, that could justify him in admitting so wild a belief? yet this request is preferred with the utmost gravity. it is not accompanied by an appearance of uncommon earnestness. had the misconduct to which he alludes been a slight incivility, and the interview requested to take place in the midst of my friends, there would have been no extravagance in the tenor of this letter; but, as it was, the writer had surely been bereft of his reason. i perused this epistle frequently. the request it contained might be called audacious or stupid, if it had been made by a different person; but from carwin, who could not be unaware of the effect which it must naturally produce, and of the manner in which it would unavoidably be treated, it was perfectly inexplicable. he must have counted on the success of some plot, in order to extort my assent. none of those motives by which i am usually governed would ever have persuaded me to meet any one of his sex, at the time and place which he had prescribed. much less would i consent to a meeting with a man, tainted with the most detestable crimes, and by whose arts my own safety had been so imminently endangered, and my happiness irretrievably destroyed. i shuddered at the idea that such a meeting was possible. i felt some reluctance to approach a spot which he still visited and haunted. such were the ideas which first suggested themselves on the perusal of the letter. meanwhile, i resumed my journey. my thoughts still dwelt upon the same topic. gradually from ruminating on this epistle, i reverted to my interview with pleyel. i recalled the particulars of the dialogue to which he had been an auditor. my heart sunk anew on viewing the inextricable complexity of this deception, and the inauspicious concurrence of events, which tended to confirm him in his error. when he approached my chamber door, my terror kept me mute. he put his ear, perhaps, to the crevice, but it caught the sound of nothing human. had i called, or made any token that denoted some one to be within, words would have ensued; and as omnipresence was impossible, this discovery, and the artless narrative of what had just passed, would have saved me from his murderous invectives. he went into his chamber, and after some interval, i stole across the entry and down the stairs, with inaudible steps. having secured the outer doors, i returned with less circumspection. he heard me not when i descended; but my returning steps were easily distinguished. now he thought was the guilty interview at an end. in what other way was it possible for him to construe these signals? how fallacious and precipitate was my decision! carwin's plot owed its success to a coincidence of events scarcely credible. the balance was swayed from its equipoise by a hair. had i even begun the conversation with an account of what befel me in my chamber, my previous interview with wieland would have taught him to suspect me of imposture; yet, if i were discoursing with this ruffian, when pleyel touched the lock of my chamber door, and when he shut his own door with so much violence, how, he might ask, should i be able to relate these incidents? perhaps he had withheld the knowledge of these circumstances from my brother, from whom, therefore, i could not obtain it, so that my innocence would have thus been irresistibly demonstrated. the first impulse which flowed from these ideas was to return upon my steps, and demand once more an interview; but he was gone: his parting declarations were remembered. pleyel, i exclaimed, thou art gone for ever! are thy mistakes beyond the reach of detection? am i helpless in the midst of this snare? the plotter is at hand. he even speaks in the style of penitence. he solicits an interview which he promises shall end in the disclosure of something momentous to my happiness. what can he say which will avail to turn aside this evil? but why should his remorse be feigned? i have done him no injury. his wickedness is fertile only of despair; and the billows of remorse will some time overbear him. why may not this event have already taken place? why should i refuse to see him? this idea was present, as it were, for a moment. i suddenly recoiled from it, confounded at that frenzy which could give even momentary harbour to such a scheme; yet presently it returned. at length i even conceived it to deserve deliberation. i questioned whether it was not proper to admit, at a lonely spot, in a sacred hour, this man of tremendous and inscrutable attributes, this performer of horrid deeds, and whose presence was predicted to call down unheard-of and unutterable horrors. what was it that swayed me? i felt myself divested of the power to will contrary to the motives that determined me to seek his presence. my mind seemed to be split into separate parts, and these parts to have entered into furious and implacable contention. these tumults gradually subsided. the reasons why i should confide in that interposition which had hitherto defended me; in those tokens of compunction which this letter contained; in the efficacy of this interview to restore its spotlessness to my character, and banish all illusions from the mind of my friend, continually acquired new evidence and new strength. what should i fear in his presence? this was unlike an artifice intended to betray me into his hands. if it were an artifice, what purpose would it serve? the freedom of my mind was untouched, and that freedom would defy the assaults of blandishments or magic. force was i not able to repel. on the former occasion my courage, it is true, had failed at the imminent approach of danger; but then i had not enjoyed opportunities of deliberation; i had foreseen nothing; i was sunk into imbecility by my previous thoughts; i had been the victim of recent disappointments and anticipated ills: witness my infatuation in opening the closet in opposition to divine injunctions. now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a no less erring principle. pleyel was for ever lost to me. i strove in vain to assume his person, and suppress my resentment; i strove in vain to believe in the assuaging influence of time, to look forward to the birth-day of new hopes, and the re-exaltation of that luminary, of whose effulgencies i had so long and so liberally partaken. what had i to suffer worse than was already inflicted? was not carwin my foe? i owed my untimely fate to his treason. instead of flying from his presence, ought i not to devote all my faculties to the gaining of an interview, and compel him to repair the ills of which he has been the author? why should i suppose him impregnable to argument? have i not reason on my side, and the power of imparting conviction? cannot he be made to see the justice of unravelling the maze in which pleyel is bewildered? he may, at least, be accessible to fear. has he nothing to fear from the rage of an injured woman? but suppose him inaccessible to such inducements; suppose him to persist in all his flagitious purposes; are not the means of defence and resistance in my power? in the progress of such thoughts, was the resolution at last formed. i hoped that the interview was sought by him for a laudable end; but, be that as it would, i trusted that, by energy of reasoning or of action, i should render it auspicious, or, at least, harmless. such a determination must unavoidably fluctuate. the poet's chaos was no unapt emblem of the state of my mind. a torment was awakened in my bosom, which i foresaw would end only when this interview was past, and its consequences fully experienced. hence my impatience for the arrival of the hour which had been prescribed by carwin. meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active. new impediments to the execution of the scheme were speedily suggested. i had apprized catharine of my intention to spend this and many future nights with her. her husband was informed of this arrangement, and had zealously approved it. eleven o'clock exceeded their hour of retiring. what excuse should i form for changing my plan? should i shew this letter to wieland, and submit myself to his direction? but i knew in what way he would decide. he would fervently dissuade me from going. nay, would he not do more? he was apprized of the offences of carwin, and of the reward offered for his apprehension. would he not seize this opportunity of executing justice on a criminal? this idea was new. i was plunged once more into doubt. did not equity enjoin me thus to facilitate his arrest? no. i disdained the office of betrayer. carwin was unapprized of his danger, and his intentions were possibly beneficent. should i station guards about the house, and make an act, intended perhaps for my benefit, instrumental to his own destruction? wieland might be justified in thus employing the knowledge which i should impart, but i, by imparting it, should pollute myself with more hateful crimes than those undeservedly imputed to me. this scheme, therefore, i unhesitatingly rejected. the views with which i should return to my own house, it would therefore be necessary to conceal. yet some pretext must be invented. i had never been initiated into the trade of lying. yet what but falshood was a deliberate suppression of the truth? to deceive by silence or by words is the same. yet what would a lie avail me? what pretext would justify this change in my plan? would it not tend to confirm the imputations of pleyel? that i should voluntarily return to an house in which honor and life had so lately been endangered, could be explained in no way favorable to my integrity. these reflections, if they did not change, at least suspended my decision. in this state of uncertainty i alighted at the hut. we gave this name to the house tenanted by the farmer and his servants, and which was situated on the verge of my brother's ground, and at a considerable distance from the mansion. the path to the mansion was planted by a double row of walnuts. along this path i proceeded alone. i entered the parlour, in which was a light just expiring in the socket. there was no one in the room. i perceived by the clock that stood against the wall, that it was near eleven. the lateness of the hour startled me. what had become of the family? they were usually retired an hour before this; but the unextinguished taper, and the unbarred door were indications that they had not retired. i again returned to the hall, and passed from one room to another, but still encountered not a human being. i imagined that, perhaps, the lapse of a few minutes would explain these appearances. meanwhile i reflected that the preconcerted hour had arrived. carwin was perhaps waiting my approach. should i immediately retire to my own house, no one would be apprized of my proceeding. nay, the interview might pass, and i be enabled to return in half an hour. hence no necessity would arise for dissimulation. i was so far influenced by these views that i rose to execute this design; but again the unusual condition of the house occurred to me, and some vague solicitude as to the condition of the family. i was nearly certain that my brother had not retired; but by what motives he could be induced to desert his house thus unseasonably i could by no means divine. louisa conway, at least, was at home and had, probably, retired to her chamber; perhaps she was able to impart the information i wanted. i went to her chamber, and found her asleep. she was delighted and surprized at my arrival, and told me with how much impatience and anxiety my brother and his wife had waited my coming. they were fearful that some mishap had befallen me, and had remained up longer than the usual period. notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, catharine would not resign the hope of seeing me. louisa said she had left them both in the parlour, and she knew of no cause for their absence. as yet i was not without solicitude on account of their personal safety. i was far from being perfectly at ease on that head, but entertained no distinct conception of the danger that impended over them. perhaps to beguile the moments of my long protracted stay, they had gone to walk upon the bank. the atmosphere, though illuminated only by the star-light, was remarkably serene. meanwhile the desirableness of an interview with carwin again returned, and i finally resolved to seek it. i passed with doubting and hasty steps along the path. my dwelling, seen at a distance, was gloomy and desolate. it had no inhabitant, for my servant, in consequence of my new arrangement, had gone to mettingen. the temerity of this attempt began to shew itself in more vivid colours to my understanding. whoever has pointed steel is not without arms; yet what must have been the state of my mind when i could meditate, without shuddering, on the use of a murderous weapon, and believe myself secure merely because i was capable of being made so by the death of another? yet this was not my state. i felt as if i was rushing into deadly toils, without the power of pausing or receding. chapter xvi as soon as i arrived in sight of the front of the house, my attention was excited by a light from the window of my own chamber. no appearance could be less explicable. a meeting was expected with carwin, but that he pre-occupied my chamber, and had supplied himself with light, was not to be believed. what motive could influence him to adopt this conduct? could i proceed until this was explained? perhaps, if i should proceed to a distance in front, some one would be visible. a sidelong but feeble beam from the window, fell upon the piny copse which skirted the bank. as i eyed it, it suddenly became mutable, and after flitting to and fro, for a short time, it vanished. i turned my eye again toward the window, and perceived that the light was still there; but the change which i had noticed was occasioned by a change in the position of the lamp or candle within. hence, that some person was there was an unavoidable inference. i paused to deliberate on the propriety of advancing. might i not advance cautiously, and, therefore, without danger? might i not knock at the door, or call, and be apprized of the nature of my visitant before i entered? i approached and listened at the door, but could hear nothing. i knocked at first timidly, but afterwards with loudness. my signals were unnoticed. i stepped back and looked, but the light was no longer discernible. was it suddenly extinguished by a human agent? what purpose but concealment was intended? why was the illumination produced, to be thus suddenly brought to an end? and why, since some one was there, had silence been observed? these were questions, the solution of which may be readily supposed to be entangled with danger. would not this danger, when measured by a woman's fears, expand into gigantic dimensions? menaces of death; the stunning exertions of a warning voice; the known and unknown attributes of carwin; our recent interview in this chamber; the pre-appointment of a meeting at this place and hour, all thronged into my memory. what was to be done? courage is no definite or stedfast principle. let that man who shall purpose to assign motives to the actions of another, blush at his folly and forbear. not more presumptuous would it be to attempt the classification of all nature, and the scanning of supreme intelligence. i gazed for a minute at the window, and fixed my eyes, for a second minute, on the ground. i drew forth from my pocket, and opened, a penknife. this, said i, be my safe-guard and avenger. the assailant shall perish, or myself shall fall. i had locked up the house in the morning, but had the key of the kitchen door in my pocket. i, therefore, determined to gain access behind. thither i hastened, unlocked and entered. all was lonely, darksome, and waste. familiar as i was with every part of my dwelling, i easily found my way to a closet, drew forth a taper, a flint, tinder, and steel, and, in a moment as it were, gave myself the guidance and protection of light. what purpose did i meditate? should i explore my way to my chamber, and confront the being who had dared to intrude into this recess, and had laboured for concealment? by putting out the light did he seek to hide himself, or mean only to circumvent my incautious steps? yet was it not more probable that he desired my absence by thus encouraging the supposition that the house was unoccupied? i would see this man in spite of all impediments; ere i died, i would see his face, and summon him to penitence and retribution; no matter at what cost an interview was purchased. reputation and life might be wrested from me by another, but my rectitude and honor were in my own keeping, and were safe. i proceeded to the foot of the stairs. at such a crisis my thoughts may be supposed at no liberty to range; yet vague images rushed into my mind, of the mysterious interposition which had been experienced on the last night. my case, at present, was not dissimilar; and, if my angel were not weary of fruitless exertions to save, might not a new warning be expected? who could say whether his silence were ascribable to the absence of danger, or to his own absence? in this state of mind, no wonder that a shivering cold crept through my veins; that my pause was prolonged; and, that a fearful glance was thrown backward. alas! my heart droops, and my fingers are enervated; my ideas are vivid, but my language is faint: now know i what it is to entertain incommunicable sentiments. the chain of subsequent incidents is drawn through my mind, and being linked with those which forewent, by turns rouse up agonies and sink me into hopelessness. yet i will persist to the end. my narrative may be invaded by inaccuracy and confusion; but if i live no longer, i will, at least, live to complete it. what but ambiguities, abruptnesses, and dark transitions, can be expected from the historian who is, at the same time, the sufferer of these disasters? i have said that i cast a look behind. some object was expected to be seen, or why should i have gazed in that direction? two senses were at once assailed. the same piercing exclamation of hold! hold! was uttered within the same distance of my ear. this it was that i heard. the airy undulation, and the shock given to my nerves, were real. whether the spectacle which i beheld existed in my fancy or without, might be doubted. i had not closed the door of the apartment i had just left. the stair-case, at the foot of which i stood, was eight or ten feet from the door, and attached to the wall through which the door led. my view, therefore, was sidelong, and took in no part of the room. through this aperture was an head thrust and drawn back with so much swiftness, that the immediate conviction was, that thus much of a form, ordinarily invisible, had been unshrowded. the face was turned towards me. every muscle was tense; the forehead and brows were drawn into vehement expression; the lips were stretched as in the act of shrieking, and the eyes emitted sparks, which, no doubt, if i had been unattended by a light, would have illuminated like the coruscations of a meteor. the sound and the vision were present, and departed together at the same instant; but the cry was blown into my ear, while the face was many paces distant. this face was well suited to a being whose performances exceeded the standard of humanity, and yet its features were akin to those i had before seen. the image of carwin was blended in a thousand ways with the stream of my thoughts. this visage was, perhaps, pourtrayed by my fancy. if so, it will excite no surprize that some of his lineaments were now discovered. yet affinities were few and unconspicuous, and were lost amidst the blaze of opposite qualities. what conclusion could i form? be the face human or not, the intimation was imparted from above. experience had evinced the benignity of that being who gave it. once he had interposed to shield me from harm, and subsequent events demonstrated the usefulness of that interposition. now was i again warned to forbear. i was hurrying to the verge of the same gulf, and the same power was exerted to recall my steps. was it possible for me not to obey? was i capable of holding on in the same perilous career? yes. even of this i was capable! the intimation was imperfect: it gave no form to my danger, and prescribed no limits to my caution. i had formerly neglected it, and yet escaped. might i not trust to the same issue? this idea might possess, though imperceptibly, some influence. i persisted; but it was not merely on this account. i cannot delineate the motives that led me on. i now speak as if no remnant of doubt existed in my mind as to the supernal origin of these sounds; but this is owing to the imperfection of my language, for i only mean that the belief was more permanent, and visited more frequently my sober meditations than its opposite. the immediate effects served only to undermine the foundations of my judgment and precipitate my resolutions. i must either advance or return. i chose the former, and began to ascend the stairs. the silence underwent no second interruption. my chamber door was closed, but unlocked, and, aided by vehement efforts of my courage, i opened and looked in. no hideous or uncommon object was discernible. the danger, indeed, might easily have lurked out of sight, have sprung upon me as i entered, and have rent me with his iron talons; but i was blind to this fate, and advanced, though cautiously, into the room. still every thing wore its accustomed aspect. neither lamp nor candle was to be found. now, for the first time, suspicions were suggested as to the nature of the light which i had seen. was it possible to have been the companion of that supernatural visage; a meteorous refulgence producible at the will of him to whom that visage belonged, and partaking of the nature of that which accompanied my father's death? the closet was near, and i remembered the complicated horrors of which it had been productive. here, perhaps, was inclosed the source of my peril, and the gratification of my curiosity. should i adventure once more to explore its recesses? this was a resolution not easily formed. i was suspended in thought: when glancing my eye on a table, i perceived a written paper. carwin's hand was instantly recognized, and snatching up the paper, i read as follows:-"there was folly in expecting your compliance with my invitation. judge how i was disappointed in finding another in your place. i have waited, but to wait any longer would be perilous. i shall still seek an interview, but it must be at a different time and place: meanwhile, i will write this--how will you bear--how inexplicable will be this transaction!--an event so unexpected--a sight so horrible!" such was this abrupt and unsatisfactory script. the ink was yet moist, the hand was that of carwin. hence it was to be inferred that he had this moment left the apartment, or was still in it. i looked back, on the sudden expectation of seeing him behind me. what other did he mean? what transaction had taken place adverse to my expectations? what sight was about to be exhibited? i looked around me once more, but saw nothing which indicated strangeness. again i remembered the closet, and was resolved to seek in that the solution of these mysteries. here, perhaps, was inclosed the scene destined to awaken my horrors and baffle my foresight. i have already said, that the entrance into this closet was beside my bed, which, on two sides, was closely shrowded by curtains. on that side nearest the closet, the curtain was raised. as i passed along i cast my eye thither. i started, and looked again. i bore a light in my hand, and brought it nearer my eyes, in order to dispel any illusive mists that might have hovered before them. once more i fixed my eyes upon the bed, in hope that this more stedfast scrutiny would annihilate the object which before seemed to be there. this then was the sight which carwin had predicted! this was the event which my understanding was to find inexplicable! this was the fate which had been reserved for me, but which, by some untoward chance, had befallen on another! i had not been terrified by empty menaces. violation and death awaited my entrance into this chamber. some inscrutable chance had led her hither before me, and the merciless fangs of which i was designed to be the prey, had mistaken their victim, and had fixed themselves in her heart. but where was my safety? was the mischief exhausted or flown? the steps of the assassin had just been here; they could not be far off; in a moment he would rush into my presence, and i should perish under the same polluting and suffocating grasp! my frame shook, and my knees were unable to support me. i gazed alternately at the closet door and at the door of my room. at one of these avenues would enter the exterminator of my honor and my life. i was prepared for defence; but now that danger was imminent, my means of defence, and my power to use them were gone. i was not qualified, by education and experience, to encounter perils like these: or, perhaps, i was powerless because i was again assaulted by surprize, and had not fortified my mind by foresight and previous reflection against a scene like this. fears for my own safety again yielded place to reflections on the scene before me. i fixed my eyes upon her countenance. my sister's well-known and beloved features could not be concealed by convulsion or lividness. what direful illusion led thee hither? bereft of thee, what hold on happiness remains to thy offspring and thy spouse? to lose thee by a common fate would have been sufficiently hard; but thus suddenly to perish--to become the prey of this ghastly death! how will a spectacle like this be endured by wieland? to die beneath his grasp would not satisfy thy enemy. this was mercy to the evils which he previously made thee suffer! after these evils death was a boon which thou besoughtest him to grant. he entertained no enmity against thee: i was the object of his treason; but by some tremendous mistake his fury was misplaced. but how comest thou hither? and where was wieland in thy hour of distress? i approached the corpse: i lifted the still flexible hand, and kissed the lips which were breathless. her flowing drapery was discomposed. i restored it to order, and seating myself on the bed, again fixed stedfast eyes upon her countenance. i cannot distinctly recollect the ruminations of that moment. i saw confusedly, but forcibly, that every hope was extinguished with the life of catharine. all happiness and dignity must henceforth be banished from the house and name of wieland: all that remained was to linger out in agonies a short existence; and leave to the world a monument of blasted hopes and changeable fortune. pleyel was already lost to me; yet, while catharine lived life was not a detestable possession: but now, severed from the companion of my infancy, the partaker of all my thoughts, my cares, and my wishes, i was like one set afloat upon a stormy sea, and hanging his safety upon a plank; night was closing upon him, and an unexpected surge had torn him from his hold and overwhelmed him forever. chapter xvii i had no inclination nor power to move from this spot. for more than an hour, my faculties and limbs seemed to be deprived of all activity. the door below creaked on its hinges, and steps ascended the stairs. my wandering and confused thoughts were instantly recalled by these sounds, and dropping the curtain of the bed, i moved to a part of the room where any one who entered should be visible; such are the vibrations of sentiment, that notwithstanding the seeming fulfilment of my fears, and increase of my danger, i was conscious, on this occasion, to no turbulence but that of curiosity. at length he entered the apartment, and i recognized my brother. it was the same wieland whom i had ever seen. yet his features were pervaded by a new expression. i supposed him unacquainted with the fate of his wife, and his appearance confirmed this persuasion. a brow expanding into exultation i had hitherto never seen in him, yet such a brow did he now wear. not only was he unapprized of the disaster that had happened, but some joyous occurrence had betided. what a reverse was preparing to annihilate his transitory bliss! no husband ever doated more fondly, for no wife ever claimed so boundless a devotion. i was not uncertain as to the effects to flow from the discovery of her fate. i confided not at all in the efforts of his reason or his piety. there were few evils which his modes of thinking would not disarm of their sting; but here, all opiates to grief, and all compellers of patience were vain. this spectacle would be unavoidably followed by the outrages of desperation, and a rushing to death. for the present, i neglected to ask myself what motive brought him hither. i was only fearful of the effects to flow from the sight of the dead. yet could it be long concealed from him? some time and speedily he would obtain this knowledge. no stratagems could considerably or usefully prolong his ignorance. all that could be sought was to take away the abruptness of the change, and shut out the confusion of despair, and the inroads of madness: but i knew my brother, and knew that all exertions to console him would be fruitless. what could i say? i was mute, and poured forth those tears on his account, which my own unhappiness had been unable to extort. in the midst of my tears, i was not unobservant of his motions. these were of a nature to rouse some other sentiment than grief or, at least, to mix with it a portion of astonishment. his countenance suddenly became troubled. his hands were clasped with a force that left the print of his nails in his flesh. his eyes were fixed on my feet. his brain seemed to swell beyond its continent. he did not cease to breathe, but his breath was stifled into groans. i had never witnessed the hurricane of human passions. my element had, till lately, been all sunshine and calm. i was unconversant with the altitudes and energies of sentiment, and was transfixed with inexplicable horror by the symptoms which i now beheld. after a silence and a conflict which i could not interpret, he lifted his eyes to heaven, and in broken accents exclaimed, "this is too much! any victim but this, and thy will be done. have i not sufficiently attested my faith and my obedience? she that is gone, they that have perished, were linked with my soul by ties which only thy command would have broken; but here is sanctity and excellence surpassing human. this workmanship is thine, and it cannot be thy will to heap it into ruins." here suddenly unclasping his hands, he struck one of them against his forehead, and continued--"wretch! who made thee quicksighted in the councils of thy maker? deliverance from mortal fetters is awarded to this being, and thou art the minister of this decree." so saying, wieland advanced towards me. his words and his motions were without meaning, except on one supposition. the death of catharine was already known to him, and that knowledge, as might have been suspected, had destroyed his reason. i had feared nothing less; but now that i beheld the extinction of a mind the most luminous and penetrating that ever dignified the human form, my sensations were fraught with new and insupportable anguish. i had not time to reflect in what way my own safety would be effected by this revolution, or what i had to dread from the wild conceptions of a madman. he advanced towards me. some hollow noises were wafted by the breeze. confused clamours were succeeded by many feet traversing the grass, and then crowding into the piazza. these sounds suspended my brother's purpose, and he stood to listen. the signals multiplied and grew louder; perceiving this, he turned from me, and hurried out of my sight. all about me was pregnant with motives to astonishment. my sister's corpse, wieland's frantic demeanour, and, at length, this crowd of visitants so little accorded with my foresight, that my mental progress was stopped. the impulse had ceased which was accustomed to give motion and order to my thoughts. footsteps thronged upon the stairs, and presently many faces shewed themselves within the door of my apartment. these looks were full of alarm and watchfulness. they pryed into corners as if in search of some fugitive; next their gaze was fixed upon me, and betokened all the vehemence of terror and pity. for a time i questioned whether these were not shapes and faces like that which i had seen at the bottom of the stairs, creatures of my fancy or airy existences. my eye wandered from one to another, till at length it fell on a countenance which i well knew. it was that of mr. hallet. this man was a distant kinsman of my mother, venerable for his age, his uprightness, and sagacity. he had long discharged the functions of a magistrate and good citizen. if any terrors remained, his presence was sufficient to dispel them. he approached, took my hand with a compassionate air, and said in a low voice, "where, my dear clara, are your brother and sister?" i made no answer, but pointed to the bed. his attendants drew aside the curtain, and while their eyes glared with horror at the spectacle which they beheld, those of mr. hallet overflowed with tears. after considerable pause, he once more turned to me. "my dear girl, this sight is not for you. can you confide in my care, and that of mrs. baynton's? we will see performed all that circumstances require." i made strenuous opposition to this request. i insisted on remaining near her till she were interred. his remonstrances, however, and my own feelings, shewed me the propriety of a temporary dereliction. louisa stood in need of a comforter, and my brother's children of a nurse. my unhappy brother was himself an object of solicitude and care. at length, i consented to relinquish the corpse, and go to my brother's, whose house, i said, would need mistress, and his children a parent. during this discourse, my venerable friend struggled with his tears, but my last intimation called them forth with fresh violence. meanwhile, his attendants stood round in mournful silence, gazing on me and at each other. i repeated my resolution, and rose to execute it; but he took my hand to detain me. his countenance betrayed irresolution and reluctance. i requested him to state the reason of his opposition to this measure. i entreated him to be explicit. i told him that my brother had just been there, and that i knew his condition. this misfortune had driven him to madness, and his offspring must not want a protector. if he chose, i would resign wieland to his care; but his innocent and helpless babes stood in instant need of nurse and mother, and these offices i would by no means allow another to perform while i had life. every word that i uttered seemed to augment his perplexity and distress. at last he said, "i think, clara, i have entitled myself to some regard from you. you have professed your willingness to oblige me. now i call upon you to confer upon me the highest obligation in your power. permit mrs. baynton to have the management of your brother's house for two or three days; then it shall be yours to act in it as you please. no matter what are my motives in making this request: perhaps i think your age, your sex, or the distress which this disaster must occasion, incapacitates you for the office. surely you have no doubt of mrs. baynton's tenderness or discretion." new ideas now rushed into my mind. i fixed my eyes stedfastly on mr. hallet. "are they well?" said i. "is louisa well? are benjamin, and william, and constantine, and little clara, are they safe? tell me truly, i beseech you!" "they are well," he replied; "they are perfectly safe." "fear no effeminate weakness in me: i can bear to hear the truth. tell me truly, are they well?" he again assured me that they were well. "what then," resumed i, "do you fear? is it possible for any calamity to disqualify me for performing my duty to these helpless innocents? i am willing to divide the care of them with mrs. baynton; i shall be grateful for her sympathy and aid; but what should i be to desert them at an hour like this!" i will cut short this distressful dialogue. i still persisted in my purpose, and he still persisted in his opposition. this excited my suspicions anew; but these were removed by solemn declarations of their safety. i could not explain this conduct in my friend; but at length consented to go to the city, provided i should see them for a few minutes at present, and should return on the morrow. even this arrangement was objected to. at length he told me they were removed to the city. why were they removed, i asked, and whither? my importunities would not now be eluded. my suspicions were roused, and no evasion or artifice was sufficient to allay them. many of the audience began to give vent to their emotions in tears. mr. hallet himself seemed as if the conflict were too hard to be longer sustained. something whispered to my heart that havoc had been wider than i now witnessed. i suspected this concealment to arise from apprehensions of the effects which a knowledge of the truth would produce in me. i once more entreated him to inform me truly of their state. to enforce my entreaties, i put on an air of insensibility. "i can guess," said i, "what has happened--they are indeed beyond the reach of injury, for they are dead! is it not so?" my voice faltered in spite of my courageous efforts. "yes," said he, "they are dead! dead by the same fate, and by the same hand, with their mother!" "dead!" replied i; "what, all?" "all!" replied he: "he spared not one!" allow me, my friends, to close my eyes upon the after-scene. why should i protract a tale which i already begin to feel is too long? over this scene at least let me pass lightly. here, indeed, my narrative would be imperfect. all was tempestuous commotion in my heart and in my brain. i have no memory for ought but unconscious transitions and rueful sights. i was ingenious and indefatigable in the invention of torments. i would not dispense with any spectacle adapted to exasperate my grief. each pale and mangled form i crushed to my bosom. louisa, whom i loved with so ineffable a passion, was denied to me at first, but my obstinacy conquered their reluctance. they led the way into a darkened hall. a lamp pendant from the ceiling was uncovered, and they pointed to a table. the assassin had defrauded me of my last and miserable consolation. i sought not in her visage, for the tinge of the morning, and the lustre of heaven. these had vanished with life; but i hoped for liberty to print a last kiss upon her lips. this was denied me; for such had been the merciless blow that destroyed her, that not a lineament remained! i was carried hence to the city. mrs. hallet was my companion and my nurse. why should i dwell upon the rage of fever, and the effusions of delirium? carwin was the phantom that pursued my dreams, the giant oppressor under whose arm i was for ever on the point of being crushed. strenuous muscles were required to hinder my flight, and hearts of steel to withstand the eloquence of my fears. in vain i called upon them to look upward, to mark his sparkling rage and scowling contempt. all i sought was to fly from the stroke that was lifted. then i heaped upon my guards the most vehement reproaches, or betook myself to wailings on the haplessness of my condition. this malady, at length, declined, and my weeping friends began to look for my restoration. slowly, and with intermitted beams, memory revisited me. the scenes that i had witnessed were revived, became the theme of deliberation and deduction, and called forth the effusions of more rational sorrow. chapter xviii i had imperfectly recovered my strength, when i was informed of the arrival of my mother's brother, thomas cambridge. ten years since, he went to europe, and was a surgeon in the british forces in germany, during the whole of the late war. after its conclusion, some connection that he had formed with an irish officer, made him retire into ireland. intercourse had been punctually maintained by letters with his sister's children, and hopes were given that he would shortly return to his native country, and pass his old age in our society. he was now in an evil hour arrived. i desired an interview with him for numerous and urgent reasons. with the first returns of my understanding i had anxiously sought information of the fate of my brother. during the course of my disease i had never seen him; and vague and unsatisfactory answers were returned to all my inquires. i had vehemently interrogated mrs. hallet and her husband, and solicited an interview with this unfortunate man; but they mysteriously insinuated that his reason was still unsettled, and that his circumstances rendered an interview impossible. their reserve on the particulars of this destruction, and the author of it, was equally invincible. for some time, finding all my efforts fruitless, i had desisted from direct inquiries and solicitations, determined, as soon as my strength was sufficiently renewed, to pursue other means of dispelling my uncertainty. in this state of things my uncle's arrival and intention to visit me were announced. i almost shuddered to behold the face of this man. when i reflected on the disasters that had befallen us, i was half unwilling to witness that dejection and grief which would be disclosed in his countenance. but i believed that all transactions had been thoroughly disclosed to him, and confided in my importunity to extort from him the knowledge that i sought. i had no doubt as to the person of our enemy; but the motives that urged him to perpetrate these horrors, the means that he used, and his present condition, were totally unknown. it was reasonable to expect some information on this head, from my uncle. i therefore waited his coming with impatience. at length, in the dusk of the evening, and in my solitary chamber, this meeting took place. this man was our nearest relation, and had ever treated us with the affection of a parent. our meeting, therefore, could not be without overflowing tenderness and gloomy joy. he rather encouraged than restrained the tears that i poured out in his arms, and took upon himself the task of comforter. allusions to recent disasters could not be long omitted. one topic facilitated the admission of another. at length, i mentioned and deplored the ignorance in which i had been kept respecting my brother's destiny, and the circumstances of our misfortunes. i entreated him to tell me what was wieland's condition, and what progress had been made in detecting or punishing the author of this unheard-of devastation. "the author!" said he; "do you know the author?" "alas!" i answered, "i am too well acquainted with him. the story of the grounds of my suspicions would be painful and too long. i am not apprized of the extent of your present knowledge. there are none but wieland, pleyel, and myself, who are able to relate certain facts." "spare yourself the pain," said he. "all that wieland and pleyel can communicate, i know already. if any thing of moment has fallen within your own exclusive knowledge, and the relation be not too arduous for your present strength, i confess i am desirous of hearing it. perhaps you allude to one by the name of carwin. i will anticipate your curiosity by saying, that since these disasters, no one has seen or heard of him. his agency is, therefore, a mystery still unsolved." i readily complied with his request, and related as distinctly as i could, though in general terms, the events transacted in the summer-house and my chamber. he listened without apparent surprize to the tale of pleyel's errors and suspicions, and with augmented seriousness, to my narrative of the warnings and inexplicable vision, and the letter found upon the table. i waited for his comments. "you gather from this," said he, "that carwin is the author of all this misery." "is it not," answered i, "an unavoidable inference? but what know you respecting it? was it possible to execute this mischief without witness or coadjutor? i beseech you to relate to me, when and why mr. hallet was summoned to the scene, and by whom this disaster was first suspected or discovered. surely, suspicion must have fallen upon some one, and pursuit was made." my uncle rose from his seat, and traversed the floor with hasty steps. his eyes were fixed upon the ground, and he seemed buried in perplexity. at length he paused, and said with an emphatic tone, "it is true; the instrument is known. carwin may have plotted, but the execution was another's. that other is found, and his deed is ascertained." "good heaven!" i exclaimed, "what say you? was not carwin the assassin? could any hand but his have carried into act this dreadful purpose?" "have i not said," returned he, "that the performance was another's? carwin, perhaps, or heaven, or insanity, prompted the murderer; but carwin is unknown. the actual performer has, long since, been called to judgment and convicted, and is, at this moment, at the bottom of a dungeon loaded with chains." i lifted my hands and eyes. "who then is this assassin? by what means, and whither was he traced? what is the testimony of his guilt?" "his own, corroborated with that of a servant-maid who spied the murder of the children from a closet where she was concealed. the magistrate returned from your dwelling to your brother's. he was employed in hearing and recording the testimony of the only witness, when the criminal himself, unexpected, unsolicited, unsought, entered the hall, acknowledged his guilt, and rendered himself up to justice. "he has since been summoned to the bar. the audience was composed of thousands whom rumours of this wonderful event had attracted from the greatest distance. a long and impartial examination was made, and the prisoner was called upon for his defence. in compliance with this call he delivered an ample relation of his motives and actions." there he stopped. i besought him to say who this criminal was, and what the instigations that compelled him. my uncle was silent. i urged this inquiry with new force. i reverted to my own knowledge, and sought in this some basis to conjecture. i ran over the scanty catalogue of the men whom i knew; i lighted on no one who was qualified for ministering to malice like this. again i resorted to importunity. had i ever seen the criminal? was it sheer cruelty, or diabolical revenge that produced this overthrow? he surveyed me, for a considerable time, and listened to my interrogations in silence. at length he spoke: "clara, i have known thee by report, and in some degree by observation. thou art a being of no vulgar sort. thy friends have hitherto treated thee as a child. they meant well, but, perhaps, they were unacquainted with thy strength. i assure myself that nothing will surpass thy fortitude. "thou art anxious to know the destroyer of thy family, his actions, and his motives. shall i call him to thy presence, and permit him to confess before thee? shall i make him the narrator of his own tale?" i started on my feet, and looked round me with fearful glances, as if the murderer was close at hand. "what do you mean?" said i; "put an end, i beseech you, to this suspence." "be not alarmed; you will never more behold the face of this criminal, unless he be gifted with supernatural strength, and sever like threads the constraint of links and bolts. i have said that the assassin was arraigned at the bar, and that the trial ended with a summons from the judge to confess or to vindicate his actions. a reply was immediately made with significance of gesture, and a tranquil majesty, which denoted less of humanity than godhead. judges, advocates and auditors were panic-struck and breathless with attention. one of the hearers faithfully recorded the speech. there it is," continued he, putting a roll of papers in my hand, "you may read it at your leisure." with these words my uncle left me alone. my curiosity refused me a moment's delay. i opened the papers, and read as follows. chapter xix "theodore wieland, the prisoner at the bar, was now called upon for his defence. he looked around him for some time in silence, and with a mild countenance. at length he spoke: "it is strange; i am known to my judges and my auditors. who is there present a stranger to the character of wieland? who knows him not as an husband--as a father--as a friend? yet here am i arraigned as criminal. i am charged with diabolical malice; i am accused of the murder of my wife and my children! "it is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my hand. the task of vindication is ignoble. what is it that i am called to vindicate? and before whom? "you know that they are dead, and that they were killed by me. what more would you have? would you extort from me a statement of my motives? have you failed to discover them already? you charge me with malice; but your eyes are not shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken you. you know whom it is that you thus charge. the habits of his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his offspring is known to you; the soundness of his integrity, and the unchangeableness of his principles, are familiar to your apprehension; yet you persist in this charge! you lead me hither manacled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting death! "who are they whom i have devoted to death? my wife--the little ones, that drew their being from me--that creature who, as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a larger affection than those whom natural affinities bound to my heart. think ye that malice could have urged me to this deed? hide your audacious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. take refuge in some cavern unvisited by human eyes. ye may deplore your wickedness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it. "think not that i speak for your sakes. hug to your hearts this detestable infatuation. deem me still a murderer, and drag me to untimely death. i make not an effort to dispel your illusion: i utter not a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly: but there are probably some in this assembly who have come from far: for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from knowing me, i will tell what i have done, and why. "it is needless to say that god is the object of my supreme passion. i have cherished, in his presence, a single and upright heart. i have thirsted for the knowledge of his will. i have burnt with ardour to approve my faith and my obedience. "my days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will; but my days have been mournful, because my search failed. i solicited direction: i turned on every side where glimmerings of light could be discovered. i have not been wholly uninformed; but my knowledge has always stopped short of certainty. dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all my thoughts. my purposes have been pure; my wishes indefatigable; but not till lately were these purposes thoroughly accomplished, and these wishes fully gratified. "i thank thee, my father, for thy bounty; that thou didst not ask a less sacrifice than this; that thou placedst me in a condition to testify my submission to thy will! what have i withheld which it was thy pleasure to exact? now may i, with dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since i have given thee the treasure of my soul. "i was at my own house: it was late in the evening: my sister had gone to the city, but proposed to return. it was in expectation of her return that my wife and i delayed going to bed beyond the usual hour; the rest of the family, however, were retired. "my mind was contemplative and calm; not wholly devoid of apprehension on account of my sister's safety. recent events, not easily explained, had suggested the existence of some danger; but this danger was without a distinct form in our imagination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity. "time passed, and my sister did not arrive; her house is at some distance from mine, and though her arrangements had been made with a view to residing with us, it was possible that, through forgetfulness, or the occurrence of unforeseen emergencies, she had returned to her own dwelling. "hence it was conceived proper that i should ascertain the truth by going thither. i went. on my way my mind was full of these ideas which related to my intellectual condition. in the torrent of fervid conceptions, i lost sight of my purpose. some times i stood still; some times i wandered from my path, and experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of musing, to regain it. "the series of my thoughts is easily traced. at first every vein beat with raptures known only to the man whose parental and conjugal love is without limits, and the cup of whose desires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. i know not why emotions that were perpetual visitants should now have recurred with unusual energy. the transition was not new from sensations of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. the author of my being was likewise the dispenser of every gift with which that being was embellished. the service to which a benefactor like this was entitled, could not be circumscribed. my social sentiments were indebted to their alliance with devotion for all their value. all passions are base, all joys feeble, all energies malignant, which are not drawn from this source. "for a time, my contemplations soared above earth and its inhabitants. i stretched forth my hands; i lifted my eyes, and exclaimed, o! that i might be admitted to thy presence; that mine were the supreme delight of knowing thy will, and of performing it! the blissful privilege of direct communication with thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation of thy pleasure! "what task would i not undertake, what privation would i not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of thee? alas! thou hidest thyself from my view: glimpses only of thy excellence and beauty are afforded me. would that a momentary emanation from thy glory would visit me! that some unambiguous token of thy presence would salute my senses! "in this mood, i entered the house of my sister. it was vacant. scarcely had i regained recollection of the purpose that brought me hither. thoughts of a different tendency had such absolute possession of my mind, that the relations of time and space were almost obliterated from my understanding. these wanderings, however, were restrained, and i ascended to her chamber. "i had no light, and might have known by external observation, that the house was without any inhabitant. with this, however, i was not satisfied. i entered the room, and the object of my search not appearing, i prepared to return. "the darkness required some caution in descending the stair. i stretched my hand to seize the balustrade by which i might regulate my steps. how shall i describe the lustre, which, at that moment, burst upon my vision! "i was dazzled. my organs were bereaved of their activity. my eye-lids were half-closed, and my hands withdrawn from the balustrade. a nameless fear chilled my veins, and i stood motionless. this irradiation did not retire or lessen. it seemed as if some powerful effulgence covered me like a mantle. "i opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and glowing. it was the element of heaven that flowed around. nothing but a fiery stream was at first visible; but, anon, a shrill voice from behind called upon me to attend. "i turned: it is forbidden to describe what i saw: words, indeed, would be wanting to the task. the lineaments of that being, whose veil was now lifted, and whose visage beamed upon my sight, no hues of pencil or of language can pourtray. "as it spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart. "thy prayers are heard. in proof of thy faith, render me thy wife. this is the victim i chuse. call her hither, and here let her fall."--the sound, and visage, and light vanished at once. "what demand was this? the blood of catharine was to be shed! my wife was to perish by my hand! i sought opportunity to attest my virtue. little did i expect that a proof like this would have been demanded. "my wife! i exclaimed: o god! substitute some other victim. make me not the butcher of my wife. my own blood is cheap. this will i pour out before thee with a willing heart; but spare, i beseech thee, this precious life, or commission some other than her husband to perform the bloody deed. "in vain. the conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone forth, and nothing remained but to execute it. i rushed out of the house and across the intermediate fields, and stopped not till i entered my own parlour. "my wife had remained here during my absence, in anxious expectation of my return with some tidings of her sister. i had none to communicate. for a time, i was breathless with my speed: this, and the tremors that shook my frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. she immediately suspected some disaster to have happened to her friend, and her own speech was as much overpowered by emotion as mine. "she was silent, but her looks manifested her impatience to hear what i had to communicate. i spoke, but with so much precipitation as scarcely to be understood; catching her, at the same time, by the arm, and forcibly pulling her from her seat. "come along with me: fly: waste not a moment: time will be lost, and the deed will be omitted. tarry not; question not; but fly with me! "this deportment added afresh to her alarms. her eyes pursued mine, and she said, "what is the matter? for god's sake what is the matter? where would you have me go?" "my eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke. i thought upon her virtues; i viewed her as the mother of my babes: as my wife: i recalled the purpose for which i thus urged her attendance. my heart faltered, and i saw that i must rouse to this work all my faculties. the danger of the least delay was imminent. "i looked away from her, and again exerting my force, drew her towards the door--'you must go with me--indeed you must.' "in her fright she half-resisted my efforts, and again exclaimed, 'good heaven! what is it you mean? where go? what has happened? have you found clara?" "follow me, and you will see," i answered, still urging her reluctant steps forward. "what phrenzy has seized you? something must needs have happened. is she sick? have you found her?" "come and see. follow me, and know for yourself." "still she expostulated and besought me to explain this mysterious behaviour. i could not trust myself to answer her; to look at her; but grasping her arm, i drew her after me. she hesitated, rather through confusion of mind than from unwillingness to accompany me. this confusion gradually abated, and she moved forward, but with irresolute footsteps, and continual exclamations of wonder and terror. her interrogations of "what was the matter?" and "whither was i going?" were ceaseless and vehement. "it was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a conflict and uproar in my mind in which all order and distinctness should be lost; to escape from the sensations produced by her voice. i was, therefore, silent. i strove to abridge this interval by my haste, and to waste all my attention in furious gesticulations. "in this state of mind we reached my sister's door. she looked at the windows and saw that all was desolate--"why come we here? there is no body here. i will not go in." "still i was dumb; but opening the door, i drew her into the entry. this was the allotted scene: here she was to fall. i let go her hand, and pressing my palms against my forehead, made one mighty effort to work up my soul to the deed. "in vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled; my arms nerveless: i muttered prayers that my strength might be aided from above. they availed nothing. "horror diffused itself over me. this conviction of my cowardice, my rebellion, fastened upon me, and i stood rigid and cold as marble. from this state i was somewhat relieved by my wife's voice, who renewed her supplications to be told why we came hither, and what was the fate of my sister. "what could i answer? my words were broken and inarticulate. her fears naturally acquired force from the observation of these symptoms; but these fears were misplaced. the only inference she deduced from my conduct was, that some terrible mishap had befallen clara. "she wrung her hands, and exclaimed in an agony, "o tell me, where is she? what has become of her? is she sick? dead? is she in her chamber? o let me go thither and know the worst!" "this proposal set my thoughts once more in motion. perhaps what my rebellious heart refused to perform here, i might obtain strength enough to execute elsewhere. "come then," said i, "let us go." "i will, but not in the dark. we must first procure a light." "fly then and procure it; but i charge you, linger not. i will await for your return. "while she was gone, i strode along the entry. the fellness of a gloomy hurricane but faintly resembled the discord that reigned in my mind. to omit this sacrifice must not be; yet my sinews had refused to perform it. no alternative was offered. to rebel against the mandate was impossible; but obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. my will was strong, but my limbs refused their office. "she returned with a light; i led the way to the chamber; she looked round her; she lifted the curtain of the bed; she saw nothing. "at length, she fixed inquiring eyes upon me. the light now enabled her to discover in my visage what darkness had hitherto concealed. her cares were now transferred from my sister to myself, and she said in a tremulous voice, "wieland! you are not well: what ails you? can i do nothing for you?" "that accents and looks so winning should disarm me of my resolution, was to be expected. my thoughts were thrown anew into anarchy. i spread my hand before my eyes that i might not see her, and answered only by groans. she took my other hand between her's, and pressing it to her heart, spoke with that voice which had ever swayed my will, and wafted away sorrow. "my friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of grief. do i not merit to partake with thee in thy cares? am i not thy wife?" "this was too much. i broke from her embrace, and retired to a corner of the room. in this pause, courage was once more infused into me. i resolved to execute my duty. she followed me, and renewed her passionate entreaties to know the cause of my distress. "i raised my head and regarded her with stedfast looks. i muttered something about death, and the injunctions of my duty. at these words she shrunk back, and looked at me with a new expression of anguish. after a pause, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed-"o wieland! wieland! god grant that i am mistaken; but surely something is wrong. i see it: it is too plain: thou art undone--lost to me and to thyself." at the same time she gazed on my features with intensest anxiety, in hope that different symptoms would take place. i replied to her with vehemence-"undone! no; my duty is known, and i thank my god that my cowardice is now vanquished, and i have power to fulfil it. catharine! i pity the weakness of thy nature: i pity thee, but must not spare. thy life is claimed from my hands: thou must die!" "fear was now added to her grief. 'what mean you? why talk you of death? bethink yourself, wieland: bethink yourself, and this fit will pass. o why came i hither! why did you drag me hither?' "i brought thee hither to fulfil a divine command. i am appointed thy destroyer, and destroy thee i must." saying this i seized her wrists. she shrieked aloud, and endeavoured to free herself from my grasp; but her efforts were vain. "surely, surely wieland, thou dost not mean it. am i not thy wife? and wouldst thou kill me? thou wilt not; and yet--i see--thou art wieland no longer! a fury resistless and horrible possesses thee--spare me--spare--help--help--" "till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help--for mercy. when she could speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed to my compassion. my accursed hand was irresolute and tremulous. i meant thy death to be sudden, thy struggles to be brief. alas! my heart was infirm; my resolves mutable. thrice i slackened my grasp, and life kept its hold, though in the midst of pangs. her eye-balls started from their sockets. grimness and distortion took place of all that used to bewitch me into transport, and subdue me into reverence. "i was commissioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with the foresight of thy death; not to multiply thy fears, and prolong thy agonies. haggard, and pale, and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to contend with thy destiny. "this was a moment of triumph. thus had i successfully subdued the stubbornness of human passions: the victim which had been demanded was given: the deed was done past recal. "i lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. i gazed upon it with delight. such was the elation of my thoughts, that i even broke into laughter. i clapped my hands and exclaimed, 'it is done! my sacred duty is fulfilled! to that i have sacrificed, o my god! thy last and best gift, my wife!' "for a while i thus soared above frailty. i imagined i had set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness; but my imaginations were false. this rapture quickly subsided. i looked again at my wife. my joyous ebullitions vanished, and i asked myself who it was whom i saw? methought it could not be catharine. it could not be the woman who had lodged for years in my heart; who had slept, nightly, in my bosom; who had borne in her womb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings who called me father; whom i had watched with delight, and cherished with a fondness ever new and perpetually growing: it could not be the same. "where was her bloom! these deadly and blood-suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and exstatic tenderness of her eyes. the lucid stream that meandered over that bosom, the glow of love that was wont to sit upon that cheek, are much unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity. alas! these were the traces of agony; the gripe of the assassin had been here! "i will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and outrageous sorrow. the breath of heaven that sustained me was withdrawn and i sunk into mere man. i leaped from the floor: i dashed my head against the wall: i uttered screams of horror: i panted after torment and pain. eternal fire, and the bickerings of hell, compared with what i felt, were music and a bed of roses. "i thank my god that this degeneracy was transient, that he deigned once more to raise me aloft. i thought upon what i had done as a sacrifice to duty, and was calm. my wife was dead; but i reflected, that though this source of human consolation was closed, yet others were still open. if the transports of an husband were no more, the feelings of a father had still scope for exercise. when remembrance of their mother should excite too keen a pang, i would look upon them, and be comforted. "while i revolved these ideas, new warmth flowed in upon my heart--i was wrong. these feelings were the growth of selfishness. of this i was not aware, and to dispel the mist that obscured my perceptions, a new effulgence and a new mandate were necessary. "from these thoughts i was recalled by a ray that was shot into the room. a voice spake like that which i had before heard--'thou hast done well; but all is not done--the sacrifice is incomplete--thy children must be offered--they must perish with their mother!--'" chapter xx will you wonder that i read no farther? will you not rather be astonished that i read thus far? what power supported me through such a task i know not. perhaps the doubt from which i could not disengage my mind, that the scene here depicted was a dream, contributed to my perseverance. in vain the solemn introduction of my uncle, his appeals to my fortitude, and allusions to something monstrous in the events he was about to disclose; in vain the distressful perplexity, the mysterious silence and ambiguous answers of my attendants, especially when the condition of my brother was the theme of my inquiries, were remembered. i recalled the interview with wieland in my chamber, his preternatural tranquillity succeeded by bursts of passion and menacing actions. all these coincided with the tenor of this paper. catharine and her children, and louisa were dead. the act that destroyed them was, in the highest degree, inhuman. it was worthy of savages trained to murder, and exulting in agonies. who was the performer of the deed? wieland! my brother! the husband and the father! that man of gentle virtues and invincible benignity! placable and mild--an idolator of peace! surely, said i, it is a dream. for many days have i been vexed with frenzy. its dominion is still felt; but new forms are called up to diversify and augment my torments. the paper dropped from my hand, and my eyes followed it. i shrunk back, as if to avoid some petrifying influence that approached me. my tongue was mute; all the functions of nature were at a stand, and i sunk upon the floor lifeless. the noise of my fall, as i afterwards heard, alarmed my uncle, who was in a lower apartment, and whose apprehensions had detained him. he hastened to my chamber, and administered the assistance which my condition required. when i opened my eyes i beheld him before me. his skill as a reasoner as well as a physician, was exerted to obviate the injurious effects of this disclosure; but he had wrongly estimated the strength of my body or of my mind. this new shock brought me once more to the brink of the grave, and my malady was much more difficult to subdue than at first. i will not dwell upon the long train of dreary sensations, and the hideous confusion of my understanding. time slowly restored its customary firmness to my frame, and order to my thoughts. the images impressed upon my mind by this fatal paper were somewhat effaced by my malady. they were obscure and disjointed like the parts of a dream. i was desirous of freeing my imagination from this chaos. for this end i questioned my uncle, who was my constant companion. he was intimidated by the issue of his first experiment, and took pains to elude or discourage my inquiry. my impetuosity some times compelled him to have resort to misrepresentations and untruths. time effected that end, perhaps, in a more beneficial manner. in the course of my meditations the recollections of the past gradually became more distinct. i revolved them, however, in silence, and being no longer accompanied with surprize, they did not exercise a death-dealing power. i had discontinued the perusal of the paper in the midst of the narrative; but what i read, combined with information elsewhere obtained, threw, perhaps, a sufficient light upon these detestable transactions; yet my curiosity was not inactive. i desired to peruse the remainder. my eagerness to know the particulars of this tale was mingled and abated by my antipathy to the scene which would be disclosed. hence i employed no means to effect my purpose. i desired knowledge, and, at the same time, shrunk back from receiving the boon. one morning, being left alone, i rose from my bed, and went to a drawer where my finer clothing used to be kept. i opened it, and this fatal paper saluted my sight. i snatched it involuntarily, and withdrew to a chair. i debated, for a few minutes, whether i should open and read. now that my fortitude was put to trial, it failed. i felt myself incapable of deliberately surveying a scene of so much horror. i was prompted to return it to its place, but this resolution gave way, and i determined to peruse some part of it. i turned over the leaves till i came near the conclusion. the narrative of the criminal was finished. the verdict of guilty reluctantly pronounced by the jury, and the accused interrogated why sentence of death should not pass. the answer was brief, solemn, and emphatical. "no. i have nothing to say. my tale has been told. my motives have been truly stated. if my judges are unable to discern the purity of my intentions, or to credit the statement of them, which i have just made; if they see not that my deed was enjoined by heaven; that obedience was the test of perfect virtue, and the extinction of selfishness and error, they must pronounce me a murderer. "they refuse to credit my tale; they impute my acts to the influence of daemons; they account me an example of the highest wickedness of which human nature is capable; they doom me to death and infamy. have i power to escape this evil? if i have, be sure i will exert it. i will not accept evil at their hand, when i am entitled to good; i will suffer only when i cannot elude suffering. "you say that i am guilty. impious and rash! thus to usurp the prerogatives of your maker! to set up your bounded views and halting reason, as the measure of truth! "thou, omnipotent and holy! thou knowest that my actions were conformable to thy will. i know not what is crime; what actions are evil in their ultimate and comprehensive tendency or what are good. thy knowledge, as thy power, is unlimited. i have taken thee for my guide, and cannot err. to the arms of thy protection, i entrust my safety. in the awards of thy justice, i confide for my recompense. "come death when it will, i am safe. let calumny and abhorrence pursue me among men; i shall not be defrauded of my dues. the peace of virtue, and the glory of obedience, will be my portion hereafter." here ended the speaker. i withdrew my eyes from the page; but before i had time to reflect on what i had read, mr. cambridge entered the room. he quickly perceived how i had been employed, and betrayed some solicitude respecting the condition of my mind. his fears, however, were superfluous. what i had read, threw me into a state not easily described. anguish and fury, however, had no part in it. my faculties were chained up in wonder and awe. just then, i was unable to speak. i looked at my friend with an air of inquisitiveness, and pointed at the roll. he comprehended my inquiry, and answered me with looks of gloomy acquiescence. after some time, my thoughts found their way to my lips. such then were the acts of my brother. such were his words. for this he was condemned to die: to die upon the gallows! a fate, cruel and unmerited! and is it so? continued i, struggling for utterance, which this new idea made difficult; is he--dead! "no. he is alive. there could be no doubt as to the cause of these excesses. they originated in sudden madness; but that madness continues. and he is condemned to perpetual imprisonment." "madness, say you? are you sure? were not these sights, and these sounds, really seen and heard?" my uncle was surprized at my question. he looked at me with apparent inquietude. "can you doubt," said he, "that these were illusions? does heaven, think you, interfere for such ends?" "o no; i think it not. heaven cannot stimulate to such unheard-of outrage. the agent was not good, but evil." "nay, my dear girl," said my friend, "lay aside these fancies. neither angel nor devil had any part in this affair." "you misunderstand me," i answered; "i believe the agency to be external and real, but not supernatural." "indeed!" said he, in an accent of surprize. "whom do you then suppose to be the agent?" "i know not. all is wildering conjecture. i cannot forget carwin. i cannot banish the suspicion that he was the setter of these snares. but how can we suppose it to be madness? did insanity ever before assume this form?" "frequently. the illusion, in this case, was more dreadful in its consequences, than any that has come to my knowledge; but, i repeat that similar illusions are not rare. did you never hear of an instance which occurred in your mother's family?" "no. i beseech you relate it. my grandfather's death i have understood to have been extraordinary, but i know not in what respect. a brother, to whom he was much attached, died in his youth, and this, as i have heard, influenced, in some remarkable way, the fate of my grandfather; but i am unacquainted with particulars." "on the death of that brother," resumed my friend, "my father was seized with dejection, which was found to flow from two sources. he not only grieved for the loss of a friend, but entertained the belief that his own death would be inevitably consequent on that of his brother. he waited from day to day in expectation of the stroke which he predicted was speedily to fall upon him. gradually, however, he recovered his cheerfulness and confidence. he married, and performed his part in the world with spirit and activity. at the end of twenty-one years it happened that he spent the summer with his family at an house which he possessed on the sea coast in cornwall. it was at no great distance from a cliff which overhung the ocean, and rose into the air to a great height. the summit was level and secure, and easily ascended on the land side. the company frequently repaired hither in clear weather, invited by its pure airs and extensive prospects. one evening in june my father, with his wife and some friends, chanced to be on this spot. every one was happy, and my father's imagination seemed particularly alive to the grandeur of the scenery. "suddenly, however, his limbs trembled and his features betrayed alarm. he threw himself into the attitude of one listening. he gazed earnestly in a direction in which nothing was visible to his friends. this lasted for a minute; then turning to his companions, he told them that his brother had just delivered to him a summons, which must be instantly obeyed. he then took an hasty and solemn leave of each person, and, before their surprize would allow them to understand the scene, he rushed to the edge of the cliff, threw himself headlong, and was seen no more. "in the course of my practice in the german army, many cases, equally remarkable, have occurred. unquestionably the illusions were maniacal, though the vulgar thought otherwise. they are all reducible to one class, [*] and are not more difficult of explication and cure than most affections of our frame." this opinion my uncle endeavoured, by various means, to impress upon me. i listened to his reasonings and illustrations with silent respect. my astonishment was great on finding proofs of an influence of which i had supposed there were no examples; but i was far from accounting for appearances in my uncle's manner. ideas thronged into my mind which i was unable to disjoin or to regulate. i reflected that this madness, if madness it were, had affected pleyel and myself as well as wieland. pleyel had heard a mysterious voice. i had seen and heard. a form had showed itself to me as well as to wieland. the disclosure had been made in the same spot. the appearance was equally complete and equally prodigious in both instances. whatever supposition i should adopt, had i not equal reason to tremble? what was my security against influences equally terrific and equally irresistable? it would be vain to attempt to describe the state of mind which this idea produced. i wondered at the change which a moment had affected in my brother's condition. now was i stupified with tenfold wonder in contemplating myself. was i not likewise transformed from rational and human into a creature of nameless and fearful attributes? was i not transported to the brink of the same abyss? ere a new day should come, my hands might be embrued in blood, and my remaining life be consigned to a dungeon and chains. with moral sensibility like mine, no wonder that this new dread was more insupportable than the anguish i had lately endured. grief carries its own antidote along with it. when thought becomes merely a vehicle of pain, its progress must be stopped. death is a cure which nature or ourselves must administer: to this cure i now looked forward with gloomy satisfaction. my silence could not conceal from my uncle the state of my thoughts. he made unwearied efforts to divert my attention from views so pregnant with danger. his efforts, aided by time, were in some measure successful. confidence in the strength of my resolution, and in the healthful state of my faculties, was once more revived. i was able to devote my thoughts to my brother's state, and the causes of this disasterous proceeding. my opinions were the sport of eternal change. some times i conceived the apparition to be more than human. i had no grounds on which to build a disbelief. i could not deny faith to the evidence of my religion; the testimony of men was loud and unanimous: both these concurred to persuade me that evil spirits existed, and that their energy was frequently exerted in the system of the world. these ideas connected themselves with the image of carwin. where is the proof, said i, that daemons may not be subjected to the controul of men? this truth may be distorted and debased in the minds of the ignorant. the dogmas of the vulgar, with regard to this subject, are glaringly absurd; but though these may justly be neglected by the wise, we are scarcely justified in totally rejecting the possibility that men may obtain supernatural aid. the dreams of superstition are worthy of contempt. witchcraft, its instruments and miracles, the compact ratified by a bloody signature, the apparatus of sulpherous smells and thundering explosions, are monstrous and chimerical. these have no part in the scene over which the genius of carwin presides. that conscious beings, dissimilar from human, but moral and voluntary agents as we are, some where exist, can scarcely be denied. that their aid may be employed to benign or malignant purposes, cannot be disproved. darkness rests upon the designs of this man. the extent of his power is unknown; but is there not evidence that it has been now exerted? i recurred to my own experience. here carwin had actually appeared upon the stage; but this was in a human character. a voice and a form were discovered; but one was apparently exerted, and the other disclosed, not to befriend, but to counteract carwin's designs. there were tokens of hostility, and not of alliance, between them. carwin was the miscreant whose projects were resisted by a minister of heaven. how can this be reconciled to the stratagem which ruined my brother? there the agency was at once preternatural and malignant. the recollection of this fact led my thoughts into a new channel. the malignity of that influence which governed my brother had hitherto been no subject of doubt. his wife and children were destroyed; they had expired in agony and fear; yet was it indisputably certain that their murderer was criminal? he was acquitted at the tribunal of his own conscience; his behaviour at his trial and since, was faithfully reported to me; appearances were uniform; not for a moment did he lay aside the majesty of virtue; he repelled all invectives by appealing to the deity, and to the tenor of his past life; surely there was truth in this appeal: none but a command from heaven could have swayed his will; and nothing but unerring proof of divine approbation could sustain his mind in its present elevation. * mania mutabilis. see darwin's zoonomia, vol. ii. class iii. 1.2. where similar cases are stated. chapter xxi such, for some time, was the course of my meditations. my weakness, and my aversion to be pointed at as an object of surprize or compassion, prevented me from going into public. i studiously avoided the visits of those who came to express their sympathy, or gratify their curiosity. my uncle was my principal companion. nothing more powerfully tended to console me than his conversation. with regard to pleyel, my feelings seemed to have undergone a total revolution. it often happens that one passion supplants another. late disasters had rent my heart, and now that the wound was in some degree closed, the love which i had cherished for this man seemed likewise to have vanished. hitherto, indeed, i had had no cause for despair. i was innocent of that offence which had estranged him from my presence. i might reasonably expect that my innocence would at some time be irresistably demonstrated, and his affection for me be revived with his esteem. now my aversion to be thought culpable by him continued, but was unattended with the same impatience. i desired the removal of his suspicions, not for the sake of regaining his love, but because i delighted in the veneration of so excellent a man, and because he himself would derive pleasure from conviction of my integrity. my uncle had early informed me that pleyel and he had seen each other, since the return of the latter from europe. amidst the topics of their conversation, i discovered that pleyel had carefully omitted the mention of those events which had drawn upon me so much abhorrence. i could not account for his silence on this subject. perhaps time or some new discovery had altered or shaken his opinion. perhaps he was unwilling, though i were guilty, to injure me in the opinion of my venerable kinsman. i understood that he had frequently visited me during my disease, had watched many successive nights by my bedside, and manifested the utmost anxiety on my account. the journey which he was preparing to take, at the termination of our last interview, the catastrophe of the ensuing night induced him to delay. the motives of this journey i had, till now, totally mistaken. they were explained to me by my uncle, whose tale excited my astonishment without awakening my regret. in a different state of mind, it would have added unspeakably to my distress, but now it was more a source of pleasure than pain. this, perhaps, is not the least extraordinary of the facts contained in this narrative. it will excite less wonder when i add, that my indifference was temporary, and that the lapse of a few days shewed me that my feelings were deadened for a time, rather than finally extinguished. theresa de stolberg was alive. she had conceived the resolution of seeking her lover in america. to conceal her flight, she had caused the report of her death to be propagated. she put herself under the conduct of bertrand, the faithful servant of pleyel. the pacquet which the latter received from the hands of his servant, contained the tidings of her safe arrival at boston, and to meet her there was the purpose of his journey. this discovery had set this man's character in a new light. i had mistaken the heroism of friendship for the phrenzy of love. he who had gained my affections, may be supposed to have previously entitled himself to my reverence; but the levity which had formerly characterized the behaviour of this man, tended to obscure the greatness of his sentiments. i did not fail to remark, that since this lady was still alive, the voice in the temple which asserted her death, must either have been intended to deceive, or have been itself deceived. the latter supposition was inconsistent with the notion of a spiritual, and the former with that of a benevolent being. when my disease abated, pleyel had forborne his visits, and had lately set out upon this journey. this amounted to a proof that my guilt was still believed by him. i was grieved for his errors, but trusted that my vindication would, sooner or later, be made. meanwhile, tumultuous thoughts were again set afloat by a proposal made to me by my uncle. he imagined that new airs would restore my languishing constitution, and a varied succession of objects tend to repair the shock which my mind had received. for this end, he proposed to me to take up my abode with him in france or italy. at a more prosperous period, this scheme would have pleased for its own sake. now my heart sickened at the prospect of nature. the world of man was shrowded in misery and blood, and constituted a loathsome spectacle. i willingly closed my eyes in sleep, and regretted that the respite it afforded me was so short. i marked with satisfaction the progress of decay in my frame, and consented to live, merely in the hope that the course of nature would speedily relieve me from the burthen. nevertheless, as he persisted in his scheme, i concurred in it merely because he was entitled to my gratitude, and because my refusal gave him pain. no sooner was he informed of my consent, than he told me i must make immediate preparation to embark, as the ship in which he had engaged a passage would be ready to depart in three days. this expedition was unexpected. there was an impatience in his manner when he urged the necessity of dispatch that excited my surprize. when i questioned him as to the cause of this haste, he generally stated reasons which, at that time, i could not deny to be plausible; but which, on the review, appeared insufficient. i suspected that the true motives were concealed, and believed that these motives had some connection with my brother's destiny. i now recollected that the information respecting wieland which had, from time to time, been imparted to me, was always accompanied with airs of reserve and mysteriousness. what had appeared sufficiently explicit at the time it was uttered, i now remembered to have been faltering and ambiguous. i was resolved to remove my doubts, by visiting the unfortunate man in his dungeon. heretofore the idea of this visit had occurred to me; but the horrors of his dwelling-place, his wild yet placid physiognomy, his neglected locks, the fetters which constrained his limbs, terrible as they were in description, how could i endure to behold! now, however, that i was preparing to take an everlasting farewell of my country, now that an ocean was henceforth to separate me from him, how could i part without an interview? i would examine his situation with my own eyes. i would know whether the representations which had been made to me were true. perhaps the sight of the sister whom he was wont to love with a passion more than fraternal, might have an auspicious influence on his malady. having formed this resolution, i waited to communicate it to mr. cambridge. i was aware that, without his concurrence, i could not hope to carry it into execution, and could discover no objection to which it was liable. if i had not been deceived as to his condition, no inconvenience could arise from this proceeding. his consent, therefore, would be the test of his sincerity. i seized this opportunity to state my wishes on this head. my suspicions were confirmed by the manner in which my request affected him. after some pause, in which his countenance betrayed every mark of perplexity, he said to me, "why would you pay this visit? what useful purpose can it serve?" "we are preparing," said i, "to leave the country forever: what kind of being should i be to leave behind me a brother in calamity without even a parting interview? indulge me for three minutes in the sight of him. my heart will be much easier after i have looked at him, and shed a few tears in his presence." "i believe otherwise. the sight of him would only augment your distress, without contributing, in any degree, to his benefit." "i know not that," returned i. "surely the sympathy of his sister, proofs that her tenderness is as lively as ever, must be a source of satisfaction to him. at present he must regard all mankind as his enemies and calumniators. his sister he, probably, conceives to partake in the general infatuation, and to join in the cry of abhorrence that is raised against him. to be undeceived in this respect, to be assured that, however i may impute his conduct to delusion, i still retain all my former affection for his person, and veneration for the purity of his motives, cannot but afford him pleasure. when he hears that i have left the country, without even the ceremonious attention of a visit, what will he think of me? his magnanimity may hinder him from repining, but he will surely consider my behaviour as savage and unfeeling. indeed, dear sir, i must pay this visit. to embark with you without paying it, will be impossible. it may be of no service to him, but will enable me to acquit myself of what i cannot but esteem a duty. besides," continued i, "if it be a mere fit of insanity that has seized him, may not my presence chance to have a salutary influence? the mere sight of me, it is not impossible, may rectify his perceptions." "ay," said my uncle, with some eagerness; "it is by no means impossible that your interview may have that effect; and for that reason, beyond all others, would i dissuade you from it." i expressed my surprize at this declaration. "is it not to be desired that an error so fatal as this should be rectified?" "i wonder at your question. reflect on the consequences of this error. has he not destroyed the wife whom he loved, the children whom he idolized? what is it that enables him to bear the remembrance, but the belief that he acted as his duty enjoined? would you rashly bereave him of this belief? would you restore him to himself, and convince him that he was instigated to this dreadful outrage by a perversion of his organs, or a delusion from hell? "now his visions are joyous and elate. he conceives himself to have reached a loftier degree of virtue, than any other human being. the merit of his sacrifice is only enhanced in the eyes of superior beings, by the detestation that pursues him here, and the sufferings to which he is condemned. the belief that even his sister has deserted him, and gone over to his enemies, adds to his sublimity of feelings, and his confidence in divine approbation and future recompense. "let him be undeceived in this respect, and what floods of despair and of horror will overwhelm him! instead of glowing approbation and serene hope, will he not hate and torture himself? self-violence, or a phrenzy far more savage and destructive than this, may be expected to succeed. i beseech you, therefore, to relinquish this scheme. if you calmly reflect upon it, you will discover that your duty lies in carefully shunning him." mr. cambridge's reasonings suggested views to my understanding, that had not hitherto occurred. i could not but admit their validity, but they shewed, in a new light, the depth of that misfortune in which my brother was plunged. i was silent and irresolute. presently, i considered, that whether wieland was a maniac, a faithful servant of his god, the victim of hellish illusions, or the dupe of human imposture, was by no means certain. in this state of my mind it became me to be silent during the visit that i projected. this visit should be brief: i should be satisfied merely to snatch a look at him. admitting that a change in his opinions were not to be desired, there was no danger from the conduct which i should pursue, that this change should be wrought. but i could not conquer my uncle's aversion to this scheme. yet i persisted, and he found that to make me voluntarily relinquish it, it was necessary to be more explicit than he had hitherto been. he took both my hands, and anxiously examining my countenance as he spoke, "clara," said he, "this visit must not be paid. we must hasten with the utmost expedition from this shore. it is folly to conceal the truth from you, and, since it is only by disclosing the truth that you can be prevailed upon to lay aside this project, the truth shall be told. "o my dear girl!" continued he with increasing energy in his accent, "your brother's phrenzy is, indeed, stupendous and frightful. the soul that formerly actuated his frame has disappeared. the same form remains; but the wise and benevolent wieland is no more. a fury that is rapacious of blood, that lifts his strength almost above that of mortals, that bends all his energies to the destruction of whatever was once dear to him, possesses him wholly. "you must not enter his dungeon; his eyes will no sooner be fixed upon you, than an exertion of his force will be made. he will shake off his fetters in a moment, and rush upon you. no interposition will then be strong or quick enough to save you. "the phantom that has urged him to the murder of catharine and her children is not yet appeased. your life, and that of pleyel, are exacted from him by this imaginary being. he is eager to comply with this demand. twice he has escaped from his prison. the first time, he no sooner found himself at liberty, than he hasted to pleyel's house. it being midnight, the latter was in bed. wieland penetrated unobserved to his chamber, and opened his curtain. happily, pleyel awoke at the critical moment, and escaped the fury of his kinsman, by leaping from his chamber-window into the court. happily, he reached the ground without injury. alarms were given, and after diligent search, your brother was found in a chamber of your house, whither, no doubt, he had sought you. his chains, and the watchfulness of his guards, were redoubled; but again, by some miracle, he restored himself to liberty. he was now incautiously apprized of the place of your abode: and had not information of his escape been instantly given, your death would have been added to the number of his atrocious acts. "you now see the danger of your project. you must not only forbear to visit him, but if you would save him from the crime of embruing his hands in your blood, you must leave the country. there is no hope that his malady will end but with his life, and no precaution will ensure your safety, but that of placing the ocean between you. "i confess i came over with an intention to reside among you, but these disasters have changed my views. your own safety and my happiness require that you should accompany me in my return, and i entreat you to give your cheerful concurrence to this measure." after these representations from my uncle, it was impossible to retain my purpose. i readily consented to seclude myself from wieland's presence. i likewise acquiesced in the proposal to go to europe; not that i ever expected to arrive there, but because, since my principles forbad me to assail my own life, change had some tendency to make supportable the few days which disease should spare to me. what a tale had thus been unfolded! i was hunted to death, not by one whom my misconduct had exasperated, who was conscious of illicit motives, and who sought his end by circumvention and surprize; but by one who deemed himself commissioned for this act by heaven; who regarded this career of horror as the last refinement of virtue; whose implacability was proportioned to the reverence and love which he felt for me, and who was inaccessible to the fear of punishment and ignominy! in vain should i endeavour to stay his hand by urging the claims of a sister or friend: these were his only reasons for pursuing my destruction. had i been a stranger to his blood; had i been the most worthless of human kind; my safety had not been endangered. surely, said i, my fate is without example. the phrenzy which is charged upon my brother, must belong to myself. my foe is manacled and guarded; but i derive no security from these restraints. i live not in a community of savages; yet, whether i sit or walk, go into crouds, or hide myself in solitude, my life is marked for a prey to inhuman violence; i am in perpetual danger of perishing; of perishing under the grasp of a brother! i recollected the omens of this destiny; i remembered the gulf to which my brother's invitation had conducted me; i remembered that, when on the brink of danger, the author of my peril was depicted by my fears in his form: thus realized, were the creatures of prophetic sleep, and of wakeful terror! these images were unavoidably connected with that of carwin. in this paroxysm of distress, my attention fastened on him as the grand deceiver; the author of this black conspiracy; the intelligence that governed in this storm. some relief is afforded in the midst of suffering, when its author is discovered or imagined; and an object found on which we may pour out our indignation and our vengeance. i ran over the events that had taken place since the origin of our intercourse with him, and reflected on the tenor of that description which was received from ludloe. mixed up with notions of supernatural agency, were the vehement suspicions which i entertained, that carwin was the enemy whose machinations had destroyed us. i thirsted for knowledge and for vengeance. i regarded my hasty departure with reluctance, since it would remove me from the means by which this knowledge might be obtained, and this vengeance gratified. this departure was to take place in two days. at the end of two days i was to bid an eternal adieu to my native country. should i not pay a parting visit to the scene of these disasters? should i not bedew with my tears the graves of my sister and her children? should i not explore their desolate habitation, and gather from the sight of its walls and furniture food for my eternal melancholy? this suggestion was succeeded by a secret shuddering. some disastrous influence appeared to overhang the scene. how many memorials should i meet with serving to recall the images of those i had lost! i was tempted to relinquish my design, when it occurred to me that i had left among my papers a journal of transactions in shorthand. i was employed in this manuscript on that night when pleyel's incautious curiosity tempted him to look over my shoulder. i was then recording my adventure in the recess, an imperfect sight of which led him into such fatal errors. i had regulated the disposition of all my property. this manuscript, however, which contained the most secret transactions of my life, i was desirous of destroying. for this end i must return to my house, and this i immediately determined to do. i was not willing to expose myself to opposition from my friends, by mentioning my design; i therefore bespoke the use of mr. hallet's chaise, under pretence of enjoying an airing, as the day was remarkably bright. this request was gladly complied with, and i directed the servant to conduct me to mettingen. i dismissed him at the gate, intending to use, in returning, a carriage belonging to my brother. chapter xxii the inhabitants of the hut received me with a mixture of joy and surprize. their homely welcome, and their artless sympathy, were grateful to my feelings. in the midst of their inquiries, as to my health, they avoided all allusions to the source of my malady. they were honest creatures, and i loved them well. i participated in the tears which they shed when i mentioned to them my speedy departure for europe, and promised to acquaint them with my welfare during my long absence. they expressed great surprize when i informed them of my intention to visit my cottage. alarm and foreboding overspread their features, and they attempted to dissuade me from visiting an house which they firmly believed to be haunted by a thousand ghastly apparitions. these apprehensions, however, had no power over my conduct. i took an irregular path which led me to my own house. all was vacant and forlorn. a small enclosure, near which the path led, was the burying-ground belonging to the family. this i was obliged to pass. once i had intended to enter it, and ponder on the emblems and inscriptions which my uncle had caused to be made on the tombs of catharine and her children; but now my heart faltered as i approached, and i hastened forward, that distance might conceal it from my view. when i approached the recess, my heart again sunk. i averted my eyes, and left it behind me as quickly as possible. silence reigned through my habitation, and a darkness which closed doors and shutters produced. every object was connected with mine or my brother's history. i passed the entry, mounted the stair, and unlocked the door of my chamber. it was with difficulty that i curbed my fancy and smothered my fears. slight movements and casual sounds were transformed into beckoning shadows and calling shapes. i proceeded to the closet. i opened and looked round it with fearfulness. all things were in their accustomed order. i sought and found the manuscript where i was used to deposit it. this being secured, there was nothing to detain me; yet i stood and contemplated awhile the furniture and walls of my chamber. i remembered how long this apartment had been a sweet and tranquil asylum; i compared its former state with its present dreariness, and reflected that i now beheld it for the last time. here it was that the incomprehensible behaviour of carwin was witnessed: this the stage on which that enemy of man shewed himself for a moment unmasked. here the menaces of murder were wafted to my ear; and here these menaces were executed. these thoughts had a tendency to take from me my self-command. my feeble limbs refused to support me, and i sunk upon a chair. incoherent and half-articulate exclamations escaped my lips. the name of carwin was uttered, and eternal woes, woes like that which his malice had entailed upon us, were heaped upon him. i invoked all-seeing heaven to drag to light and to punish this betrayer, and accused its providence for having thus long delayed the retribution that was due to so enormous a guilt. i have said that the window shutters were closed. a feeble light, however, found entrance through the crevices. a small window illuminated the closet, and the door being closed, a dim ray streamed through the key-hole. a kind of twilight was thus created, sufficient for the purposes of vision; but, at the same time, involving all minuter objects in obscurity. this darkness suited the colour of my thoughts. i sickened at the remembrance of the past. the prospect of the future excited my loathing. i muttered in a low voice, why should i live longer? why should i drag a miserable being? all, for whom i ought to live, have perished. am i not myself hunted to death? at that moment, my despair suddenly became vigorous. my nerves were no longer unstrung. my powers, that had long been deadened, were revived. my bosom swelled with a sudden energy, and the conviction darted through my mind, that to end my torments was, at once, practicable and wise. i knew how to find way to the recesses of life. i could use a lancet with some skill, and could distinguish between vein and artery. by piercing deep into the latter, i should shun the evils which the future had in store for me, and take refuge from my woes in quiet death. i started on my feet, for my feebleness was gone, and hasted to the closet. a lancet and other small instruments were preserved in a case which i had deposited here. inattentive as i was to foreign considerations, my ears were still open to any sound of mysterious import that should occur. i thought i heard a step in the entry. my purpose was suspended, and i cast an eager glance at my chamber door, which was open. no one appeared, unless the shadow which i discerned upon the floor, was the outline of a man. if it were, i was authorized to suspect that some one was posted close to the entrance, who possibly had overheard my exclamations. my teeth chattered, and a wild confusion took place of my momentary calm. thus it was when a terrific visage had disclosed itself on a former night. thus it was when the evil destiny of wieland assumed the lineaments of something human. what horrid apparition was preparing to blast my sight? still i listened and gazed. not long, for the shadow moved; a foot, unshapely and huge, was thrust forward; a form advanced from its concealment, and stalked into the room. it was carwin! while i had breath i shrieked. while i had power over my muscles, i motioned with my hand that he should vanish. my exertions could not last long; i sunk into a fit. o that this grateful oblivion had lasted for ever! too quickly i recovered my senses. the power of distinct vision was no sooner restored to me, than this hateful form again presented itself, and i once more relapsed. a second time, untoward nature recalled me from the sleep of death. i found myself stretched upon the bed. when i had power to look up, i remembered only that i had cause to fear. my distempered fancy fashioned to itself no distinguishable image. i threw a languid glance round me; once more my eyes lighted upon carwin. he was seated on the floor, his back rested against the wall, his knees were drawn up, and his face was buried in his hands. that his station was at some distance, that his attitude was not menacing, that his ominous visage was concealed, may account for my now escaping a shock, violent as those which were past. i withdrew my eyes, but was not again deserted by my senses. on perceiving that i had recovered my sensibility, he lifted his head. this motion attracted my attention. his countenance was mild, but sorrow and astonishment sat upon his features. i averted my eyes and feebly exclaimed--"o! fly--fly far and for ever!--i cannot behold you and live!" he did not rise upon his feet, but clasped his hands, and said in a tone of deprecation--"i will fly. i am become a fiend, the sight of whom destroys. yet tell me my offence! you have linked curses with my name; you ascribe to me a malice monstrous and infernal. i look around; all is loneliness and desert! this house and your brother's are solitary and dismantled! you die away at the sight of me! my fear whispers that some deed of horror has been perpetrated; that i am the undesigning cause." what language was this? had he not avowed himself a ravisher? had not this chamber witnessed his atrocious purposes? i besought him with new vehemence to go. he lifted his eyes--"great heaven! what have i done? i think i know the extent of my offences. i have acted, but my actions have possibly effected more than i designed. this fear has brought me back from my retreat. i come to repair the evil of which my rashness was the cause, and to prevent more evil. i come to confess my errors." "wretch!" i cried when my suffocating emotions would permit me to speak, "the ghosts of my sister and her children, do they not rise to accuse thee? who was it that blasted the intellects of wieland? who was it that urged him to fury, and guided him to murder? who, but thou and the devil, with whom thou art confederated?" at these words a new spirit pervaded his countenance. his eyes once more appealed to heaven. "if i have memory, if i have being, i am innocent. i intended no ill; but my folly, indirectly and remotely, may have caused it; but what words are these! your brother lunatic! his children dead!" what should i infer from this deportment? was the ignorance which these words implied real or pretended?--yet how could i imagine a mere human agency in these events? but if the influence was preternatural or maniacal in my brother's case, they must be equally so in my own. then i remembered that the voice exerted, was to save me from carwin's attempts. these ideas tended to abate my abhorrence of this man, and to detect the absurdity of my accusations. "alas!" said i, "i have no one to accuse. leave me to my fate. fly from a scene stained with cruelty; devoted to despair." carwin stood for a time musing and mournful. at length he said, "what has happened? i came to expiate my crimes: let me know them in their full extent. i have horrible forebodings! what has happened?" i was silent; but recollecting the intimation given by this man when he was detected in my closet, which implied some knowledge of that power which interfered in my favor, i eagerly inquired, "what was that voice which called upon me to hold when i attempted to open the closet? what face was that which i saw at the bottom of the stairs? answer me truly." "i came to confess the truth. your allusions are horrible and strange. perhaps i have but faint conceptions of the evils which my infatuation has produced; but what remains i will perform. it was my voice that you heard! it was my face that you saw!" for a moment i doubted whether my remembrance of events were not confused. how could he be at once stationed at my shoulder and shut up in my closet? how could he stand near me and yet be invisible? but if carwin's were the thrilling voice and the fiery visage which i had heard and seen, then was he the prompter of my brother, and the author of these dismal outrages. once more i averted my eyes and struggled for speech. "begone! thou man of mischief! remorseless and implacable miscreant! begone!" "i will obey," said he in a disconsolate voice; "yet, wretch as i am, am i unworthy to repair the evils that i have committed? i came as a repentant criminal. it is you whom i have injured, and at your bar am i willing to appear, and confess and expiate my crimes. i have deceived you: i have sported with your terrors: i have plotted to destroy your reputation. i come now to remove your errors; to set you beyond the reach of similar fears; to rebuild your fame as far as i am able. "this is the amount of my guilt, and this the fruit of my remorse. will you not hear me? listen to my confession, and then denounce punishment. all i ask is a patient audience." "what!" i replied, "was not thine the voice that commanded my brother to imbrue his hands in the blood of his children--to strangle that angel of sweetness his wife? has he not vowed my death, and the death of pleyel, at thy bidding? hast thou not made him the butcher of his family; changed him who was the glory of his species into worse than brute; robbed him of reason, and consigned the rest of his days to fetters and stripes?" carwin's eyes glared, and his limbs were petrified at this intelligence. no words were requisite to prove him guiltless of these enormities: at the time, however, i was nearly insensible to these exculpatory tokens. he walked to the farther end of the room, and having recovered some degree of composure, he spoke-"i am not this villain; i have slain no one; i have prompted none to slay; i have handled a tool of wonderful efficacy without malignant intentions, but without caution; ample will be the punishment of my temerity, if my conduct has contributed to this evil." he paused.-i likewise was silent. i struggled to command myself so far as to listen to the tale which he should tell. observing this, he continued-"you are not apprized of the existence of a power which i possess. i know not by what name to call it. [*] it enables me to mimic exactly the voice of another, and to modify the sound so that it shall appear to come from what quarter, and be uttered at what distance i please. "i know not that every one possesses this power. perhaps, though a casual position of my organs in my youth shewed me that i possessed it, it is an art which may be taught to all. would to god i had died unknowing of the secret! it has produced nothing but degradation and calamity. "for a time the possession of so potent and stupendous an endowment elated me with pride. unfortified by principle, subjected to poverty, stimulated by headlong passions, i made this powerful engine subservient to the supply of my wants, and the gratification of my vanity. i shall not mention how diligently i cultivated this gift, which seemed capable of unlimited improvement; nor detail the various occasions on which it was successfully exerted to lead superstition, conquer avarice, or excite awe. "i left america, which is my native soil, in my youth. i have been engaged in various scenes of life, in which my peculiar talent has been exercised with more or less success. i was finally betrayed by one who called himself my friend, into acts which cannot be justified, though they are susceptible of apology. "the perfidy of this man compelled me to withdraw from europe. i returned to my native country, uncertain whether silence and obscurity would save me from his malice. i resided in the purlieus of the city. i put on the garb and assumed the manners of a clown. "my chief recreation was walking. my principal haunts were the lawns and gardens of mettingen. in this delightful region the luxuriances of nature had been chastened by judicious art, and each successive contemplation unfolded new enchantments. "i was studious of seclusion: i was satiated with the intercourse of mankind, and discretion required me to shun their intercourse. for these reasons i long avoided the observation of your family, and chiefly visited these precincts at night. "i was never weary of admiring the position and ornaments of the temple. many a night have i passed under its roof, revolving no pleasing meditations. when, in my frequent rambles, i perceived this apartment was occupied, i gave a different direction to my steps. one evening, when a shower had just passed, judging by the silence that no one was within, i ascended to this building. glancing carelessly round, i perceived an open letter on the pedestal. to read it was doubtless an offence against politeness. of this offence, however, i was guilty. "scarcely had i gone half through when i was alarmed by the approach of your brother. to scramble down the cliff on the opposite side was impracticable. i was unprepared to meet a stranger. besides the aukwardness attending such an interview in these circumstances, concealment was necessary to my safety. a thousand times had i vowed never again to employ the dangerous talent which i possessed; but such was the force of habit and the influence of present convenience, that i used this method of arresting his progress and leading him back to the house, with his errand, whatever it was, unperformed. i had often caught parts, from my station below, of your conversation in this place, and was well acquainted with the voice of your sister. "some weeks after this i was again quietly seated in this recess. the lateness of the hour secured me, as i thought, from all interruption. in this, however, i was mistaken, for wieland and pleyel, as i judged by their voices, earnest in dispute, ascended the hill. "i was not sensible that any inconvenience could possibly have flowed from my former exertion; yet it was followed with compunction, because it was a deviation from a path which i had assigned to myself. now my aversion to this means of escape was enforced by an unauthorized curiosity, and by the knowledge of a bushy hollow on the edge of the hill, where i should be safe from discovery. into this hollow i thrust myself. "the propriety of removal to europe was the question eagerly discussed. pleyel intimated that his anxiety to go was augmented by the silence of theresa de stolberg. the temptation to interfere in this dispute was irresistible. in vain i contended with inveterate habits. i disguised to myself the impropriety of my conduct, by recollecting the benefits which it might produce. pleyel's proposal was unwise, yet it was enforced with plausible arguments and indefatigable zeal. your brother might be puzzled and wearied, but could not be convinced. i conceived that to terminate the controversy in favor of the latter was conferring a benefit on all parties. for this end i profited by an opening in the conversation, and assured them of catharine's irreconcilable aversion to the scheme, and of the death of the saxon baroness. the latter event was merely a conjecture, but rendered extremely probable by pleyel's representations. my purpose, you need not be told, was effected. "my passion for mystery, and a species of imposture, which i deemed harmless, was thus awakened afresh. this second lapse into error made my recovery more difficult. i cannot convey to you an adequate idea of the kind of gratification which i derived from these exploits; yet i meditated nothing. my views were bounded to the passing moment, and commonly suggested by the momentary exigence. "i must not conceal any thing. your principles teach you to abhor a voluptuous temper; but, with whatever reluctance, i acknowledge this temper to be mine. you imagine your servant judith to be innocent as well as beautiful; but you took her from a family where hypocrisy, as well as licentiousness, was wrought into a system. my attention was captivated by her charms, and her principles were easily seen to be flexible. "deem me not capable of the iniquity of seduction. your servant is not destitute of feminine and virtuous qualities; but she was taught that the best use of her charms consists in the sale of them. my nocturnal visits to mettingen were now prompted by a double view, and my correspondence with your servant gave me, at all times, access to your house. "the second night after our interview, so brief and so little foreseen by either of us, some daemon of mischief seized me. according to my companion's report, your perfections were little less than divine. her uncouth but copious narratives converted you into an object of worship. she chiefly dwelt upon your courage, because she herself was deficient in that quality. you held apparitions and goblins in contempt. you took no precautions against robbers. you were just as tranquil and secure in this lonely dwelling, as if you were in the midst of a crowd. hence a vague project occurred to me, to put this courage to the test. a woman capable of recollection in danger, of warding off groundless panics, of discerning the true mode of proceeding, and profiting by her best resources, is a prodigy. i was desirous of ascertaining whether you were such an one. "my expedient was obvious and simple: i was to counterfeit a murderous dialogue; but this was to be so conducted that another, and not yourself, should appear to be the object. i was not aware of the possibility that you should appropriate these menaces to yourself. had you been still and listened, you would have heard the struggles and prayers of the victim, who would likewise have appeared to be shut up in the closet, and whose voice would have been judith's. this scene would have been an appeal to your compassion; and the proof of cowardice or courage which i expected from you, would have been your remaining inactive in your bed, or your entering the closet with a view to assist the sufferer. some instances which judith related of your fearlessness and promptitude made me adopt the latter supposition with some degree of confidence. "by the girl's direction i found a ladder, and mounted to your closet window. this is scarcely large enough to admit the head, but it answered my purpose too well. "i cannot express my confusion and surprize at your abrupt and precipitate flight. i hastily removed the ladder; and, after some pause, curiosity and doubts of your safety induced me to follow you. i found you stretched on the turf before your brother's door, without sense or motion. i felt the deepest regret at this unlooked-for consequence of my scheme. i knew not what to do to procure you relief. the idea of awakening the family naturally presented itself. this emergency was critical, and there was no time to deliberate. it was a sudden thought that occurred. i put my lips to the key-hole, and sounded an alarm which effectually roused the sleepers. my organs were naturally forcible, and had been improved by long and assiduous exercise. "long and bitterly did i repent of my scheme. i was somewhat consoled by reflecting that my purpose had not been evil, and renewed my fruitless vows never to attempt such dangerous experiments. for some time i adhered, with laudable forbearance, to this resolution. "my life has been a life of hardship and exposure. in the summer i prefer to make my bed of the smooth turf, or, at most, the shelter of a summer-house suffices. in all my rambles i never found a spot in which so many picturesque beauties and rural delights were assembled as at mettingen. no corner of your little domain unites fragrance and secrecy in so perfect a degree as the recess in the bank. the odour of its leaves, the coolness of its shade, and the music of its water-fall, had early attracted my attention. here my sadness was converted into peaceful melancholy--here my slumbers were sound, and my pleasures enhanced. "as most free from interruption, i chose this as the scene of my midnight interviews with judith. one evening, as the sun declined, i was seated here, when i was alarmed by your approach. it was with difficulty that i effected my escape unnoticed by you. "at the customary hour, i returned to your habitation, and was made acquainted by judith, with your unusual absence. i half suspected the true cause, and felt uneasiness at the danger there was that i should be deprived of my retreat; or, at least, interrupted in the possession of it. the girl, likewise, informed me, that among your other singularities, it was not uncommon for you to leave your bed, and walk forth for the sake of night-airs and starlight contemplations. "i desired to prevent this inconvenience. i found you easily swayed by fear. i was influenced, in my choice of means, by the facility and certainty of that to which i had been accustomed. all that i forsaw was, that, in future, this spot would be cautiously shunned by you. "i entered the recess with the utmost caution, and discovered, by your breathings, in what condition you were. the unexpected interpretation which you placed upon my former proceeding, suggested my conduct on the present occasion. the mode in which heaven is said by the poet, to interfere for the prevention of crimes, [**] was somewhat analogous to my province, and never failed to occur to me at seasons like this. it was requisite to break your slumbers, and for this end i uttered the powerful monosyllable, "hold! hold!" my purpose was not prescribed by duty, yet surely it was far from being atrocious and inexpiable. to effect it, i uttered what was false, but it was well suited to my purpose. nothing less was intended than to injure you. nay, the evil resulting from my former act, was partly removed by assuring you that in all places but this you were safe. * biloquium, or ventrilocution. sound is varied according to the variations of direction and distance. the art of the ventriloquist consists in modifying his voice according to all these variations, without changing his place. see the work of the abbe de la chappelle, in which are accurately recorded the performances of one of these artists, and some ingenious, though unsatisfactory speculations are given on the means by which the effects are produced. this power is, perhaps, given by nature, but is doubtless improvable, if not acquirable, by art. it may, possibly, consist in an unusual flexibility or exertion of the bottom of the tongue and the uvula. that speech is producible by these alone must be granted, since anatomists mention two instances of persons speaking without a tongue. in one case, the organ was originally wanting, but its place was supplied by a small tubercle, and the uvula was perfect. in the other, the tongue was destroyed by disease, but probably a small part of it remained. this power is difficult to explain, but the fact is undeniable. experience shews that the human voice can imitate the voice of all men and of all inferior animals. the sound of musical instruments, and even noises from the contact of inanimate substances, have been accurately imitated. the mimicry of animals is notorious; and dr. burney (musical travels) mentions one who imitated a flute and violin, so as to deceive even his ears. **--peeps through the blanket of the dark, and cries hold! hold!--shakespeare. chapter xxiii "my morals will appear to you far from rigid, yet my conduct will fall short of your suspicions. i am now to confess actions less excusable, and yet surely they will not entitle me to the name of a desperate or sordid criminal. "your house was rendered, by your frequent and long absences, easily accessible to my curiosity. my meeting with pleyel was the prelude to direct intercourse with you. i had seen much of the world, but your character exhibited a specimen of human powers that was wholly new to me. my intercourse with your servant furnished me with curious details of your domestic management. i was of a different sex: i was not your husband; i was not even your friend; yet my knowledge of you was of that kind, which conjugal intimacies can give, and, in some respects, more accurate. the observation of your domestic was guided by me. "you will not be surprized that i should sometimes profit by your absence, and adventure to examine with my own eyes, the interior of your chamber. upright and sincere, you used no watchfulness, and practised no precautions. i scrutinized every thing, and pried every where. your closet was usually locked, but it was once my fortune to find the key on a bureau. i opened and found new scope for my curiosity in your books. one of these was manuscript, and written in characters which essentially agreed with a short-hand system which i had learned from a jesuit missionary. "i cannot justify my conduct, yet my only crime was curiosity. i perused this volume with eagerness. the intellect which it unveiled, was brighter than my limited and feeble organs could bear. i was naturally inquisitive as to your ideas respecting my deportment, and the mysteries that had lately occurred. "you know what you have written. you know that in this volume the key to your inmost soul was contained. if i had been a profound and malignant impostor, what plenteous materials were thus furnished me of stratagems and plots! "the coincidence of your dream in the summer-house with my exclamation, was truly wonderful. the voice which warned you to forbear was, doubtless, mine; but mixed by a common process of the fancy, with the train of visionary incidents. "i saw in a stronger light than ever, the dangerousness of that instrument which i employed, and renewed my resolutions to abstain from the use of it in future; but i was destined perpetually to violate my resolutions. by some perverse fate, i was led into circumstances in which the exertion of my powers was the sole or the best means of escape. "on that memorable night on which our last interview took place, i came as usual to mettingen. i was apprized of your engagement at your brother's, from which you did not expect to return till late. some incident suggested the design of visiting your chamber. among your books which i had not examined, might be something tending to illustrate your character, or the history of your family. some intimation had been dropped by you in discourse, respecting a performance of your father, in which some important transaction in his life was recorded. "i was desirous of seeing this book; and such was my habitual attachment to mystery, that i preferred the clandestine perusal of it. such were the motives that induced me to make this attempt. judith had disappeared, and finding the house unoccupied, i supplied myself with a light, and proceeded to your chamber. "i found it easy, on experiment, to lock and unlock your closet door without the aid of a key. i shut myself in this recess, and was busily exploring your shelves, when i heard some one enter the room below. i was at a loss who it could be, whether you or your servant. doubtful, however, as i was, i conceived it prudent to extinguish the light. scarcely was this done, when some one entered the chamber. the footsteps were easily distinguished to be yours. "my situation was now full of danger and perplexity. for some time, i cherished the hope that you would leave the room so long as to afford me an opportunity of escaping. as the hours passed, this hope gradually deserted me. it was plain that you had retired for the night. "i knew not how soon you might find occasion to enter the closet. i was alive to all the horrors of detection, and ruminated without ceasing, on the behaviour which it would be proper, in case of detection, to adopt. i was unable to discover any consistent method of accounting for my being thus immured. "it occurred to me that i might withdraw you from your chamber for a few minutes, by counterfeiting a voice from without. some message from your brother might be delivered, requiring your presence at his house. i was deterred from this scheme by reflecting on the resolution i had formed, and on the possible evils that might result from it. besides, it was not improbable that you would speedily retire to bed, and then, by the exercise of sufficient caution, i might hope to escape unobserved. "meanwhile i listened with the deepest anxiety to every motion from without. i discovered nothing which betokened preparation for sleep. instead of this i heard deep-drawn sighs, and occasionally an half-expressed and mournful ejaculation. hence i inferred that you were unhappy. the true state of your mind with regard to pleyel your own pen had disclosed; but i supposed you to be framed of such materials, that, though a momentary sadness might affect you, you were impregnable to any permanent and heartfelt grief. inquietude for my own safety was, for a moment, suspended by sympathy with your distress. "to the former consideration i was quickly recalled by a motion of yours which indicated i knew not what. i fostered the persuasion that you would now retire to bed; but presently you approached the closet, and detection seemed to be inevitable. you put your hand upon the lock. i had formed no plan to extricate myself from the dilemma in which the opening of the door would involve me. i felt an irreconcilable aversion to detection. thus situated, i involuntarily seized the door with a resolution to resist your efforts to open it. "suddenly you receded from the door. this deportment was inexplicable, but the relief it afforded me was quickly gone. you returned, and i once more was thrown into perplexity. the expedient that suggested itself was precipitate and inartificial. i exerted my organs and called upon you to hold. "that you should persist in spite of this admonition, was a subject of astonishment. i again resisted your efforts; for the first expedient having failed, i knew not what other to resort to. in this state, how was my astonishment increased when i heard your exclamations! "it was now plain that you knew me to be within. further resistance was unavailing and useless. the door opened, and i shrunk backward. seldom have i felt deeper mortification, and more painful perplexity. i did not consider that the truth would be less injurious than any lie which i could hastily frame. conscious as i was of a certain degree of guilt, i conceived that you would form the most odious suspicions. the truth would be imperfect, unless i were likewise to explain the mysterious admonition which had been given; but that explanation was of too great moment, and involved too extensive consequences to make me suddenly resolve to give it. i was aware that this discovery would associate itself in your mind, with the dialogue formerly heard in this closet. thence would your suspicions be aggravated, and to escape from these suspicions would be impossible. but the mere truth would be sufficiently opprobrious, and deprive me for ever of your good opinion. "thus was i rendered desperate, and my mind rapidly passed to the contemplation of the use that might be made of previous events. some good genius would appear to you to have interposed to save you from injury intended by me. why, i said, since i must sink in her opinion, should i not cherish this belief? why not personate an enemy, and pretend that celestial interference has frustrated my schemes? i must fly, but let me leave wonder and fear behind me. elucidation of the mystery will always be practicable. i shall do no injury, but merely talk of evil that was designed, but is now past. "thus i extenuated my conduct to myself, but i scarcely expect that this will be to you a sufficient explication of the scene that followed. those habits which i have imbibed, the rooted passion which possesses me for scattering around me amazement and fear, you enjoy no opportunities of knowing. that a man should wantonly impute to himself the most flagitious designs, will hardly be credited, even though you reflect that my reputation was already, by my own folly, irretrievably ruined; and that it was always in my power to communicate the truth, and rectify the mistake. "i left you to ponder on this scene. my mind was full of rapid and incongruous ideas. compunction, self-upbraiding, hopelesness, satisfaction at the view of those effects likely to flow from my new scheme, misgivings as to the beneficial result of this scheme took possession of my mind, and seemed to struggle for the mastery. "i had gone too far to recede. i had painted myself to you as an assassin and ravisher, withheld from guilt only by a voice from heaven. i had thus reverted into the path of error, and now, having gone thus far, my progress seemed to be irrevocable. i said to myself, i must leave these precincts for ever. my acts have blasted my fame in the eyes of the wielands. for the sake of creating a mysterious dread, i have made myself a villain. i may complete this mysterious plan by some new imposture, but i cannot aggravate my supposed guilt. "my resolution was formed, and i was swiftly ruminating on the means for executing it, when pleyel appeared in sight. this incident decided my conduct. it was plain that pleyel was a devoted lover, but he was, at the same time, a man of cold resolves and exquisite sagacity. to deceive him would be the sweetest triumph i had ever enjoyed. the deception would be momentary, but it would likewise be complete. that his delusion would so soon be rectified, was a recommendation to my scheme, for i esteemed him too much to desire to entail upon him lasting agonies. "i had no time to reflect further, for he proceeded, with a quick step, towards the house. i was hurried onward involuntarily and by a mechanical impulse. i followed him as he passed the recess in the bank, and shrowding myself in that spot, i counterfeited sounds which i knew would arrest his steps. "he stopped, turned, listened, approached, and overheard a dialogue whose purpose was to vanquish his belief in a point where his belief was most difficult to vanquish. i exerted all my powers to imitate your voice, your general sentiments, and your language. being master, by means of your journal, of your personal history and most secret thoughts, my efforts were the more successful. when i reviewed the tenor of this dialogue, i cannot believe but that pleyel was deluded. when i think of your character, and of the inferences which this dialogue was intended to suggest, it seems incredible that this delusion should be produced. "i spared not myself. i called myself murderer, thief, guilty of innumerable perjuries and misdeeds: that you had debased yourself to the level of such an one, no evidence, methought, would suffice to convince him who knew you so thoroughly as pleyel; and yet the imposture amounted to proof which the most jealous scrutiny would find to be unexceptionable. "he left his station precipitately and resumed his way to the house. i saw that the detection of his error would be instantaneous, since, not having gone to bed, an immediate interview would take place between you. at first this circumstance was considered with regret; but as time opened my eyes to the possible consequences of this scene, i regarded it with pleasure. "in a short time the infatuation which had led me thus far began to subside. the remembrance of former reasonings and transactions was renewed. how often i had repented this kind of exertion; how many evils were produced by it which i had not foreseen; what occasions for the bitterest remorse it had administered, now passed through my mind. the black catalogue of stratagems was now increased. i had inspired you with the most vehement terrors: i had filled your mind with faith in shadows and confidence in dreams: i had depraved the imagination of pleyel: i had exhibited you to his understanding as devoted to brutal gratifications and consummate in hypocrisy. the evidence which accompanied this delusion would be irresistible to one whose passion had perverted his judgment, whose jealousy with regard to me had already been excited, and who, therefore, would not fail to overrate the force of this evidence. what fatal act of despair or of vengeance might not this error produce? "with regard to myself, i had acted with a phrenzy that surpassed belief. i had warred against my peace and my fame: i had banished myself from the fellowship of vigorous and pure minds: i was self-expelled from a scene which the munificence of nature had adorned with unrivalled beauties, and from haunts in which all the muses and humanities had taken refuge. "i was thus torn by conflicting fears and tumultuous regrets. the night passed away in this state of confusion; and next morning in the gazette left at my obscure lodging, i read a description and an offer of reward for the apprehension of my person. i was said to have escaped from an irish prison, in which i was confined as an offender convicted of enormous and complicated crimes. "this was the work of an enemy, who, by falsehood and stratagem, had procured my condemnation. i was, indeed, a prisoner, but escaped, by the exertion of my powers, the fate to which i was doomed, but which i did not deserve. i had hoped that the malice of my foe was exhausted; but i now perceived that my precautions had been wise, for that the intervention of an ocean was insufficient for my security. "let me not dwell on the sensations which this discovery produced. i need not tell by what steps i was induced to seek an interview with you, for the purpose of disclosing the truth, and repairing, as far as possible, the effects of my misconduct. it was unavoidable that this gazette would fall into your hands, and that it would tend to confirm every erroneous impression. "having gained this interview, i purposed to seek some retreat in the wilderness, inaccessible to your inquiry and to the malice of my foe, where i might henceforth employ myself in composing a faithful narrative of my actions. i designed it as my vindication from the aspersions that had rested on my character, and as a lesson to mankind on the evils of credulity on the one hand, and of imposture on the other. "i wrote you a billet, which was left at the house of your friend, and which i knew would, by some means, speedily come to your hands. i entertained a faint hope that my invitation would be complied with. i knew not what use you would make of the opportunity which this proposal afforded you of procuring the seizure of my person; but this fate i was determined to avoid, and i had no doubt but due circumspection, and the exercise of the faculty which i possessed, would enable me to avoid it. "i lurked, through the day, in the neighbourhood of mettingen: i approached your habitation at the appointed hour: i entered it in silence, by a trap-door which led into the cellar. this had formerly been bolted on the inside, but judith had, at an early period in our intercourse, removed this impediment. i ascended to the first floor, but met with no one, nor any thing that indicated the presence of an human being. "i crept softly up stairs, and at length perceived your chamber door to be opened, and a light to be within. it was of moment to discover by whom this light was accompanied. i was sensible of the inconveniencies to which my being discovered at your chamber door by any one within would subject me; i therefore called out in my own voice, but so modified that it should appear to ascend from the court below, 'who is in the chamber? is it miss wieland?" "no answer was returned to this summons. i listened, but no motion could be heard. after a pause i repeated my call, but no less ineffectually. "i now approached nearer the door, and adventured to look in. a light stood on the table, but nothing human was discernible. i entered cautiously, but all was solitude and stillness. "i knew not what to conclude. if the house were inhabited, my call would have been noticed; yet some suspicion insinuated itself that silence was studiously kept by persons who intended to surprize me. my approach had been wary, and the silence that ensued my call had likewise preceded it; a circumstance that tended to dissipate my fears. "at length it occurred to me that judith might possibly be in her own room. i turned my steps thither; but she was not to be found. i passed into other rooms, and was soon convinced that the house was totally deserted. i returned to your chamber, agitated by vain surmises and opposite conjectures. the appointed hour had passed, and i dismissed the hope of an interview. "in this state of things i determined to leave a few lines on your toilet, and prosecute my journey to the mountains. scarcely had i taken the pen when i laid it aside, uncertain in what manner to address you. i rose from the table and walked across the floor. a glance thrown upon the bed acquainted me with a spectacle to which my conceptions of horror had not yet reached. "in the midst of shuddering and trepidation, the signal of your presence in the court below recalled me to myself. the deed was newly done: i only was in the house: what had lately happened justified any suspicions, however enormous. it was plain that this catastrophe was unknown to you: i thought upon the wild commotion which the discovery would awaken in your breast: i found the confusion of my own thoughts unconquerable, and perceived that the end for which i sought an interview was not now to be accomplished. "in this state of things it was likewise expedient to conceal my being within. i put out the light and hurried down stairs. to my unspeakable surprize, notwithstanding every motive to fear, you lighted a candle and proceeded to your chamber. "i retired to that room below from which a door leads into the cellar. this door concealed me from your view as you passed. i thought upon the spectacle which was about to present itself. in an exigence so abrupt and so little foreseen, i was again subjected to the empire of mechanical and habitual impulses. i dreaded the effects which this shocking exhibition, bursting on your unprepared senses, might produce. "thus actuated, i stept swiftly to the door, and thrusting my head forward, once more pronounced the mysterious interdiction. at that moment, by some untoward fate, your eyes were cast back, and you saw me in the very act of utterance. i fled through the darksome avenue at which i entered, covered with the shame of this detection. "with diligence, stimulated by a thousand ineffable emotions, i pursued my intended journey. i have a brother whose farm is situated in the bosom of a fertile desert, near the sources of the leheigh, and thither i now repaired." chapter xxiv "deeply did i ruminate on the occurrences that had just passed. nothing excited my wonder so much as the means by which you discovered my being in the closet. this discovery appeared to be made at the moment when you attempted to open it. how could you have otherwise remained so long in the chamber apparently fearless and tranquil? and yet, having made this discovery, how could you persist in dragging me forth: persist in defiance of an interdiction so emphatical and solemn? "but your sister's death was an event detestable and ominous. she had been the victim of the most dreadful species of assassination. how, in a state like yours, the murderous intention could be generated, was wholly inconceivable. "i did not relinquish my design of confessing to you the part which i had sustained in your family, but i was willing to defer it till the task which i had set myself was finished. that being done, i resumed the resolution. the motives to incite me to this continually acquired force. the more i revolved the events happening at mettingen, the more insupportable and ominous my terrors became. my waking hours and my sleep were vexed by dismal presages and frightful intimations. "catharine was dead by violence. surely my malignant stars had not made me the cause of her death; yet had i not rashly set in motion a machine, over whose progress i had no controul, and which experience had shewn me was infinite in power? every day might add to the catalogue of horrors of which this was the source, and a seasonable disclosure of the truth might prevent numberless ills. "fraught with this conception, i have turned my steps hither. i find your brother's house desolate: the furniture removed, and the walls stained with damps. your own is in the same situation. your chamber is dismantled and dark, and you exhibit an image of incurable grief, and of rapid decay. "i have uttered the truth. this is the extent of my offences. you tell me an horrid tale of wieland being led to the destruction of his wife and children, by some mysterious agent. you charge me with the guilt of this agency; but i repeat that the amount of my guilt has been truly stated. the perpetrator of catharine's death was unknown to me till now; nay, it is still unknown to me." at that moment, the closing of a door in the kitchen was distinctly heard by us. carwin started and paused. "there is some one coming. i must not be found here by my enemies, and need not, since my purpose is answered." i had drunk in, with the most vehement attention, every word that he had uttered. i had no breath to interrupt his tale by interrogations or comments. the power that he spoke of was hitherto unknown to me: its existence was incredible; it was susceptible of no direct proof. he owns that his were the voice and face which i heard and saw. he attempts to give an human explanation of these phantasms; but it is enough that he owns himself to be the agent; his tale is a lie, and his nature devilish. as he deceived me, he likewise deceived my brother, and now do i behold the author of all our calamities! such were my thoughts when his pause allowed me to think. i should have bad him begone if the silence had not been interrupted; but now i feared no more for myself; and the milkiness of my nature was curdled into hatred and rancour. some one was near, and this enemy of god and man might possibly be brought to justice. i reflected not that the preternatural power which he had hitherto exerted, would avail to rescue him from any toils in which his feet might be entangled. meanwhile, looks, and not words of menace and abhorrence, were all that i could bestow. he did not depart. he seemed dubious, whether, by passing out of the house, or by remaining somewhat longer where he was, he should most endanger his safety. his confusion increased when steps of one barefoot were heard upon the stairs. he threw anxious glances sometimes at the closet, sometimes at the window, and sometimes at the chamber door, yet he was detained by some inexplicable fascination. he stood as if rooted to the spot. as to me, my soul was bursting with detestation and revenge. i had no room for surmises and fears respecting him that approached. it was doubtless a human being, and would befriend me so far as to aid me in arresting this offender. the stranger quickly entered the room. my eyes and the eyes of carwin were, at the same moment, darted upon him. a second glance was not needed to inform us who he was. his locks were tangled, and fell confusedly over his forehead and ears. his shirt was of coarse stuff, and open at the neck and breast. his coat was once of bright and fine texture, but now torn and tarnished with dust. his feet, his legs, and his arms were bare. his features were the seat of a wild and tranquil solemnity, but his eyes bespoke inquietude and curiosity. he advanced with firm step, and looking as in search of some one. he saw me and stopped. he bent his sight on the floor, and clenching his hands, appeared suddenly absorbed in meditation. such were the figure and deportment of wieland! such, in his fallen state, were the aspect and guise of my brother! carwin did not fail to recognize the visitant. care for his own safety was apparently swallowed up in the amazement which this spectacle produced. his station was conspicuous, and he could not have escaped the roving glances of wieland; yet the latter seemed totally unconscious of his presence. grief at this scene of ruin and blast was at first the only sentiment of which i was conscious. a fearful stillness ensued. at length wieland, lifting his hands, which were locked in each other, to his breast, exclaimed, "father! i thank thee. this is thy guidance. hither thou hast led me, that i might perform thy will: yet let me not err: let me hear again thy messenger!" he stood for a minute as if listening; but recovering from his attitude, he continued--"it is not needed. dastardly wretch! thus eternally questioning the behests of thy maker! weak in resolution! wayward in faith!" he advanced to me, and, after another pause, resumed: "poor girl! a dismal fate has set its mark upon thee. thy life is demanded as a sacrifice. prepare thee to die. make not my office difficult by fruitless opposition. thy prayers might subdue stones; but none but he who enjoined my purpose can shake it." these words were a sufficient explication of the scene. the nature of his phrenzy, as described by my uncle, was remembered. i who had sought death, was now thrilled with horror because it was near. death in this form, death from the hand of a brother, was thought upon with undescribable repugnance. in a state thus verging upon madness, my eye glanced upon carwin. his astonishment appeared to have struck him motionless and dumb. my life was in danger, and my brother's hand was about to be embrued in my blood. i firmly believed that carwin's was the instigation. i could rescue me from this abhorred fate; i could dissipate this tremendous illusion; i could save my brother from the perpetration of new horrors, by pointing out the devil who seduced him; to hesitate a moment was to perish. these thoughts gave strength to my limbs, and energy to my accents: i started on my feet. "o brother! spare me, spare thyself: there is thy betrayer. he counterfeited the voice and face of an angel, for the purpose of destroying thee and me. he has this moment confessed it. he is able to speak where he is not. he is leagued with hell, but will not avow it; yet he confesses that the agency was his." my brother turned slowly his eyes, and fixed them upon carwin. every joint in the frame of the latter trembled. his complexion was paler than a ghost's. his eye dared not meet that of wieland, but wandered with an air of distraction from one space to another. "man," said my brother, in a voice totally unlike that which he had used to me, "what art thou? the charge has been made. answer it. the visage--the voice--at the bottom of these stairs--at the hour of eleven--to whom did they belong? to thee?" twice did carwin attempt to speak, but his words died away upon his lips. my brother resumed in a tone of greater vehemence-"thou falterest; faltering is ominous; say yes or no: one word will suffice; but beware of falsehood. was it a stratagem of hell to overthrow my family? wast thou the agent?" i now saw that the wrath which had been prepared for me was to be heaped upon another. the tale that i heard from him, and his present trepidations, were abundant testimonies of his guilt. but what if wieland should be undeceived! what if he shall find his acts to have proceeded not from an heavenly prompter, but from human treachery! will not his rage mount into whirlwind? will not he tare limb from limb this devoted wretch? instinctively i recoiled from this image, but it gave place to another. carwin may be innocent, but the impetuosity of his judge may misconstrue his answers into a confession of guilt. wieland knows not that mysterious voices and appearances were likewise witnessed by me. carwin may be ignorant of those which misled my brother. thus may his answers unwarily betray himself to ruin. such might be the consequences of my frantic precipitation, and these, it was necessary, if possible, to prevent. i attempted to speak, but wieland, turning suddenly upon me, commanded silence, in a tone furious and terrible. my lips closed, and my tongue refused its office. "what art thou?" he resumed, addressing himself to carwin. "answer me; whose form--whose voice--was it thy contrivance? answer me." the answer was now given, but confusedly and scarcely articulated. "i meant nothing--i intended no ill--if i understand--if i do not mistake you--it is too true--i did appear--in the entry--did speak. the contrivance was mine, but--" these words were no sooner uttered, than my brother ceased to wear the same aspect. his eyes were downcast: he was motionless: his respiration became hoarse, like that of a man in the agonies of death. carwin seemed unable to say more. he might have easily escaped, but the thought which occupied him related to what was horrid and unintelligible in this scene, and not to his own danger. presently the faculties of wieland, which, for a time, were chained up, were seized with restlessness and trembling. he broke silence. the stoutest heart would have been appalled by the tone in which he spoke. he addressed himself to carwin. "why art thou here? who detains thee? go and learn better. i will meet thee, but it must be at the bar of thy maker. there shall i bear witness against thee." perceiving that carwin did not obey, he continued; "dost thou wish me to complete the catalogue by thy death? thy life is a worthless thing. tempt me no more. i am but a man, and thy presence may awaken a fury which may spurn my controul. begone!" carwin, irresolute, striving in vain for utterance, his complexion pallid as death, his knees beating one against another, slowly obeyed the mandate and withdrew. chapter xxv a few words more and i lay aside the pen for ever. yet why should i not relinquish it now? all that i have said is preparatory to this scene, and my fingers, tremulous and cold as my heart, refuse any further exertion. this must not be. let my last energies support me in the finishing of this task. then will i lay down my head in the lap of death. hushed will be all my murmurs in the sleep of the grave. every sentiment has perished in my bosom. even friendship is extinct. your love for me has prompted me to this task; but i would not have complied if it had not been a luxury thus to feast upon my woes. i have justly calculated upon my remnant of strength. when i lay down the pen the taper of life will expire: my existence will terminate with my tale. now that i was left alone with wieland, the perils of my situation presented themselves to my mind. that this paroxysm should terminate in havock and rage it was reasonable to predict. the first suggestion of my fears had been disproved by my experience. carwin had acknowledged his offences, and yet had escaped. the vengeance which i had harboured had not been admitted by wieland, and yet the evils which i had endured, compared with those inflicted on my brother, were as nothing. i thirsted for his blood, and was tormented with an insatiable appetite for his destruction; yet my brother was unmoved, and had dismissed him in safety. surely thou wast more than man, while i am sunk below the beasts. did i place a right construction on the conduct of wieland? was the error that misled him so easily rectified? were views so vivid and faith so strenuous thus liable to fading and to change? was there not reason to doubt the accuracy of my perceptions? with images like these was my mind thronged, till the deportment of my brother called away my attention. i saw his lips move and his eyes cast up to heaven. then would he listen and look back, as if in expectation of some one's appearance. thrice he repeated these gesticulations and this inaudible prayer. each time the mist of confusion and doubt seemed to grow darker and to settle on his understanding. i guessed at the meaning of these tokens. the words of carwin had shaken his belief, and he was employed in summoning the messenger who had formerly communed with him, to attest the value of those new doubts. in vain the summons was repeated, for his eye met nothing but vacancy, and not a sound saluted his ear. he walked to the bed, gazed with eagerness at the pillow which had sustained the head of the breathless catharine, and then returned to the place where i sat. i had no power to lift my eyes to his face: i was dubious of his purpose: this purpose might aim at my life. alas! nothing but subjection to danger, and exposure to temptation, can show us what we are. by this test was i now tried, and found to be cowardly and rash. men can deliberately untie the thread of life, and of this i had deemed myself capable; yet now that i stood upon the brink of fate, that the knife of the sacrificer was aimed at my heart, i shuddered and betook myself to any means of escape, however monstrous. can i bear to think--can i endure to relate the outrage which my heart meditated? where were my means of safety? resistance was vain. not even the energy of despair could set me on a level with that strength which his terrific prompter had bestowed upon wieland. terror enables us to perform incredible feats; but terror was not then the state of my mind: where then were my hopes of rescue? methinks it is too much. i stand aside, as it were, from myself; i estimate my own deservings; a hatred, immortal and inexorable, is my due. i listen to my own pleas, and find them empty and false: yes, i acknowledge that my guilt surpasses that of all mankind: i confess that the curses of a world, and the frowns of a deity, are inadequate to my demerits. is there a thing in the world worthy of infinite abhorrence? it is i. what shall i say! i was menaced, as i thought, with death, and, to elude this evil, my hand was ready to inflict death upon the menacer. in visiting my house, i had made provision against the machinations of carwin. in a fold of my dress an open penknife was concealed. this i now seized and drew forth. it lurked out of view: but i now see that my state of mind would have rendered the deed inevitable if my brother had lifted his hand. this instrument of my preservation would have been plunged into his heart. o, insupportable remembrance! hide thee from my view for a time; hide it from me that my heart was black enough to meditate the stabbing of a brother! a brother thus supreme in misery; thus towering in virtue! he was probably unconscious of my design, but presently drew back. this interval was sufficient to restore me to myself. the madness, the iniquity of that act which i had purposed rushed upon my apprehension. for a moment i was breathless with agony. at the next moment i recovered my strength, and threw the knife with violence on the floor. the sound awoke my brother from his reverie. he gazed alternately at me and at the weapon. with a movement equally solemn he stooped and took it up. he placed the blade in different positions, scrutinizing it accurately, and maintaining, at the same time, a profound silence. again he looked at me, but all that vehemence and loftiness of spirit which had so lately characterized his features, were flown. fallen muscles, a forehead contracted into folds, eyes dim with unbidden drops, and a ruefulness of aspect which no words can describe, were now visible. his looks touched into energy the same sympathies in me, and i poured forth a flood of tears. this passion was quickly checked by fear, which had now, no longer, my own, but his safety for their object. i watched his deportment in silence. at length he spoke: "sister," said he, in an accent mournful and mild, "i have acted poorly my part in this world. what thinkest thou? shall i not do better in the next?" i could make no answer. the mildness of his tone astonished and encouraged me. i continued to regard him with wistful and anxious looks. "i think," resumed he, "i will try. my wife and my babes have gone before. happy wretches! i have sent you to repose, and ought not to linger behind." these words had a meaning sufficiently intelligible. i looked at the open knife in his hand and shuddered, but knew not how to prevent the deed which i dreaded. he quickly noticed my fears, and comprehended them. stretching towards me his hand, with an air of increasing mildness: "take it," said he: "fear not for thy own sake, nor for mine. the cup is gone by, and its transient inebriation is succeeded by the soberness of truth. "thou angel whom i was wont to worship! fearest thou, my sister, for thy life? once it was the scope of my labours to destroy thee, but i was prompted to the deed by heaven; such, at least, was my belief. thinkest thou that thy death was sought to gratify malevolence? no. i am pure from all stain. i believed that my god was my mover! "neither thee nor myself have i cause to injure. i have done my duty, and surely there is merit in having sacrificed to that, all that is dear to the heart of man. if a devil has deceived me, he came in the habit of an angel. if i erred, it was not my judgment that deceived me, but my senses. in thy sight, being of beings! i am still pure. still will i look for my reward in thy justice!" did my ears truly report these sounds? if i did not err, my brother was restored to just perceptions. he knew himself to have been betrayed to the murder of his wife and children, to have been the victim of infernal artifice; yet he found consolation in the rectitude of his motives. he was not devoid of sorrow, for this was written on his countenance; but his soul was tranquil and sublime. perhaps this was merely a transition of his former madness into a new shape. perhaps he had not yet awakened to the memory of the horrors which he had perpetrated. infatuated wretch that i was! to set myself up as a model by which to judge of my heroic brother! my reason taught me that his conclusions were right; but conscious of the impotence of reason over my own conduct; conscious of my cowardly rashness and my criminal despair, i doubted whether any one could be stedfast and wise. such was my weakness, that even in the midst of these thoughts, my mind glided into abhorrence of carwin, and i uttered in a low voice, o! carwin! carwin! what hast thou to answer for? my brother immediately noticed the involuntary exclamation: "clara!" said he, "be thyself. equity used to be a theme for thy eloquence. reduce its lessons to practice, and be just to that unfortunate man. the instrument has done its work, and i am satisfied. "i thank thee, my god, for this last illumination! my enemy is thine also. i deemed him to be man, the man with whom i have often communed; but now thy goodness has unveiled to me his true nature. as the performer of thy behests, he is my friend." my heart began now to misgive me. his mournful aspect had gradually yielded place to a serene brow. a new soul appeared to actuate his frame, and his eyes to beam with preternatural lustre. these symptoms did not abate, and he continued: "clara! i must not leave thee in doubt. i know not what brought about thy interview with the being whom thou callest carwin. for a time, i was guilty of thy error, and deduced from his incoherent confessions that i had been made the victim of human malice. he left us at my bidding, and i put up a prayer that my doubts should be removed. thy eyes were shut, and thy ears sealed to the vision that answered my prayer. "i was indeed deceived. the form thou hast seen was the incarnation of a daemon. the visage and voice which urged me to the sacrifice of my family, were his. now he personates a human form: then he was invironed with the lustre of heaven.-"clara," he continued, advancing closer to me, "thy death must come. this minister is evil, but he from whom his commission was received is god. submit then with all thy wonted resignation to a decree that cannot be reversed or resisted. mark the clock. three minutes are allowed to thee, in which to call up thy fortitude, and prepare thee for thy doom." there he stopped. even now, when this scene exists only in memory, when life and all its functions have sunk into torpor, my pulse throbs, and my hairs uprise: my brows are knit, as then; and i gaze around me in distraction. i was unconquerably averse to death; but death, imminent and full of agony as that which was threatened, was nothing. this was not the only or chief inspirer of my fears. for him, not for myself, was my soul tormented. i might die, and no crime, surpassing the reach of mercy, would pursue me to the presence of my judge; but my assassin would survive to contemplate his deed, and that assassin was wieland! wings to bear me beyond his reach i had not. i could not vanish with a thought. the door was open, but my murderer was interposed between that and me. of self-defence i was incapable. the phrenzy that lately prompted me to blood was gone; my state was desperate; my rescue was impossible. the weight of these accumulated thoughts could not be borne. my sight became confused; my limbs were seized with convulsion; i spoke, but my words were half-formed:-"spare me, my brother! look down, righteous judge! snatch me from this fate! take away this fury from him, or turn it elsewhere!" such was the agony of my thoughts, that i noticed not steps entering my apartment. supplicating eyes were cast upward, but when my prayer was breathed, i once more wildly gazed at the door. a form met my sight: i shuddered as if the god whom i invoked were present. it was carwin that again intruded, and who stood before me, erect in attitude, and stedfast in look! the sight of him awakened new and rapid thoughts. his recent tale was remembered: his magical transitions and mysterious energy of voice: whether he were infernal or miraculous, or human, there was no power and no need to decide. whether the contriver or not of this spell, he was able to unbind it, and to check the fury of my brother. he had ascribed to himself intentions not malignant. here now was afforded a test of his truth. let him interpose, as from above; revoke the savage decree which the madness of wieland has assigned to heaven, and extinguish for ever this passion for blood! my mind detected at a glance this avenue to safety. the recommendations it possessed thronged as it were together, and made but one impression on my intellect. remoter effects and collateral dangers i saw not. perhaps the pause of an instant had sufficed to call them up. the improbability that the influence which governed wieland was external or human; the tendency of this stratagem to sanction so fatal an error, or substitute a more destructive rage in place of this; the sufficiency of carwin's mere muscular forces to counteract the efforts, and restrain the fury of wieland, might, at a second glance, have been discovered; but no second glance was allowed. my first thought hurried me to action, and, fixing my eyes upon carwin i exclaimed-"o wretch! once more hast thou come? let it be to abjure thy malice; to counterwork this hellish stratagem; to turn from me and from my brother, this desolating rage! "testify thy innocence or thy remorse: exert the powers which pertain to thee, whatever they be, to turn aside this ruin. thou art the author of these horrors! what have i done to deserve thus to die? how have i merited this unrelenting persecution? i adjure thee, by that god whose voice thou hast dared to counterfeit, to save my life! "wilt thou then go? leave me! succourless!" carwin listened to my intreaties unmoved, and turned from me. he seemed to hesitate a moment: then glided through the door. rage and despair stifled my utterance. the interval of respite was passed; the pangs reserved for me by wieland, were not to be endured; my thoughts rushed again into anarchy. having received the knife from his hand, i held it loosely and without regard; but now it seized again my attention, and i grasped it with force. he seemed to notice not the entrance or exit of carwin. my gesture and the murderous weapon appeared to have escaped his notice. his silence was unbroken; his eye, fixed upon the clock for a time, was now withdrawn; fury kindled in every feature; all that was human in his face gave way to an expression supernatural and tremendous. i felt my left arm within his grasp.-even now i hesitated to strike. i shrunk from his assault, but in vain.-here let me desist. why should i rescue this event from oblivion? why should i paint this detestable conflict? why not terminate at once this series of horrors?--hurry to the verge of the precipice, and cast myself for ever beyond remembrance and beyond hope? still i live: with this load upon my breast; with this phantom to pursue my steps; with adders lodged in my bosom, and stinging me to madness: still i consent to live! yes, i will rise above the sphere of mortal passions: i will spurn at the cowardly remorse that bids me seek impunity in silence, or comfort in forgetfulness. my nerves shall be new strung to the task. have i not resolved? i will die. the gulph before me is inevitable and near. i will die, but then only when my tale is at an end. chapter xxvi my right hand, grasping the unseen knife, was still disengaged. it was lifted to strike. all my strength was exhausted, but what was sufficient to the performance of this deed. already was the energy awakened, and the impulse given, that should bear the fatal steel to his heart, when--wieland shrunk back: his hand was withdrawn. breathless with affright and desperation, i stood, freed from his grasp; unassailed; untouched. thus long had the power which controuled the scene forborne to interfere; but now his might was irresistible, and wieland in a moment was disarmed of all his purposes. a voice, louder than human organs could produce, shriller than language can depict, burst from the ceiling, and commanded him--to hold! trouble and dismay succeeded to the stedfastness that had lately been displayed in the looks of wieland. his eyes roved from one quarter to another, with an expression of doubt. he seemed to wait for a further intimation. carwin's agency was here easily recognized. i had besought him to interpose in my defence. he had flown. i had imagined him deaf to my prayer, and resolute to see me perish: yet he disappeared merely to devise and execute the means of my relief. why did he not forbear when this end was accomplished? why did his misjudging zeal and accursed precipitation overpass that limit? or meant he thus to crown the scene, and conduct his inscrutable plots to this consummation? such ideas were the fruit of subsequent contemplation. this moment was pregnant with fate. i had no power to reason. in the career of my tempestuous thoughts, rent into pieces, as my mind was, by accumulating horrors, carwin was unseen and unsuspected. i partook of wieland's credulity, shook with his amazement, and panted with his awe. silence took place for a moment; so much as allowed the attention to recover its post. then new sounds were uttered from above. "man of errors! cease to cherish thy delusion: not heaven or hell, but thy senses have misled thee to commit these acts. shake off thy phrenzy, and ascend into rational and human. be lunatic no longer." my brother opened his lips to speak. his tone was terrific and faint. he muttered an appeal to heaven. it was difficult to comprehend the theme of his inquiries. they implied doubt as to the nature of the impulse that hitherto had guided him, and questioned whether he had acted in consequence of insane perceptions. to these interrogatories the voice, which now seemed to hover at his shoulder, loudly answered in the affirmative. then uninterrupted silence ensued. fallen from his lofty and heroic station; now finally restored to the perception of truth; weighed to earth by the recollection of his own deeds; consoled no longer by a consciousness of rectitude, for the loss of offspring and wife--a loss for which he was indebted to his own misguided hand; wieland was transformed at once into the man of sorrows! he reflected not that credit should be as reasonably denied to the last, as to any former intimation; that one might as justly be ascribed to erring or diseased senses as the other. he saw not that this discovery in no degree affected the integrity of his conduct; that his motives had lost none of their claims to the homage of mankind; that the preference of supreme good, and the boundless energy of duty, were undiminished in his bosom. it is not for me to pursue him through the ghastly changes of his countenance. words he had none. now he sat upon the floor, motionless in all his limbs, with his eyes glazed and fixed; a monument of woe. anon a spirit of tempestuous but undesigning activity seized him. he rose from his place and strode across the floor, tottering and at random. his eyes were without moisture, and gleamed with the fire that consumed his vitals. the muscles of his face were agitated by convulsion. his lips moved, but no sound escaped him. that nature should long sustain this conflict was not to be believed. my state was little different from that of my brother. i entered, as it were, into his thought. my heart was visited and rent by his pangs--oh that thy phrenzy had never been cured! that thy madness, with its blissful visions, would return! or, if that must not be, that thy scene would hasten to a close! that death would cover thee with his oblivion! what can i wish for thee? thou who hast vied with the great preacher of thy faith in sanctity of motives, and in elevation above sensual and selfish! thou whom thy fate has changed into paricide and savage! can i wish for the continuance of thy being? no. for a time his movements seemed destitute of purpose. if he walked; if he turned; if his fingers were entwined with each other; if his hands were pressed against opposite sides of his head with a force sufficient to crush it into pieces; it was to tear his mind from self-contemplation; to waste his thoughts on external objects. speedily this train was broken. a beam appeared to be darted into his mind, which gave a purpose to his efforts. an avenue to escape presented itself; and now he eagerly gazed about him: when my thoughts became engaged by his demeanour, my fingers were stretched as by a mechanical force, and the knife, no longer heeded or of use, escaped from my grasp, and fell unperceived on the floor. his eye now lighted upon it; he seized it with the quickness of thought. i shrieked aloud, but it was too late. he plunged it to the hilt in his neck; and his life instantly escaped with the stream that gushed from the wound. he was stretched at my feet; and my hands were sprinkled with his blood as he fell. such was thy last deed, my brother! for a spectacle like this was it my fate to be reserved! thy eyes were closed--thy face ghastly with death--thy arms, and the spot where thou liedest, floated in thy life's blood! these images have not, for a moment, forsaken me. till i am breathless and cold, they must continue to hover in my sight. carwin, as i said, had left the room, but he still lingered in the house. my voice summoned him to my aid; but i scarcely noticed his re-entrance, and now faintly recollect his terrified looks, his broken exclamations, his vehement avowals of innocence, the effusions of his pity for me, and his offers of assistance. i did not listen--i answered him not--i ceased to upbraid or accuse. his guilt was a point to which i was indifferent. ruffian or devil, black as hell or bright as angels, thenceforth he was nothing to me. i was incapable of sparing a look or a thought from the ruin that was spread at my feet. when he left me, i was scarcely conscious of any variation in the scene. he informed the inhabitants of the hut of what had passed, and they flew to the spot. careless of his own safety, he hasted to the city to inform my friends of my condition. my uncle speedily arrived at the house. the body of wieland was removed from my presence, and they supposed that i would follow it; but no, my home is ascertained; here i have taken up my rest, and never will i go hence, till, like wieland, i am borne to my grave. importunity was tried in vain: they threatened to remove me by violence--nay, violence was used; but my soul prizes too dearly this little roof to endure to be bereaved of it. force should not prevail when the hoary locks and supplicating tears of my uncle were ineffectual. my repugnance to move gave birth to ferociousness and phrenzy when force was employed, and they were obliged to consent to my return. they besought me--they remonstrated--they appealed to every duty that connected me with him that made me, and with my fellow-men--in vain. while i live i will not go hence. have i not fulfilled my destiny? why will ye torment me with your reasonings and reproofs? can ye restore to me the hope of my better days? can ye give me back catharine and her babes? can ye recall to life him who died at my feet? i will eat--i will drink--i will lie down and rise up at your bidding--all i ask is the choice of my abode. what is there unreasonable in this demand? shortly will i be at peace. this is the spot which i have chosen in which to breathe my last sigh. deny me not, i beseech you, so slight a boon. talk not to me, o my revered friend! of carwin. he has told thee his tale, and thou exculpatest him from all direct concern in the fate of wieland. this scene of havock was produced by an illusion of the senses. be it so: i care not from what source these disasters have flowed; it suffices that they have swallowed up our hopes and our existence. what his agency began, his agency conducted to a close. he intended, by the final effort of his power, to rescue me and to banish his illusions from my brother. such is his tale, concerning the truth of which i care not. henceforth i foster but one wish--i ask only quick deliverance from life and all the ills that attend it.-go wretch! torment me not with thy presence and thy prayers.--forgive thee? will that avail thee when thy fateful hour shall arrive? be thou acquitted at thy own tribunal, and thou needest not fear the verdict of others. if thy guilt be capable of blacker hues, if hitherto thy conscience be without stain, thy crime will be made more flagrant by thus violating my retreat. take thyself away from my sight if thou wouldest not behold my death! thou are gone! murmuring and reluctant! and now my repose is coming--my work is done! chapter xxvii [written three years after the foregoing, and dated at montpellier.] i imagined that i had forever laid aside the pen; and that i should take up my abode in this part of the world, was of all events the least probable. my destiny i believed to be accomplished, and i looked forward to a speedy termination of my life with the fullest confidence. surely i had reason to be weary of existence, to be impatient of every tie which held me from the grave. i experienced this impatience in its fullest extent. i was not only enamoured of death, but conceived, from the condition of my frame, that to shun it was impossible, even though i had ardently desired it; yet here am i, a thousand leagues from my native soil, in full possession of life and of health, and not destitute of happiness. such is man. time will obliterate the deepest impressions. grief the most vehement and hopeless, will gradually decay and wear itself out. arguments may be employed in vain: every moral prescription may be ineffectually tried: remonstrances, however cogent or pathetic, shall have no power over the attention, or shall be repelled with disdain; yet, as day follows day, the turbulence of our emotions shall subside, and our fluctuations be finally succeeded by a calm. perhaps, however, the conquest of despair was chiefly owing to an accident which rendered my continuance in my own house impossible. at the conclusion of my long, and, as i then supposed, my last letter to you, i mentioned my resolution to wait for death in the very spot which had been the principal scene of my misfortunes. from this resolution my friends exerted themselves with the utmost zeal and perseverance to make me depart. they justly imagined that to be thus surrounded by memorials of the fate of my family, would tend to foster my disease. a swift succession of new objects, and the exclusion of every thing calculated to remind me of my loss, was the only method of cure. i refused to listen to their exhortations. great as my calamity was, to be torn from this asylum was regarded by me as an aggravation of it. by a perverse constitution of mind, he was considered as my greatest enemy who sought to withdraw me from a scene which supplied eternal food to my melancholy, and kept my despair from languishing. in relating the history of these disasters i derived a similar species of gratification. my uncle earnestly dissuaded me from this task; but his remonstrances were as fruitless on this head as they had been on others. they would have withheld from me the implements of writing; but they quickly perceived that to withstand would be more injurious than to comply with my wishes. having finished my tale, it seemed as if the scene were closing. a fever lurked in my veins, and my strength was gone. any exertion, however slight, was attended with difficulty, and, at length, i refused to rise from my bed. i now see the infatuation and injustice of my conduct in its true colours. i reflect upon the sensations and reasonings of that period with wonder and humiliation. that i should be insensible to the claims and tears of my friends; that i should overlook the suggestions of duty, and fly from that post in which only i could be instrumental to the benefit of others; that the exercise of the social and beneficent affections, the contemplation of nature and the acquisition of wisdom should not be seen to be means of happiness still within my reach, is, at this time, scarcely credible. it is true that i am now changed; but i have not the consolation to reflect that my change was owing to my fortitude or to my capacity for instruction. better thoughts grew up in my mind imperceptibly. i cannot but congratulate myself on the change, though, perhaps, it merely argues a fickleness of temper, and a defect of sensibility. after my narrative was ended i betook myself to my bed, in the full belief that my career in this world was on the point of finishing. my uncle took up his abode with me, and performed for me every office of nurse, physician and friend. one night, after some hours of restlessness and pain, i sunk into deep sleep. its tranquillity, however, was of no long duration. my fancy became suddenly distempered, and my brain was turned into a theatre of uproar and confusion. it would not be easy to describe the wild and phantastical incongruities that pestered me. my uncle, wieland, pleyel and carwin were successively and momently discerned amidst the storm. sometimes i was swallowed up by whirlpools, or caught up in the air by half-seen and gigantic forms, and thrown upon pointed rocks, or cast among the billows. sometimes gleams of light were shot into a dark abyss, on the verge of which i was standing, and enabled me to discover, for a moment, its enormous depth and hideous precipices. anon, i was transported to some ridge of aetna, and made a terrified spectator of its fiery torrents and its pillars of smoke. however strange it may seem, i was conscious, even during my dream, of my real situation. i knew myself to be asleep, and struggled to break the spell, by muscular exertions. these did not avail, and i continued to suffer these abortive creations till a loud voice, at my bed side, and some one shaking me with violence, put an end to my reverie. my eyes were unsealed, and i started from my pillow. my chamber was filled with smoke, which, though in some degree luminous, would permit me to see nothing, and by which i was nearly suffocated. the crackling of flames, and the deafening clamour of voices without, burst upon my ears. stunned as i was by this hubbub, scorched with heat, and nearly choaked by the accumulating vapours, i was unable to think or act for my own preservation; i was incapable, indeed, of comprehending my danger. i was caught up, in an instant, by a pair of sinewy arms, borne to the window, and carried down a ladder which had been placed there. my uncle stood at the bottom and received me. i was not fully aware of my situation till i found myself sheltered in the hut, and surrounded by its inhabitants. by neglect of the servant, some unextinguished embers had been placed in a barrel in the cellar of the building. the barrel had caught fire; this was communicated to the beams of the lower floor, and thence to the upper part of the structure. it was first discovered by some persons at a distance, who hastened to the spot and alarmed my uncle and the servants. the flames had already made considerable progress, and my condition was overlooked till my escape was rendered nearly impossible. my danger being known, and a ladder quickly procured, one of the spectators ascended to my chamber, and effected my deliverance in the manner before related. this incident, disastrous as it may at first seem, had, in reality, a beneficial effect upon my feelings. i was, in some degree, roused from the stupor which had seized my faculties. the monotonous and gloomy series of my thoughts was broken. my habitation was levelled with the ground, and i was obliged to seek a new one. a new train of images, disconnected with the fate of my family, forced itself on my attention, and a belief insensibly sprung up, that tranquillity, if not happiness, was still within my reach. notwithstanding the shocks which my frame had endured, the anguish of my thoughts no sooner abated than i recovered my health. i now willingly listened to my uncle's solicitations to be the companion of his voyage. preparations were easily made, and after a tedious passage, we set our feet on the shore of the ancient world. the memory of the past did not forsake me; but the melancholy which it generated, and the tears with which it filled my eyes, were not unprofitable. my curiosity was revived, and i contemplated, with ardour, the spectacle of living manners and the monuments of past ages. in proportion as my heart was reinstated in the possession of its ancient tranquillity, the sentiment which i had cherished with regard to pleyel returned. in a short time he was united to the saxon woman, and made his residence in the neighbourhood of boston. i was glad that circumstances would not permit an interview to take place between us. i could not desire their misery; but i reaped no pleasure from reflecting on their happiness. time, and the exertions of my fortitude, cured me, in some degree, of this folly. i continued to love him, but my passion was disguised to myself; i considered it merely as a more tender species of friendship, and cherished it without compunction. through my uncle's exertions a meeting was brought about between carwin and pleyel, and explanations took place which restored me at once to the good opinion of the latter. though separated so widely our correspondence was punctual and frequent, and paved the way for that union which can only end with the death of one of us. in my letters to him i made no secret of my former sentiments. this was a theme on which i could talk without painful, though not without delicate emotions. that knowledge which i should never have imparted to a lover, i felt little scruple to communicate to a friend. a year and an half elapsed when theresa was snatched from him by death, in the hour in which she gave him the first pledge of their mutual affection. this event was borne by him with his customary fortitude. it induced him, however, to make a change in his plans. he disposed of his property in america, and joined my uncle and me, who had terminated the wanderings of two years at montpellier, which will henceforth, i believe, be our permanent abode. if you reflect upon that entire confidence which had subsisted from our infancy between pleyel and myself; on the passion that i had contracted, and which was merely smothered for a time; and on the esteem which was mutual, you will not, perhaps, be surprized that the renovation of our intercourse should give birth to that union which at present subsists. when the period had elapsed necessary to weaken the remembrance of theresa, to whom he had been bound by ties more of honor than of love, he tendered his affections to me. i need not add that the tender was eagerly accepted. perhaps you are somewhat interested in the fate of carwin. he saw, when too late, the danger of imposture. so much affected was he by the catastrophe to which he was a witness, that he laid aside all regard to his own safety. he sought my uncle, and confided to him the tale which he had just related to me. he found a more impartial and indulgent auditor in mr. cambridge, who imputed to maniacal illusion the conduct of wieland, though he conceived the previous and unseen agency of carwin, to have indirectly but powerfully predisposed to this deplorable perversion of mind. it was easy for carwin to elude the persecutions of ludloe. it was merely requisite to hide himself in a remote district of pennsylvania. this, when he parted from us, he determined to do. he is now probably engaged in the harmless pursuits of agriculture, and may come to think, without insupportable remorse, on the evils to which his fatal talents have given birth. the innocence and usefulness of his future life may, in some degree, atone for the miseries so rashly or so thoughtlessly inflicted. more urgent considerations hindered me from mentioning, in the course of my former mournful recital, any particulars respecting the unfortunate father of louisa conway. that man surely was reserved to be a monument of capricious fortune. his southern journies being finished, he returned to philadelphia. before he reached the city he left the highway, and alighted at my brother's door. contrary to his expectation, no one came forth to welcome him, or hail his approach. he attempted to enter the house, but bolted doors, barred windows, and a silence broken only by unanswered calls, shewed him that the mansion was deserted. he proceeded thence to my habitation, which he found, in like manner, gloomy and tenantless. his surprize may be easily conceived. the rustics who occupied the hut told him an imperfect and incredible tale. he hasted to the city, and extorted from mrs. baynton a full disclosure of late disasters. he was inured to adversity, and recovered, after no long time, from the shocks produced by this disappointment of his darling scheme. our intercourse did not terminate with his departure from america. we have since met with him in france, and light has at length been thrown upon the motives which occasioned the disappearance of his wife, in the manner which i formerly related to you. i have dwelt upon the ardour of their conjugal attachment, and mentioned that no suspicion had ever glanced upon her purity. this, though the belief was long cherished, recent discoveries have shewn to be questionable. no doubt her integrity would have survived to the present moment, if an extraordinary fate had not befallen her. major stuart had been engaged, while in germany, in a contest of honor with an aid de camp of the marquis of granby. his adversary had propagated a rumour injurious to his character. a challenge was sent; a meeting ensued; and stuart wounded and disarmed the calumniator. the offence was atoned for, and his life secured by suitable concessions. maxwell, that was his name, shortly after, in consequence of succeeding to a rich inheritance, sold his commission and returned to london. his fortune was speedily augmented by an opulent marriage. interest was his sole inducement to this marriage, though the lady had been swayed by a credulous affection. the true state of his heart was quickly discovered, and a separation, by mutual consent, took place. the lady withdrew to an estate in a distant county, and maxwell continued to consume his time and fortune in the dissipation of the capital. maxwell, though deceitful and sensual, possessed great force of mind and specious accomplishments. he contrived to mislead the generous mind of stuart, and to regain the esteem which his misconduct, for a time, had forfeited. he was recommended by her husband to the confidence of mrs. stuart. maxwell was stimulated by revenge, and by a lawless passion, to convert this confidence into a source of guilt. the education and capacity of this woman, the worth of her husband, the pledge of their alliance which time had produced, her maturity in age and knowledge of the world--all combined to render this attempt hopeless. maxwell, however, was not easily discouraged. the most perfect being, he believed, must owe his exemption from vice to the absence of temptation. the impulses of love are so subtile, and the influence of false reasoning, when enforced by eloquence and passion, so unbounded, that no human virtue is secure from degeneracy. all arts being tried, every temptation being summoned to his aid, dissimulation being carried to its utmost bound, maxwell, at length, nearly accomplished his purpose. the lady's affections were withdrawn from her husband and transferred to him. she could not, as yet, be reconciled to dishonor. all efforts to induce her to elope with him were ineffectual. she permitted herself to love, and to avow her love; but at this limit she stopped, and was immoveable. hence this revolution in her sentiments was productive only of despair. her rectitude of principle preserved her from actual guilt, but could not restore to her her ancient affection, or save her from being the prey of remorseful and impracticable wishes. her husband's absence produced a state of suspense. this, however, approached to a period, and she received tidings of his intended return. maxwell, being likewise apprized of this event, and having made a last and unsuccessful effort to conquer her reluctance to accompany him in a journey to italy, whither he pretended an invincible necessity of going, left her to pursue the measures which despair might suggest. at the same time she received a letter from the wife of maxwell, unveiling the true character of this man, and revealing facts which the artifices of her seducer had hitherto concealed from her. mrs. maxwell had been prompted to this disclosure by a knowledge of her husband's practices, with which his own impetuosity had made her acquainted. this discovery, joined to the delicacy of her scruples and the anguish of remorse, induced her to abscond. this scheme was adopted in haste, but effected with consummate prudence. she fled, on the eve of her husband's arrival, in the disguise of a boy, and embarked at falmouth in a packet bound for america. the history of her disastrous intercourse with maxwell, the motives inducing her to forsake her country, and the measures she had taken to effect her design, were related to mrs. maxwell, in reply to her communication. between these women an ancient intimacy and considerable similitude of character subsisted. this disclosure was accompanied with solemn injunctions of secrecy, and these injunctions were, for a long time, faithfully observed. mrs. maxwell's abode was situated on the banks of the wey. stuart was her kinsman; their youth had been spent together; and maxwell was in some degree indebted to the man whom he betrayed, for his alliance with this unfortunate lady. her esteem for the character of stuart had never been diminished. a meeting between them was occasioned by a tour which the latter had undertaken, in the year after his return from america, to wales and the western counties. this interview produced pleasure and regret in each. their own transactions naturally became the topics of their conversation; and the untimely fate of his wife and daughter were related by the guest. mrs. maxwell's regard for her friend, as well as for the safety of her husband, persuaded her to concealment; but the former being dead, and the latter being out of the kingdom, she ventured to produce mrs. stuart's letter, and to communicate her own knowledge of the treachery of maxwell. she had previously extorted from her guest a promise not to pursue any scheme of vengeance; but this promise was made while ignorant of the full extent of maxwell's depravity, and his passion refused to adhere to it. at this time my uncle and i resided at avignon. among the english resident there, and with whom we maintained a social intercourse, was maxwell. this man's talents and address rendered him a favorite both with my uncle and myself. he had even tendered me his hand in marriage; but this being refused, he had sought and obtained permission to continue with us the intercourse of friendship. since a legal marriage was impossible, no doubt, his views were flagitious. whether he had relinquished these views i was unable to judge. he was one in a large circle at a villa in the environs, to which i had likewise been invited, when stuart abruptly entered the apartment. he was recognized with genuine satisfaction by me, and with seeming pleasure by maxwell. in a short time, some affair of moment being pleaded, which required an immediate and exclusive interview, maxwell and he withdrew together. stuart and my uncle had been known to each other in the german army; and the purpose contemplated by the former in this long and hasty journey, was confided to his old friend. a defiance was given and received, and the banks of a rivulet, about a league from the city, was selected as the scene of this contest. my uncle, having exerted himself in vain to prevent an hostile meeting, consented to attend them as a surgeon.--next morning, at sun-rise, was the time chosen. i returned early in the evening to my lodgings. preliminaries being settled between the combatants, stuart had consented to spend the evening with us, and did not retire till late. on the way to his hotel he was exposed to no molestation, but just as he stepped within the portico, a swarthy and malignant figure started from behind a column. and plunged a stiletto into his body. the author of this treason could not certainly be discovered; but the details communicated by stuart, respecting the history of maxwell, naturally pointed him out as an object of suspicion. no one expressed more concern, on account of this disaster, than he; and he pretended an ardent zeal to vindicate his character from the aspersions that were cast upon it. thenceforth, however, i denied myself to his visits; and shortly after he disappeared from this scene. few possessed more estimable qualities, and a better title to happiness and the tranquil honors of long life, than the mother and father of louisa conway: yet they were cut off in the bloom of their days; and their destiny was thus accomplished by the same hand. maxwell was the instrument of their destruction, though the instrument was applied to this end in so different a manner. i leave you to moralize on this tale. that virtue should become the victim of treachery is, no doubt, a mournful consideration; but it will not escape your notice, that the evils of which carwin and maxwell were the authors, owed their existence to the errors of the sufferers. all efforts would have been ineffectual to subvert the happiness or shorten the existence of the stuarts, if their own frailty had not seconded these efforts. if the lady had crushed her disastrous passion in the bud, and driven the seducer from her presence, when the tendency of his artifices was seen; if stuart had not admitted the spirit of absurd revenge, we should not have had to deplore this catastrophe. if wieland had framed juster notions of moral duty, and of the divine attributes; or if i had been gifted with ordinary equanimity or foresight, the double-tongued deceiver would have been baffled and repelled. proofreading team the tragedie of hamlet, prince of denmarke a study with the text of the folio of 1623 by george macdonald "what would you gracious figure?" to my honoured relative alexander stewart maccoll a little _less_ than kin, and _more_ than kind to whom i owe in especial the true understanding of the great soliloquy i dedicate with love and gratitude this effort to give hamlet and shakspere their due george mac donald bordighera _christmas_, 1884 summary: the tragedie of hamlet, prince of denmark: a study of the text of the folio of 1623 by george macdonald [motto]: "what would you, gracious figure?" dr. greville macdonald looks on his father's commentary as the "most important interpretation of the play ever written... it is his intuitive understanding ... rather than learned analysis--of which there is yet overwhelming evidence--that makes it so splendid." reading level: mature youth and adults. preface by this edition of hamlet i hope to help the student of shakspere to understand the play--and first of all hamlet himself, whose spiritual and moral nature are the real material of the tragedy, to which every other interest of the play is subservient. but while mainly attempting, from the words and behaviour shakspere has given him, to explain the man, i have cast what light i could upon everything in the play, including the perplexities arising from extreme condensation of meaning, figure, and expression. as it is more than desirable that the student should know when he is reading the most approximate presentation accessible of what shakspere uttered, and when that which modern editors have, with reason good or bad, often not without presumption, substituted for that which they received, i have given the text, letter for letter, point for point, of the first folio, with the variations of the second quarto in the margin and at the foot of the page. of hamlet there are but two editions of authority, those called the second quarto and the first folio; but there is another which requires remark. in the year 1603 came out the edition known as the first quarto--clearly without the poet's permission, and doubtless as much to his displeasure: the following year he sent out an edition very different, and larger in the proportion of one hundred pages to sixty-four. concerning the former my theory is--though it is not my business to enter into the question here--that it was printed from shakspere's sketch for the play, written with matter crowding upon him too fast for expansion or development, and intended only for a continuous memorandum of things he would take up and work out afterwards. it seems almost at times as if he but marked certain bales of thought so as to find them again, and for the present threw them aside--knowing that by the marks he could recall the thoughts they stood for, but not intending thereby to convey them to any reader. i cannot, with evidence before me, incredible but through the eyes themselves, of the illimitable scope of printers' blundering, believe _all_ the confusion, unintelligibility, neglect of grammar, construction, continuity, sense, attributable to them. in parts it is more like a series of notes printed with the interlineations horribly jumbled; while in other parts it looks as if it had been taken down from the stage by an ear without a brain, and then yet more incorrectly printed; parts, nevertheless, in which it most differs from the authorized editions, are yet indubitably from the hand of shakspere. i greatly doubt if any ready-writer would have dared publish some of its chaotic passages as taken down from the stage; nor do i believe the play was ever presented in anything like such an unfinished state. i rather think some fellow about the theatre, whether more rogue or fool we will pay him the thankful tribute not to enquire, chancing upon the crude embryonic mass in the poet's hand, traitorously pounced upon it, and betrayed it to the printers--therein serving the poet such an evil turn as if a sculptor's workman took a mould of the clay figure on which his master had been but a few days employed, and published casts of it as the sculptor's work.[1] to us not the less is the _corpus delicti_ precious--and that unspeakably--for it enables us to see something of the creational development of the drama, besides serving occasionally to cast light upon portions of it, yielding hints of the original intention where the after work has less plainly presented it. [footnote 1: shakspere has in this matter fared even worse than sir thomas browne, the first edition of whose _religio medici_, nowise intended for the public, was printed without his knowledge.] the second quarto bears on its title-page, compelled to a recognition of the former,--'newly imprinted and enlarged to almost as much againe as it was, according to the true and perfect coppie'; and it is in truth a harmonious world of which the former issue was but the chaos. it is the drama itself, the concluded work of the master's hand, though yet to be once more subjected to a little pruning, a little touching, a little rectifying. but the author would seem to have been as trusting over the work of the printers, as they were careless of his, and the result is sometimes pitiable. the blunders are appalling. both in it and in the folio the marginal note again and again suggests itself: 'here the compositor was drunk, the press-reader asleep, the devil only aware.' but though the blunders elbow one another in tumultuous fashion, not therefore all words and phrases supposed to be such are blunders. the old superstition of plenary inspiration may, by its reverence for the very word, have saved many a meaning from the obliteration of a misunderstanding scribe: in all critical work it seems to me well to cling to the _word_ until one sinks not merely baffled, but exhausted. i come now to the relation between the second quarto and the folio. my theory is--that shakspere worked upon his own copy of the second quarto, cancelling and adding, and that, after his death, this copy came, along with original manuscripts, into the hands of his friends the editors of the folio, who proceeded to print according to his alterations. these friends and editors in their preface profess thus: 'it had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to haue bene wished, that the author himselfe had liu'd to haue set forth, and ouerseen his owne writings; but since it hath bin ordain'd otherwise, and he by death departed from that right, we pray you do not envie his friends, the office of their care, and paine, to haue collected & publish'd them, as where (before) you were abus'd with diuerse stolne, and surreptitious copies, maimed, and deformed by the frauds and stealthes of iniurious impostors, that expos'd them: euen those, are now offer'd to your view cur'd, and perfect of their limbes; and all the rest, absolute in their numbers, as he conceiued th[=e]. who, as he was a happie imitator of nature, was a most gentle expresser of it. his mind and hand went together: and what he thought, he vttered with that easinesse, that wee haue scarse receiued from him a blot in his papers. but it is not our prouince, who onely gather his works, and giue them you, to praise him. it is yours that reade him.' these are hardly the words of men who would take liberties, and liberties enormous, after ideas of their own, with the text of a friend thus honoured. but although they printed with intent altogether faithful, they did so certainly without any adequate jealousy of the printers--apparently without a suspicion of how they could blunder. of blunders therefore in the folio also there are many, some through mere following of blundered print, some in fresh corruption of the same, some through mistaking of the manuscript corrections, and some probably from the misprinting of mistakes, so that the corrections themselves are at times anything but correctly recorded. i assume also that the printers were not altogether above the mean passion, common to the day-labourers of art, from chaucer's adam scrivener down to the present carvers of marble, for modifying and improving the work of the master. the vain incapacity of a self-constituted critic will make him regard his poorest fancy as an emendation; seldom has he the insight of touchstone to recognize, or his modesty to acknowledge, that although his own, it is none the less an ill-favoured thing. not such, however, was the spirit of the editors; and all the changes of importance from the text of the quarto i receive as shakspere's own. with this belief there can be no presumption in saying that they seem to me not only to trim the parts immediately affected, but to render the play more harmonious and consistent. it is no presumption to take the poet for superior to his work and capable of thinking he could better it--neither, so believing, to imagine one can see that he has been successful. a main argument for the acceptance of the folio edition as the poet's last presentment of his work, lies in the fact that there are passages in it which are not in the quarto, and are very plainly from his hand. if we accept these, what right have we to regard the omission from the folio of passages in the quarto as not proceeding from the same hand? had there been omissions only, we might well have doubted; but the insertions greatly tend to remove the doubt. i cannot even imagine the arguments which would prevail upon me to accept the latter and refuse the former. omission itself shows for a master-hand: see the magnificent passage omitted, and rightly, by milton from the opening of his _comus_. 'but when a man has published two forms of a thing, may we not judge between him and himself, and take the reading we like better?' assuredly. take either the quarto or the folio; both are shakspere's. take any reading from either, and defend it. but do not mix up the two, retaining what he omits along with what he inserts, and print them so. this is what the editors do--and the thing is not shakspere's. with homage like this, no artist could be other than indignant. it is well to show every difference, even to one of spelling where it might indicate possibly a different word, but there ought to be no mingling of differences. if i prefer the reading of the quarto to that of the folio, as may sometimes well happen where blunders so abound, i say i _prefer_--i do not dare to substitute. my student shall owe nothing of his text to any but the editors of the folio, john heminge and henrie condell. i desire to take him with me. i intend a continuous, but ever-varying, while one-ended lesson. we shall follow the play step by step, avoiding almost nothing that suggests difficulty, and noting everything that seems to throw light on the character of a person of the drama. the pointing i consider a matter to be dealt with as any one pleases--for the sake of sense, of more sense, of better sense, as much as if the text were a greek manuscript without any division of words. this position i need not argue with anyone who has given but a cursory glance to the original page, or knows anything of printers' pointing. i hold hard by the word, for that is, or may be, grain: the pointing as we have it is merest chaff, and more likely to be wrong than right. here also, however, i change nothing in the text, only suggest in the notes. nor do i remark on any of the pointing where all that is required is the attention of the student. doubtless many will consider not a few of the notes unnecessary. but what may be unnecessary to one, may be welcome to another, and it is impossible to tell what a student may or may not know. at the same time those form a large class who imagine they know a thing when they do not understand it enough to see there is a difficulty in it: to such, an attempt at explanation must of course seem foolish. a _number_ in the margin refers to a passage of the play or in the notes, and is the number of the page where the passage is to be found. if the student finds, for instance, against a certain line upon page 8, the number 12, and turns to page 12, he will there find the number 8 against a certain line: the two lines or passages are to be compared, and will be found in some way parallel, or mutually explanatory. wherever i refer to the quarto, i intend the 2nd quarto--that is shakspere's own authorized edition, published in his life-time. where occasionally i refer to the surreptitious edition, the mere inchoation of the drama, i call it, as it is, the _1st quarto_. any word or phrase or stage-direction in the 2nd quarto differing from that in the folio, is placed on the margin in a line with the other: choice between them i generally leave to my student. omissions are mainly given as footnotes. each edition does something to correct the errors of the other. i beg my companion on this journey to let hamlet reveal himself in the play, to observe him as he assumes individuality by the concretion of characteristics. i warn him that any popular notion concerning him which he may bring with him, will be only obstructive to a perception of the true idea of the grandest of all shakspere's presentations. it will amuse this and that man to remark how often i speak of hamlet as if he were a real man and not the invention of shakspere--for indeed the hamlet of the old story is no more that of shakspere than a lump of coal is a diamond; but i imagine, if he tried the thing himself, he would find it hardly possible to avoid so speaking, and at the same time say what he had to say. i give hearty thanks to the press-reader, a gentleman whose name i do not know, not only for keen watchfulness over the printing-difficulties of the book, but for saving me from several blunders in derivation. bordighera: _december_, 1884. [transcriber's note: in the paper original, each left-facing page contained the text of the play, with sidenotes and footnote references, and the corresponding right-facing page contained the footnotes themselves and additional commentary. in this electronic text, the play-text pages are numbered (contrary to custom in electronic texts), to allow use of the cross-references provided in the sidenotes and footnotes. in the play text, sidenotes towards the left of the page are those marginal cross-references described earlier, and sidenotes toward the right of the page are the differences noted a few paragraphs later.] [page 1] the tragedie of hamlet prince of denmarke. [page 2] _actus primus._ _enter barnardo and francisco two centinels_[1]. _barnardo._ who's there? _fran._[2] nay answer me: stand and vnfold yourselfe. _bar._ long liue the king.[3] _fran._ _barnardo?_ _bar._ he. _fran._ you come most carefully vpon your houre. _bar._ 'tis now strook twelue, get thee to bed _francisco_. _fran._ for this releefe much thankes: 'tis [sidenote: 42] bitter cold, and i am sicke at heart.[4] _barn._ haue you had quiet guard?[5] _fran._ not a mouse stirring. _barn._ well, goodnight. if you do meet _horatio_ and _marcellus_, the riuals[6] of my watch, bid them make hast. _enter horatio and marcellus._ _fran._ i thinke i heare them. stand: who's there? [sidenote: stand ho, who is there?] _hor._ friends to this ground. _mar._ and leige-men to the dane. _fran._ giue you good night. _mar._ o farwel honest soldier, who hath [sidenote: souldiers] relieu'd you? [footnote 1: --meeting. almost dark.] [footnote 2: --on the post, and with the right of challenge.] [footnote 3: the watchword.] [footnote 4: the key-note to the play--as in _macbeth_: 'fair is foul and foul is fair.' the whole nation is troubled by late events at court.] [footnote 5: --thinking of the apparition.] [footnote 6: _companions_.] [page 4] _fra._ _barnardo_ ha's my place: giue you good-night. [sidenote: hath] _exit fran._ _mar._ holla _barnardo_. _bar._ say, what is horatio there? _hor._ a peece of him. _bar._ welcome _horatio_, welcome good _marcellus_. _mar._ what, ha's this thing appear'd againe to [sidenote: _hor_.[1]] night. _bar._ i haue seene nothing. _mar._ horatio saies, 'tis but our fantasie, and will not let beleefe take hold of him touching this dreaded sight, twice seene of vs, therefore i haue intreated him along with vs, to watch the minutes of this night, that if againe this apparition come, [sidenote: 6] he may approue our eyes, and speake to it.[2] _hor._ tush, tush, 'twill not appeare. _bar._ sit downe a-while, and let vs once againe assaile your eares, that are so fortified against our story, what we two nights haue seene. [sidenote: have two nights seen] _hor._ well, sit we downe, and let vs heare _barnardo_ speake of this. _barn._ last night of all, when yond same starre that's westward from the pole had made his course t'illume that part of heauen where now it burnes, _marcellus_ and my selfe, the bell then beating one.[3] _mar._ peace, breake thee of: _enter the ghost_. [sidenote: enter ghost] looke where it comes againe. _barn._ in the same figure, like the king that's dead. [footnote 1: better, i think; for the tone is scoffing, and horatio is the incredulous one who has not seen it.] [footnote 2: --being a scholar, and able to address it as an apparition ought to be addressed--marcellus thinking, perhaps, with others, that a ghost required latin.] [footnote 3: _1st q._ 'towling one.] [page 6] [sidenote: 4] _mar._ thou art a scholler; speake to it _horatio._ _barn._ lookes it not like the king? marke it _horatio_. [sidenote: looks a not] _hora._ most like: it harrowes me with fear and wonder. [sidenote: horrowes[1]] _barn._ it would be spoke too.[2] _mar._ question it _horatio._ [sidenote: speak to it _horatio_] _hor._ what art thou that vsurp'st this time of night,[3] together with that faire and warlike forme[4] in which the maiesty of buried denmarke did sometimes[5] march: by heauen i charge thee speake. _mar._ it is offended.[6] _barn._ see, it stalkes away. _hor._ stay: speake; speake: i charge thee, speake. _exit the ghost._ [sidenote: _exit ghost._] _mar._ 'tis gone, and will not answer. _barn._ how now _horatio_? you tremble and look pale: is not this something more then fantasie? what thinke you on't? _hor._ before my god, i might not this beleeue without the sensible and true auouch of mine owne eyes. _mar._ is it not like the king? _hor._ as thou art to thy selfe, such was the very armour he had on, when th' ambitious norwey combatted: [sidenote: when he the ambitious] so frown'd he once, when in an angry parle he smot the sledded pollax on the ice.[8] [sidenote: sleaded[7]] 'tis strange. [sidenote: 274] _mar._ thus twice before, and iust at this dead houre, [sidenote: and jump at this] [footnote 1: _1st q_. 'horrors mee'.] [footnote 2: a ghost could not speak, it was believed, until it was spoken to.] [footnote 3: it was intruding upon the realm of the embodied.] [footnote 4: none of them took it as certainly the late king: it was only clear to them that it was like him. hence they say, 'usurp'st the forme.'] [footnote 5: _formerly_.] [footnote 6: --at the word _usurp'st_.] [footnote 7: also _1st q_.] [footnote 8: the usual interpretation is 'the sledged poles'; but not to mention that in a parley such action would have been treacherous, there is another far more picturesque, and more befitting the _angry parle_, at the same time more characteristic and forcible: the king in his anger smote his loaded pole-axe on the ice. there is some uncertainty about the word _sledded_ or _sleaded_ (which latter suggests _lead_), but we have the word _sledge_ and _sledge-hammer_, the smith's heaviest, and the phrase, 'a sledging blow.' the quarrel on the occasion referred to rather seems with the norwegians (see schmidt's _shakespeare-lexicon: sledded_.) than with the poles; and there would be no doubt as to the latter interpretation being the right one, were it not that _the polacke_, for the pole, or nation of the poles, does occur in the play. that is, however, no reason why the dane should not have carried a pole-axe, or caught one from the hand of an attendant. in both our authorities, and in the _1st q_. also, the word is _pollax_--as in chaucer's _knights tale_: 'no maner schot, ne pollax, ne schort knyf,'--in the _folio_ alone with a capital; whereas not once in the play is the similar word that stands for the poles used in the plural. in the _2nd quarto_ there is _pollacke_ three times, _pollack_ once, _pole_ once; in the _1st quarto_, _polacke_ twice; in the _folio_, _poleak_ twice, _polake_ once. the poet seems to have avoided the plural form.] [page 8] with martiall stalke,[1] hath he gone by our watch. _hor_. in what particular thought to work, i know not: but in the grosse and scope of my opinion, [sidenote: mine] this boades some strange erruption to our state. _mar_. good now sit downe, and tell me he that knowes [sidenote: 16] why this same strict and most obseruant watch,[2] so nightly toyles the subiect of the land, and why such dayly cast of brazon cannon [sidenote: and with such dayly cost] and forraigne mart for implements of warre: why such impresse of ship-wrights, whose sore taske do's not diuide the sunday from the weeke, what might be toward, that this sweaty hast[3] doth make the night ioynt-labourer with the day: who is't that can informe me? _hor._ that can i, at least the whisper goes so: our last king, whose image euen but now appear'd to vs, was (as you know) by _fortinbras_ of norway, (thereto prick'd on by a most emulate pride)[4] dar'd to the combate. in which, our valiant _hamlet_, (for so this side of our knowne world esteem'd him)[5] [sidenote: 6] did slay this _fortinbras_: who by a seal'd compact, well ratified by law, and heraldrie, [sidenote: heraldy] did forfeite (with his life) all those his lands [sidenote: these] which he stood seiz'd on,[6] to the conqueror: [sidenote: seaz'd of,] against the which, a moity[7] competent was gaged by our king: which had return'd [sidenote: had returne] to the inheritance of _fortinbras_, [footnote 1: _1st q_. 'marshall stalke'.] [footnote 2: here is set up a frame of external relations, to inclose with fitting contrast, harmony, and suggestion, the coming show of things. 273] [footnote 3: _1st q_. 'sweaty march'.] [footnote 4: pride that leads to emulate: the ambition to excel--not oneself, but another.] [footnote 5: the whole western hemisphere.] [footnote 6: _stood possessed of_.] [footnote 7: used by shakspere for _a part_.] [page 10] had he bin vanquisher, as by the same cou'nant [sidenote: the same comart] and carriage of the article designe,[1] [sidenote: desseigne,] his fell to _hamlet_. now sir, young _fortinbras_, of vnimproued[2] mettle, hot and full, hath in the skirts of norway, heere and there, shark'd[3] vp a list of landlesse resolutes, [sidenote: of lawlesse] for foode and diet, to some enterprize that hath a stomacke in't[4]: which is no other (and it doth well appeare vnto our state) [sidenote: as it] but to recouer of vs by strong hand and termes compulsatiue, those foresaid lands [sidenote: compulsatory,] so by his father lost: and this (i take it) is the maine motiue of our preparations, the sourse of this our watch, and the cheefe head of this post-hast, and romage[5] in the land. [a]_enter ghost againe_. but soft, behold: loe, where it comes againe: [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-_bar._ i thinke it be no other, but enso; well may it sort[6] that this portentous figure comes armed through our watch so like the king that was and is the question of these warres. _hora._ a moth it is to trouble the mindes eye: in the most high and palmy state of rome, a little ere the mightiest _iulius_ fell the graues stood tennatlesse, and the sheeted dead did squeake and gibber in the roman streets[7] as starres with traines of fier, and dewes of blood disasters in the sunne; and the moist starre, vpon whose influence _neptunes_ empier stands was sicke almost to doomesday with eclipse. and euen the like precurse of feare euents as harbindgers preceading still the fates and prologue to the _omen_ comming on haue heauen and earth together demonstrated vnto our climatures and countrymen.[8] _enter ghost_.] [footnote 1: french dã©signã©.] [footnote 2: _not proved_ or _tried. improvement_, as we use the word, is the result of proof or trial: _upon-proof-ment_.] [footnote 3: is _shark'd_ related to the german _scharren_? _zusammen scharren--to scrape together._ the anglo-saxon _searwian_ is _to prepare, entrap, take_.] [footnote 4: some enterprise of acquisition; one for the sake of getting something.] [footnote 5: in scotch, _remish_--the noise of confused and varied movements; a _row_; a _rampage_.--associated with french _remuage_?] [footnote 6: _suit_: so used in scotland still, i think.] [footnote 7: _julius caesar_, act i. sc. 3, and act ii. sc. 2.] [footnote 8: the only suggestion i dare make for the rectifying of the confusion of this speech is, that, if the eleventh line were inserted between the fifth and sixth, there would be sense, and very nearly grammar. and the sheeted dead did squeake and gibber in the roman streets, as harbindgers preceading still the fates; as starres with traines of fier, and dewes of blood (here understand _precede_) disasters in the sunne; the tenth will close with the twelfth line well enough. but no one, any more than myself, will be _satisfied_ with the suggestion. the probability is, of course, that a line has dropped out between the fifth and sixth. anything like this would restore the connection: _the labouring heavens themselves teemed dire portent_ as starres &c.] [page 12] ile crosse it, though it blast me.[1] stay illusion:[2] [sidenote: _it[4] spreads his armes_.] if thou hast any sound, or vse of voyce,[3] speake to me. if there be any good thing to be done, that may to thee do ease, and grace to me; speak to me. if thou art priuy to thy countries fate (which happily foreknowing may auoyd) oh speake. or, if thou hast vp-hoorded in thy life extorted treasure in the wombe of earth, (for which, they say, you spirits oft walke in death) [sidenote: your] [sidenote: _the cocke crowes_] speake of it. stay, and speake. stop it _marcellus_. _mar_. shall i strike at it with my partizan? [sidenote: strike it with] _hor_. do, if it will not stand. _barn_. 'tis heere. _hor_. 'tis heere. _mar_. 'tis gone. _exit ghost_[5] we do it wrong, being so maiesticall[6] to offer it the shew of violence, for it is as the ayre, invulnerable, and our vaine blowes, malicious mockery. _barn_. it was about to speake, when the cocke crew. _hor_. and then it started, like a guilty thing vpon a fearfull summons. i haue heard, the cocke that is the trumpet to the day, [sidenote: to the morne,] doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throate[7] awake the god of day: and at his warning, whether in sea, or fire, in earth, or ayre, th'extrauagant,[8] and erring[9] spirit, hyes to his confine. and of the truth heerein, this present obiect made probation.[10] _mar_. it faded on the crowing of the cocke.[11] [footnote 1: there are various tales of the blasting power of evil ghosts.] [footnote 2: plain doubt, and strong.] [footnote 3: 'sound of voice, or use of voice': physical or mental faculty of speech.] [footnote 4: i judge this _it_ a mistake for _h._, standing for _horatio_: he would stop it.] [footnote 5: _not in q._] [footnote 6: 'as we cannot hurt it, our blows are a mockery; and it is wrong to mock anything so majestic': _for_ belongs to _shew_; 'we do it wrong, being so majestical, to offer it what is but a _show_ of violence, for it is, &c.'] [footnote 7: _1st q._ 'his earely and shrill crowing throate.'] [footnote 8: straying beyond bounds.] [footnote 9: wandering.] [footnote 10: 'gave proof.'] [footnote 11: this line said thoughtfully--as the text of the observation following it. from the _eerie_ discomfort of their position, marcellus takes refuge in the thought of the saviour's birth into the haunted world, bringing sweet law, restraint, and health.] [page 14] some sayes, that euer 'gainst that season comes [sidenote: say] wherein our sauiours birth is celebrated, the bird of dawning singeth all night long: [sidenote: this bird] and then (they say) no spirit can walke abroad, [sidenote: spirit dare sturre] the nights are wholsome, then no planets strike, no faiery talkes, nor witch hath power to charme: [sidenote: fairy takes,[1]] so hallow'd, and so gracious is the time. [sidenote: is that time.] _hor._ so haue i heard, and do in part beleeue it. but looke, the morne in russet mantle clad, walkes o're the dew of yon high easterne hill, [sidenote: eastward[2]] breake we our watch vp, and by my aduice [sidenote: advise] let vs impart what we haue scene to night vnto yong _hamlet_. for vpon my life, this spirit dumbe to vs, will speake to him: do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, as needfull in our loues, fitting our duty? [sidenote: 30] _mar._ let do't i pray, and i this morning know where we shall finde him most conueniently. [sidenote: convenient.] _exeunt._ scena secunda[3] _enter claudius king of denmarke. gertrude the queene, hamlet, polonius, laertes, and his sister ophelia, lords attendant._[4] [sidenote: _florish. enter claudius, king of denmarke, gertrad the queene, counsaile: as polonius, and his sonne laertes, hamelt cum abijs._] _king._ though yet of _hamlet_ our deere brothers death [sidenote: _claud._] the memory be greene: and that it vs befitted to beare our hearts in greefe, and our whole kingdome to be contracted in one brow of woe: yet so farre hath discretion fought with nature, that we with wisest sorrow thinke on him, [footnote 1: does it mean--_carries off any child, leaving a changeling_? or does it mean--_affect with evil_, as a disease might infect or _take_?] [footnote 2: _1st q_. 'hie mountaine top,'] [footnote 3: _in neither q._] [footnote 4: the first court after the marriage.] [page 16] together with remembrance of our selues. therefore our sometimes sister, now our queen, th'imperiall ioyntresse of this warlike state, [sidenote: to this] haue we, as 'twere, with a defeated ioy, with one auspicious, and one dropping eye, [sidenote: an auspitious and a] with mirth in funerall, and with dirge in marriage, in equall scale weighing delight and dole[1] taken to wife; nor haue we heerein barr'd[2] your better wisedomes, which haue freely gone with this affaire along, for all our thankes. [sidenote: 8] now followes, that you know young _fortinbras_,[3] holding a weake supposall of our worth; or thinking by our late deere brothers death, our state to be disioynt, and out of frame, colleagued with the dreame of his aduantage;[4] [sidenote: this dreame] he hath not fayl'd to pester vs with message, importing the surrender of those lands lost by his father: with all bonds of law [sidenote: bands] to our most valiant brother. so much for him. _enter voltemand and cornelius._[5] now for our selfe, and for this time of meeting thus much the businesse is. we haue heere writ to norway, vncle of young _fortinbras_, who impotent and bedrid, scarsely heares of this his nephewes purpose, to suppresse his further gate[6] heerein. in that the leuies, the lists, and full proportions are all made out of his subiect: and we heere dispatch you good _cornelius_, and you _voltemand_, for bearing of this greeting to old norway, [sidenote: bearers] giuing to you no further personall power to businesse with the king, more then the scope of these dilated articles allow:[7] [sidenote: delated[8]] farewell and let your hast commend your duty.[9] [footnote 1: weighing out an equal quantity of each.] [footnote 2: like _crossed_.] [footnote 3: 'now follows--that (_which_) you know--young fortinbras:--'] [footnote 4: _colleagued_ agrees with _supposall_. the preceding two lines may be regarded as somewhat parenthetical. _dream of advantage_--hope of gain.] [footnote 5: _not in q._] [footnote 6: _going; advance._ note in norway also, as well as in denmark, the succession of the brother.] [footnote 7: (_giving them papers_).] [footnote 8: which of these is right, i cannot tell. _dilated_ means _expanded_, and would refer to _the scope; _delated_ means _committed_--to them, to limit them.] [footnote 9: idea of duty.] [page 18] _volt._ in that, and all things, will we shew our duty. _king._ we doubt it nothing, heartily farewell. [sidenote: 74] [1]_exit voltemand and cornelius._ and now _laertes_, what's the newes with you? you told vs of some suite. what is't _laertes_? you cannot speake of reason to the dane, and loose your voyce. what would'st thou beg _laertes_, that shall not be my offer, not thy asking?[2] the head is not more natiue to the heart, the hand more instrumentall to the mouth, then is the throne of denmarke to thy father.[3] what would'st thou haue _laertes_? _laer._ dread my lord, [sidenote: my dread] your leaue and fauour to returne to france, from whence, though willingly i came to denmarke to shew my duty in your coronation, yet now i must confesse, that duty done, [sidenote: 22] my thoughts and wishes bend againe towards toward france,[4] and bow them to your gracious leaue and pardon. _king._ haue you your fathers leaue? what sayes _pollonius_? [a] _pol._ he hath my lord: i do beseech you giue him leaue to go. _king._ take thy faire houre _laertes_, time be thine, and thy best graces spend it at thy will: but now my cosin _hamlet_, and my sonne? [footnote a: _in the quarto_:-_polo._ hath[5] my lord wroung from me my slowe leaue by laboursome petition, and at last vpon his will i seald my hard consent,[6] i doe beseech you giue him leaue to goe.] [footnote 1: _not in q._] [footnote 2: 'before they call, i will answer; and while they are yet speaking, i will hear.'--_isaiah_, lxv. 24.] [footnote 3: the villain king courts his courtiers.] [footnote 4: he had been educated there. compare 23. but it would seem rather to the court than the university he desired to return. see his father's instructions, 38.] [footnote 5: _h'ath_--a contraction for _he hath_.] [footnote 6: a play upon the act of sealing a will with wax.] [page 20] _ham._ a little more then kin, and lesse then kinde.[1] _king._ how is it that the clouds still hang on you? _ham._ not so my lord, i am too much i'th'sun.[2] [sidenote: so much my ... in the sonne.] _queen._ good hamlet cast thy nightly colour off,[4] [sidenote: nighted[3]] and let thine eye looke like a friend on denmarke. do not for euer with thy veyled[5] lids [sidenote: vailed] seeke for thy noble father in the dust; thou know'st 'tis common, all that liues must dye, passing through nature, to eternity. _ham._ i madam, it is common.[6] _queen._ if it be; why seemes it so particular with thee. _ham._ seemes madam? nay, it is: i know not seemes:[7] 'tis not alone my inky cloake (good mother) [sidenote: cloake coold mother [8]] nor customary suites of solemne blacke, nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, no, nor the fruitfull riuer in the eye, nor the deiected hauiour of the visage, together with all formes, moods, shewes of griefe, [sidenote: moodes, chapes of] that can denote me truly. these indeed seeme,[9] [sidenote: deuote] for they are actions that a man might[10] play: but i haue that within, which passeth show; [sidenote: passes] these, but the trappings, and the suites of woe. _king._ 'tis sweet and commendable in your nature _hamlet_, to giue these mourning duties to your father:[11] but you must know, your father lost a father, that father lost, lost his, and the suruiuer bound in filiall obligation, for some terme to do obsequious[12] sorrow. but to perseuer in obstinate condolement, is a course [footnote 1: an _aside_. hamlet's first utterance is of dislike to his uncle. he is more than _kin_ through his unwelcome marriage--less than _kind_ by the difference in their natures. to be _kind_ is to behave as one _kinned_ or related. but the word here is the noun, and means _nature_, or sort by birth.] [footnote 2: a word-play may be here intended between _sun_ and _son_: _a little more than kin--too much i' th' son_. so george herbert: for when he sees my ways, i die; but i have got his _son_, and he hath none; and dr. donne: at my death thy son shall shine, as he shines now and heretofore.] [footnote 3: 'wintred garments'--_as you like it_, iii. 2.] [footnote 4: he is the only one who has not for the wedding put off his mourning.] [footnote 5: _lowered_, or cast down: _fr. avaler_, to lower.] [footnote 6: 'plainly you treat it as a common matter--a thing of no significance!' _i_ is constantly used for _ay_, _yes_.] [footnote 7: he pounces on the word _seems_.] [footnote 8: not unfrequently the type would appear to have been set up from dictation.] [footnote 9: they are things of the outside, and must _seem_, for they are capable of being imitated; they are the natural _shows_ of grief. but he has that in him which cannot _show_ or _seem_, because nothing can represent it. these are 'the trappings and the suites of _woe_;' they fitly represent woe, but they cannot shadow forth that which is within him--a something different from woe, far beyond it and worse, passing all reach of embodiment and manifestation. what this something is, comes out the moment he is left by himself.] [footnote 10: the emphasis is on _might_.] [footnote 11: both his uncle and his mother decline to understand him. they will have it he mourns the death of his father, though they must at least suspect another cause for his grief. note the intellectual mastery of the hypocrite--which accounts for his success.] [footnote 12: belonging to _obsequies_.] [page 22] of impious stubbornnesse. tis vnmanly greefe, it shewes a will most incorrect to heauen, a heart vnfortified, a minde impatient, [sidenote: or minde] an vnderstanding simple, and vnschool'd: for, what we know must be, and is as common as any the most vulgar thing to sence, why should we in our peeuish opposition take it to heart? fye, 'tis a fault to heauen, a fault against the dead, a fault to nature, to reason most absurd, whose common theame is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, from the first coarse,[1] till he that dyed to day, [sidenote: course] this must be so. we pray you throw to earth this vnpreuayling woe, and thinke of vs as of a father; for let the world take note, you are the most immediate to our throne,[2] and with no lesse nobility of loue, then that which deerest father beares his sonne, do i impart towards you. for your intent [sidenote: toward] [sidenote: 18] in going backe to schoole in wittenberg,[3] it is most retrograde to our desire: [sidenote: retrogard] and we beseech you, bend you to remaine heere in the cheere and comfort of our eye, our cheefest courtier cosin, and our sonne. _qu._ let not thy mother lose her prayers _hamlet_: [sidenote: loose] i prythee stay with vs, go not to wittenberg. [sidenote: pray thee] _ham._ i shall in all my best obey you madam.[4] _king._ why 'tis a louing, and a faire reply, be as our selfe in denmarke. madam come, this gentle and vnforc'd accord of _hamlet_[5] sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, no iocond health that denmarke drinkes to day, [sidenote: 44] but the great cannon to the clowds shall tell, [footnote 1: _corpse_.] [footnote 2: --seeking to propitiate him with the hope that his succession had been but postponed by his uncle's election.] [footnote 3: note that hamlet was educated in germany--at wittenberg, the university where in 1508 luther was appointed professor of philosophy. compare 19. there was love of study as well as disgust with home in his desire to return to _schoole_: this from what we know of him afterwards.] [footnote 4: emphasis on _obey_. a light on the character of hamlet.] [footnote 5: he takes it, or pretends to take it, for far more than it was. he desires friendly relations with hamlet.] [page 24] and the kings rouce,[1] the heauens shall bruite againe, respeaking earthly thunder. come away. _exeunt_ [sidenote: _florish. exeunt all but hamlet._] _manet hamlet._ [2]_ham._ oh that this too too solid flesh, would melt, [sidenote: sallied flesh[3]] thaw, and resolue it selfe into a dew: [sidenote: 125,247,260] or that the euerlasting had not fixt [sidenote: 121 _bis_] his cannon 'gainst selfe-slaughter. o god, o god! [sidenote: seale slaughter, o god, god,] how weary, stale, flat, and vnprofitable [sidenote: wary] seemes to me all the vses of this world? [sidenote: seeme] fie on't? oh fie, fie, 'tis an vnweeded garden [sidenote: ah fie,] that growes to seed: things rank, and grosse in nature possesse it meerely. that it should come to this: [sidenote: meerely that it should come thus] but two months dead[4]: nay, not so much; not two, so excellent a king, that was to this _hiperion_ to a satyre: so louing to my mother, that he might not beteene the windes of heauen [sidenote: beteeme[5]] visit her face too roughly. heauen and earth must i remember: why she would hang on him, [sidenote: should] as if encrease of appetite had growne by what it fed on; and yet within a month? let me not thinke on't: frailty, thy name is woman.[6] a little month, or ere those shooes were old, with which she followed my poore fathers body like _niobe_, all teares. why she, euen she.[7] (o heauen! a beast that wants discourse[8] of reason [sidenote: o god] would haue mourn'd longer) married with mine vnkle, [sidenote: my] [footnote 1: german _rausch_, _drunkenness_. 44, 68] [footnote 2: a soliloquy is as the drawing called a section of a thing: it shows the inside of the man. soliloquy is only rare, not unnatural, and in art serves to reveal more of nature. in the drama it is the lifting of a veil through which dialogue passes. the scene is for the moment shifted into the lonely spiritual world, and here we begin to know hamlet. such is his wretchedness, both in mind and circumstance, that he could well wish to vanish from the world. the suggestion of suicide, however, he dismisses at once--with a momentary regret, it is true--but he dismisses it--as against the will of god to whom he appeals in his misery. the cause of his misery is now made plain to us--his trouble that passes show, deprives life of its interest, and renders the world a disgust to him. there is no lamentation over his father's death, so dwelt upon by the king; for loving grief does not crush. far less could his uncle's sharp practice, in scheming for his own election during hamlet's absence, have wrought in a philosopher like him such an effect. the one makes him sorrowful, the other might well annoy him, but neither could render him unhappy: his misery lies at his mother's door; it is her conduct that has put out the light of her son's life. she who had been to him the type of all excellence, she whom his father had idolized, has within a month of his death married his uncle, and is living in habitual incest--for as such, a marriage of the kind was then unanimously regarded. to hamlet's condition and behaviour, his mother, her past and her present, is the only and sufficing key. his very idea of unity had been rent in twain.] [footnote 3: _1st q_. 'too much grieu'd and sallied flesh.' _sallied_, sullied: compare _sallets_, 67, 103. i have a strong suspicion that _sallied_ and not _solid_ is the true word. it comes nearer the depth of hamlet's mood.] [footnote 4: two months at the present moment.] [footnote 5: this is the word all the editors take: which is right, i do not know; i doubt if either is. the word in _a midsummer night's dream_, act i. sc. 1- belike for want of rain; which i could well beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes-i cannot believe the same word. the latter means _produce for_, as from the place of origin. the word, in the sense necessary to this passage, is not, so far as i know, to be found anywhere else. i have no suggestion to make.] [footnote 6: from his mother he generalizes to _woman_. after having believed in such a mother, it may well be hard for a man to believe in any woman.] [footnote 7: _q._ omits 'euen she.'] [footnote 8: the going abroad among things.] [page 26] my fathers brother: but no more like my father, then i to _hercules_. within a moneth? ere yet the salt of most vnrighteous teares had left the flushing of her gauled eyes, [sidenote: in her] she married. o most wicked speed, to post[1] with such dexterity to incestuous sheets: it is not, nor it cannot come to good, but breake my heart, for i must hold my tongue.[2] _enter horatio, barnard, and marcellus._ [sidenote: _marcellus, and bernardo._] _hor._ haile to your lordship.[3] _ham._ i am glad to see you well: _horatio_, or i do forget my selfe. _hor._ the same my lord, and your poore seruant euer. [sidenote: 134] _ham._ [4]sir my good friend, ile change that name with you:[5] and what make you from wittenberg _horatio_?[6] _marcellus._[7] _mar._ my good lord. _ham._ i am very glad to see you: good euen sir.[8] but what in faith make you from _wittemberge_? _hor._ a truant disposition, good my lord.[9] _ham._ i would not haue your enemy say so;[10] [sidenote: not heare] nor shall you doe mine eare that violence,[11] [sidenote: my eare] [sidenote: 134] to make it truster of your owne report against your selfe. i know you are no truant: but what is your affaire in _elsenour_? wee'l teach you to drinke deepe, ere you depart.[12] [sidenote: you for to drinke ere] _hor._ my lord, i came to see your fathers funerall. _ham._ i pray thee doe not mock me (fellow student) [sidenote: pre thee] i thinke it was to see my mothers wedding. [sidenote: was to my] [footnote 1: i suggest the pointing: speed! to post ... sheets!] [footnote 2: fit moment for the entrance of his father's messengers.] [footnote 3: they do not seem to have been intimate before, though we know from hamlet's speech (134) that he had had the greatest respect for horatio. the small degree of doubt in hamlet's recognition of his friend is due to the darkness, and the unexpectedness of his appearance.] [footnote 4: _1st q._ 'o my good friend, i change, &c.' this would leave it doubtful whether he wished to exchange servant or friend; but 'sir, my _good friend_,' correcting horatio, makes his intent plain.] [footnote 5: emphasis on _that_: 'i will exchange the name of _friend_ with you.'] [footnote 6: 'what are you doing from--out of, _away from_--wittenberg?'] [footnote 7: in recognition: the word belongs to hamlet's speech.] [footnote 8: _point thus_: 'you.--good even, sir.'--_to barnardo, whom he does not know._] [footnote 9: an ungrammatical reply. he does not wish to give the real, painful answer, and so replies confusedly, as if he had been asked, 'what makes you?' instead of, 'what do you make?'] [footnote 10: '--i should know how to answer him.'] [footnote 11: emphasis on _you_.] [footnote 12: said with contempt for his surroundings.] [page 28] _hor._ indeed my lord, it followed hard vpon. _ham._ thrift, thrift _horatio_: the funerall bakt-meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables; would i had met my dearest foe in heauen,[1] ere i had euer seerie that day _horatio_.[2] [sidenote: or ever i had] my father, me thinkes i see my father. _hor._ oh where my lord? [sidenote: where my] _ham._ in my minds eye (_horatio_)[3] _hor._ i saw him once; he was a goodly king. [sidenote: once, a was] _ham._ he was a man, take him for all in all: [sidenote: a was a man] i shall not look vpon his like againe. _hor._ my lord, i thinke i saw him yesternight. _ham._ saw? who?[4] _hor._ my lord, the king your father. _ham._ the king my father?[5] _hor._ season[6] your admiration for a while with an attent eare;[7] till i may deliuer vpon the witnesse of these gentlemen, this maruell to you. _ham._ for heauens loue let me heare. [sidenote: god's love] _hor._ two nights together, had these gentlemen (_marcellus_ and _barnardo_) on their watch in the dead wast and middle of the night[8] beene thus encountred. a figure like your father,[9] arm'd at all points exactly, _cap a pe_,[10] [sidenote: armed at poynt] appeares before them, and with sollemne march goes slow and stately: by them thrice he walkt, [sidenote: stately by them; thrice] by their opprest and feare-surprized eyes, within his truncheons length; whilst they bestil'd [sidenote: they distill'd[11]] almost to ielly with the act of feare,[12] stand dumbe and speake not to him. this to me in dreadfull[13] secrecie impart they did, and i with them the third night kept the watch, whereas[14] they had deliuer'd both in time, [footnote 1: _dear_ is not unfrequently used as an intensive; but 'my dearest foe' is not 'the man who hates me most,' but 'the man whom most i regard as my foe.'] [footnote 2: note hamlet's trouble: the marriage, not the death, nor the supplantation.] [footnote 3: --with a little surprise at horatio's question.] [footnote 4: said as if he must have misheard. astonishment comes only with the next speech.] [footnote 5: _1st q_. 'ha, ha, the king my father ke you.'] [footnote 6: qualify.] [footnote 7: _1st q_. 'an attentiue eare,'.] [footnote 8: possibly, _dead vast_, as in _1st q_.; but _waste_ as good, leaving also room to suppose a play in the word.] [footnote 9: note the careful uncertainty.] [footnote 10: _1st q. 'capapea_.'] [footnote 11: either word would do: the _distilling_ off of the animal spirits would leave the man a jelly; the cold of fear would _bestil_ them and him to a jelly. _1st q. distilled_. but i judge _bestil'd_ the better, as the truer to the operation of fear. compare _the winter's tale_, act v. sc. 3:- there's magic in thy majesty, which has from thy admiring daughter took the spirits, standing like stone with thee.] [footnote 12: act: present influence.] [footnote 13: a secrecy more than solemn.] [footnote 14: 'where, as'.] [page 30] forme of the thing; each word made true and good, the apparition comes. i knew your father: these hands are not more like. _ham_. but where was this? _mar_. my lord, vpon the platforme where we watcht. [sidenote: watch] _ham_. did you not speake to it? _her_. my lord, i did; but answere made it none: yet once me thought it lifted vp it head, and did addresse it selfe to motion, like as it would speake: but euen then, the morning cocke crew lowd; and at the sound it shrunke in hast away, and vanisht from our sight. _ham_. tis very strange. _hor_. as i doe liue my honourd lord 'tis true; [sidenote: 14] and we did thinke it writ downe in our duty to let you know of it. [sidenote: 32,52] _ham_. indeed, indeed sirs; but this troubles me. [sidenote: indeede sirs but] hold you the watch to night? _both_. we doe my lord. [sidenote: _all_.] _ham_. arm'd, say you? _both_. arm'd, my lord. [sidenote: _all_.] _ham_. from top to toe? _both_. my lord, from head to foote. [sidenote: _all_.] _ham_. then saw you not his face? _hor_. o yes, my lord, he wore his beauer vp. _ham_. what, lookt he frowningly? [sidenote: 54,174] _hor_. a countenance more in sorrow then in anger.[1] [sidenote: 120] _ham_. pale, or red? _hor_. nay very pale. [footnote 1: the mood of the ghost thus represented, remains the same towards his wife throughout the play.] [page 32] _ham._ and fixt his eyes vpon you? _hor._ most constantly. _ham._ i would i had beene there. _hor._ it would haue much amaz'd you. _ham._ very like, very like: staid it long? [sidenote: very like, stayd] _hor._ while one with moderate hast might tell a hundred. [sidenote: hundreth] _all._ longer, longer. [sidenote: _both._] _hor._ not when i saw't. _ham._ his beard was grisly?[1] no. [sidenote: grissl'd] _hor._ it was, as i haue seene it in his life, [sidenote: 138] a sable[2] siluer'd. _ham._ ile watch to night; perchance 'twill wake againe. [sidenote: walke againe.] _hor._ i warrant you it will. [sidenote: warn't it] [sidenote: 44] _ham._ if it assume my noble fathers person,[3] ile speake to it, though hell it selfe should gape and bid me hold my peace. i pray you all, if you haue hitherto conceald this sight; let it bee treble[5] in your silence still: [sidenote: be tenable in[4]] and whatsoeuer els shall hap to night, [sidenote: what someuer els] giue it an vnderstanding but no tongue; i will requite your loues; so, fare ye well: [sidenote: farre you] vpon the platforme twixt eleuen and twelue, [sidenote: a leauen and twelfe] ile visit you. _all._ our duty to your honour. _exeunt._ _ham._ your loue, as mine to you: farewell. [sidenote: loves,] my fathers spirit in armes?[6] all is not well: [sidenote: 30,52] i doubt some foule play: would the night were come; till then sit still my soule; foule deeds will rise, [sidenote: fonde deedes] though all the earth orewhelm them to mens eies. _exit._ [footnote 1: _grisly_--gray; _grissl'd_--turned gray;--mixed with white.] [footnote 2: the colour of sable-fur, i think.] [footnote 3: hamlet does not _accept_ the appearance as his father; he thinks it may be he, but seems to take a usurpation of his form for very possible.] [footnote 4: _1st q_. 'tenible'] [footnote 5: if _treble_ be the right word, the actor in uttering it must point to each of the three, with distinct yet rapid motion. the phrase would be a strange one, but not unlike shakspere. compare _cymbeline_, act v. sc. 5: 'and your three motives to the battle,' meaning 'the motives of you three.' perhaps, however, it is only the adjective for the adverb: '_having concealed it hitherto, conceal it trebly now_.' but _tenible_ may be the word: 'let it be a thing to be kept in your silence still.'] [footnote 6: alone, he does not dispute _the idea_ of its being his father.] [page 34] _scena tertia_[1] _enter laertes and ophelia_. [sidenote: _ophelia his sister._] _laer_. my necessaries are imbark't; farewell: [sidenote: inbarckt,] and sister, as the winds giue benefit, and conuoy is assistant: doe not sleepe, [sidenote: conuay, in assistant doe] but let me heare from you. _ophel_. doe you doubt that? _laer_. for _hamlet_, and the trifling of his fauours, [sidenote: favour,] hold it a fashion and a toy in bloud; a violet in the youth of primy nature; froward,[2] not permanent; sweet not lasting the suppliance of a minute? no more.[3] [sidenote: the perfume and suppliance] _ophel_. no more but so.[4] _laer_. thinke it no more. for nature cressant does not grow alone, [sidenote: 172] in thewes[5] and bulke: but as his temple waxes,[6] [sidenote: bulkes, but as this] the inward seruice of the minde and soule growes wide withall. perhaps he loues you now,[7] and now no soyle nor cautell[8] doth besmerch the vertue of his feare: but you must feare [sidenote: of his will, but] his greatnesse weigh'd, his will is not his owne;[9] [sidenote: wayd] for hee himselfe is subiect to his birth:[10] hee may not, as vnuallued persons doe, carue for himselfe; for, on his choyce depends the sanctity and health of the weole state. [sidenote: the safty and | this whole] and therefore must his choyce be circumscrib'd[11] vnto the voyce and yeelding[12] of that body, whereof he is the head. then if he sayes he loues you, it fits your wisedome so farre to beleeue it; as he in his peculiar sect and force[13] [sidenote: his particuler act and place] may giue his saying deed: which is no further, [footnote 1: _not in quarto_.] [footnote 2: same as _forward_.] [footnote 3: 'no more' makes a new line in the _quarto_.] [footnote 4: i think this speech should end with a point of interrogation.] [footnote 5: muscles.] [footnote 6: the body is the temple, in which the mind and soul are the worshippers: their service grows with the temple--wide, changing and increasing its objects. the degraded use of the grand image is after the character of him who makes it.] [footnote 7: the studied contrast between laertes and hamlet begins already to appear: the dishonest man, honestly judging after his own dishonesty, warns his sister against the honest man.] [footnote 8: deceit.] [footnote 9: 'you have cause to fear when you consider his greatness: his will &c.' 'you must fear, his greatness being weighed; for because of that greatness, his will is not his own.'] [footnote 10: _this line not in quarto._] [footnote 11: limited.] [footnote 12: allowance.] [footnote 13: this change from the _quarto_ seems to me to bear the mark of shakspere's hand. the meaning is the same, but the words are more individual and choice: the _sect_, the _head_ in relation to the body, is more pregnant than _place_; and _force_, that is _power_, is a fuller word than _act_, or even _action_, for which it plainly appears to stand.] [page 36] then the maine voyce of _denmarke_ goes withall. then weigh what losse your honour may sustaine, if with too credent eare you list his songs; or lose your heart; or your chast treasure open [sidenote: or loose] to his vnmastred[1] importunity. feare it _ophelia_, feare it my deare sister, and keepe within the reare of your affection;[2] [sidenote: keepe you in the] out of the shot and danger of desire. the chariest maid is prodigall enough, [sidenote: the] if she vnmaske her beauty to the moone:[3] vertue it selfe scapes not calumnious stroakes, [sidenote: vertue] the canker galls, the infants of the spring [sidenote: the canker gaules the] too oft before the buttons[6] be disclos'd, [sidenote: their buttons] and in the morne and liquid dew of youth, contagious blastments are most imminent. be wary then, best safety lies in feare; youth to it selfe rebels, though none else neere.[6] _ophe_. i shall th'effect of this good lesson keepe, as watchmen to my heart: but good my brother [sidenote: watchman] doe not as some vngracious pastors doe, shew me the steepe and thorny way to heauen; whilst like a puft and recklesse libertine himselfe, the primrose path of dalliance treads, and reaks not his owne reade.[7][8][9] _laer_. oh, feare me not.[10] _enter polonius_. i stay too long; but here my father comes: a double blessing is a double grace; occasion smiles vpon a second leaue.[11] _polon_. yet heere _laertes_? aboord, aboord for shame, the winde sits in the shoulder of your saile, and you are staid for there: my blessing with you; [sidenote: for, there my | with thee] [footnote 1: without a master; lawless.] [footnote 2: do not go so far as inclination would lead you. keep behind your liking. do not go to the front with your impulse.] [footnote 3: --_but_ to the moon--which can show it so little.] [footnote 4: opened but not closed quotations in the _quarto_.] [footnote 5: the french _bouton_ is also both _button_ and _bud_.] [footnote 6: 'inclination is enough to have to deal with, let alone added temptation.' like his father, laertes is wise for another--a man of maxims, not behaviour. his morality is in his intellect and for self-ends, not in his will, and for the sake of truth and righteousness.] [footnote 7: _1st q_. but my deere brother, do not you like to a cunning sophister, teach me the path and ready way to heauen, while you forgetting what is said to me, your selfe, like to a carelesse libertine doth giue his heart, his appetite at ful, and little recks how that his honour dies. 'the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.' --_macbeth_, ii. 3: 'the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.' _all's well_, iv. 5.] [footnote 8: 'heeds not his own counsel.'] [footnote 9: here in quarto, _enter polonius._] [footnote 10: with the fitting arrogance and impertinence of a libertine brother, he has read his sister a lecture on propriety of behaviour; but when she gently suggests that what is good for her is good for him too,--'oh, fear me not!--i stay too long.'] [footnote 11: 'a second leave-taking is a happy chance': the chance, or occasion, because it is happy, smiles. it does not mean that occasion smiles upon a second leave, but that, upon a second leave, occasion smiles. there should be a comma after _smiles_.] [footnote 12: as many of polonius' aphorismic utterances as are given in the 1st quarto have there inverted commas; but whether intended as gleanings from books or as fruits of experience, the light they throw on the character of him who speaks them is the same: they show it altogether selfish. he is a man of the world, wise in his generation, his principles the best of their bad sort. of these his son is a fit recipient and retailer, passing on to his sister their father's grand doctrine of self-protection. but, wise in maxim, polonius is foolish in practice--not from senility, but from vanity.] [page 38] and these few precepts in thy memory,[1] see thou character.[2] giue thy thoughts no tongue, [sidenote: looke thou] nor any vnproportion'd[3] thought his act: be thou familiar; but by no meanes vulgar:[4] the friends thou hast, and their adoption tride,[5] [sidenote: those friends] grapple them to thy soule, with hoopes of steele: [sidenote: unto] but doe not dull thy palme, with entertainment of each vnhatch't, vnfledg'd comrade.[6] beware [sidenote: each new hatcht unfledgd courage,] of entrance to a quarrell: but being in bear't that th'opposed may beware of thee. giue euery man thine eare; but few thy voyce: [sidenote: thy eare,] take each mans censure[7]; but reserue thy judgement; costly thy habit as thy purse can buy; but not exprest in fancie; rich, not gawdie: for the apparell oft proclaimes the man. and they in france of the best ranck and station, are of a most select and generous[8] cheff in that.[10] [sidenote: or of a generous, chiefe[9]] neither a borrower, nor a lender be; [sidenote: lender boy,] for lone oft loses both it selfe and friend: [sidenote: loue] and borrowing duls the edge of husbandry.[11] [sidenote: dulleth edge] this aboue all; to thine owne selfe be true: and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.[12] farewell: my blessing season[13] this in thee. _laer_. most humbly doe i take my leaue, my lord. _polon_. the time inuites you, goe, your seruants tend. [sidenote: time inuests] _laer._ farewell _ophelia_, and remember well what i haue said to you.[14] _ophe_. tis in my memory lockt, and you your selfe shall keepe the key of it, _laer_. farewell. _exit laer_. _polon_. what ist _ophelia_ he hath said to you? [footnote 1: he hurries him to go, yet immediately begins to prose.] [footnote 2: engrave.] [footnote 3: not settled into its true shape (?) or, out of proportion with its occasions (?)--i cannot say which.] [footnote 4: 'cultivate close relations, but do not lie open to common access.' 'have choice intimacies, but do not be _hail, fellow! well met_ with everybody.' what follows is an expansion of the lesson.] [footnote 5: 'the friends thou hast--and the choice of them justified by trial--'_equal to_: 'provided their choice be justified &c.'] [footnote 6: 'do not make the palm hard, and dull its touch of discrimination, by shaking hands in welcome with every one that turns up.'] [footnote 7: judgment, opinion.] [footnote 8: _generosus_, of good breed, a gentleman.] [footnote 9: _1st q_. 'generall chiefe.'] [footnote 10: no doubt the omission of _of a_ gives the right number of syllables to the verse, and makes room for the interpretation which a dash between _generous_ and _chief_ renders clearer: 'are most select and generous--chief in that,'--'are most choice and well-bred--chief, indeed--at the head or top, in the matter of dress.' but without _necessity_ or _authority_--one of the two, i would not throw away a word; and suggest therefore that shakspere had here the french idiom _de son chef_ in his mind, and qualifies the noun in it with adjectives of his own. the academy dictionary gives _de son propre mouvement_ as one interpretation of the phrase. the meaning would be, 'they are of a most choice and developed instinct in dress.' _cheff_ or _chief_ suggests the upper third of the heraldic shield, but i cannot persuade the suggestion to further development. the hypercatalectic syllables _of a_, swiftly spoken, matter little to the verse, especially as it is _dramatic_.] [footnote 11: those that borrow, having to pay, lose heart for saving. 'there's husbandry in heaven; their candles are all out.'--_macbeth_, ii. 1.] [footnote 12: certainly a man cannot be true to himself without being true to others; neither can he be true to others without being true to himself; but if a man make himself the centre for the birth of action, it will follow, '_as the night the day_,' that he will be true neither to himself nor to any other man. in this regard note the history of laertes, developed in the play.] [footnote 13: --as salt, to make the counsel keep.] [footnote 14: see _note 9, page 37_.] [page 40] _ophe._ so please you, somthing touching the l. _hamlet._ _polon._ marry, well bethought: tis told me he hath very oft of late giuen priuate time to you; and you your selfe haue of your audience beene most free and bounteous.[1] if it be so, as so tis put on me;[2] and that in way of caution: i must tell you, you doe not vnderstand your selfe so cleerely, as it behoues my daughter, and your honour what is betweene you, giue me vp the truth? _ophe._ he hath my lord of late, made many tenders of his affection to me. _polon._ affection, puh. you speake like a greene girle, vnsifted in such perillous circumstance. doe you beleeue his tenders, as you call them? _ophe._ i do not know, my lord, what i should thinke. _polon._ marry ile teach you; thinke your self a baby, [sidenote: i will] that you haue tane his tenders for true pay, [sidenote: tane these] which are not starling. tender your selfe more dearly; [sidenote: sterling] or not to crack the winde of the poore phrase, [sidenote: (not ... &c.] roaming it[3] thus, you'l tender me a foole.[4] [sidenote: wrong it thus] _ophe._ my lord, he hath importun'd me with loue, in honourable fashion. _polon._ i, fashion you may call it, go too, go too. _ophe._ and hath giuen countenance to his speech, my lord, with all the vowes of heauen. [sidenote: with almost all the holy vowes of] [footnote 1: there had then been a good deal of intercourse between hamlet and ophelia: she had heartily encouraged him.] [footnote 2: 'as so i am informed, and that by way of caution,'] [footnote 3: --making it, 'the poor phrase' _tenders_, gallop wildly about--as one might _roam_ a horse; _larking it_.] [footnote 4: 'you will in your own person present me a fool.'] [page 42] _polon_. i, springes to catch woodcocks.[1] i doe know [sidenote: springs] when the bloud burnes, how prodigall the soule[2] giues the tongue vowes: these blazes, daughter, [sidenote: lends the] giuing more light then heate; extinct in both,[3] euen in their promise, as it is a making; you must not take for fire. for this time daughter,[4] [sidenote: fire, from this] be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence; [sidenote: something] set your entreatments[5] at a higher rate, then a command to parley. for lord _hamlet_, [sidenote: parle;] beleeue so much in him, that he is young, and with a larger tether may he walke, [sidenote: tider] then may be giuen you. in few,[6] _ophelia_, doe not beleeue his vowes; for they are broakers, not of the eye,[7] which their inuestments show: [sidenote: of that die] but meere implorators of vnholy sutes, [sidenote: imploratators] breathing like sanctified and pious bonds, the better to beguile. this is for all:[8] [sidenote: beguide] i would not, in plaine tearmes, from this time forth, haue you so slander any moment leisure,[9] [sidenote: 70, 82] as to giue words or talke with the lord _hamlet_:[10] looke too't, i charge you; come your wayes. _ophe_. i shall obey my lord.[11] _exeunt_. _enter hamlet, horatio, marcellus._ [sidenote: _and marcellus_] [sidenote: 2] _ham_. [12]the ayre bites shrewdly: is it very cold?[13] _hor_. it is a nipping and an eager ayre. _ham_. what hower now? _hor_. i thinke it lacks of twelue. _mar_. no, it is strooke. _hor_. indeed i heard it not: then it drawes neere the season, [sidenote: it then] wherein the spirit held his wont to walke. what does this meane my lord? [14] [sidenote: _a flourish of trumpets and 2 peeces goes of._[14]] [footnote 1: woodcocks were understood to have no brains.] [footnote 2: _1st q_. 'how prodigall the tongue lends the heart vowes.' i was inclined to take _prodigall_ for a noun, a proper name or epithet given to the soul, as in a moral play: _prodigall, the soul_; but i conclude it only an adjective used as an adverb, and the capital p a blunder.] [footnote 3: --in both light and heat.] [footnote 4: the _quarto_ has not 'daughter.'] [footnote 5: _to be entreated_ is _to yield_: 'he would nowise be entreated:' _entreatments, yieldings_: 'you are not to see him just because he chooses to command a parley.'] [footnote 6: 'in few words'; in brief.] [footnote 7: i suspect a misprint in the folio here--that an _e_ has got in for a _d_, and that the change from the _quarto_ should be _not of the dye_. then the line would mean, using the antecedent word _brokers_ in the bad sense, 'not themselves of the same colour as their garments (_investments_); his vows are clothed in innocence, but are not innocent; they are mere panders.' the passage is rendered yet more obscure to the modern sense by the accidental propinquity of _bonds, brokers_, and _investments_--which have nothing to do with _stocks_.] [footnote 8: 'this means in sum:'.] [footnote 9: 'so slander any moment with the name of leisure as to': to call it leisure, if leisure stood for talk with hamlet, would be to slander the time. we might say, 'so slander any man friend as to expect him to do this or that unworthy thing for you.'] [footnote 10: _1st q_. _ofelia_, receiue none of his letters, for louers lines are snares to intrap the heart; [sidenote: 82] refuse his tokens, both of them are keyes to vnlocke chastitie vnto desire; come in _ofelia_; such men often proue, great in their wordes, but little in their loue. '_men often prove such_--great &c.'--compare _twelfth night_, act ii. sc. 4, lines 120, 121, _globe ed.] [footnote 11: fresh trouble for hamlet_.] [footnote 12: _1st q._ the ayre bites shrewd; it is an eager and an nipping winde, what houre i'st?] [footnote 13: again the cold.] [footnote 14: the stage-direction of the _q_. is necessary here.] [page 44] [sidenote: 22, 25] _ham_. the king doth wake to night, and takes his rouse, keepes wassels and the swaggering vpspring reeles,[1] [sidenote: wassell | up-spring] and as he dreines his draughts of renish downe, the kettle drum and trumpet thus bray out the triumph of his pledge. _horat_. is it a custome? _ham_. i marry ist; and to my mind, though i am natiue heere, [sidenote: but to] and to the manner borne: it is a custome more honour'd in the breach, then the obseruance. [a] _enter ghost._ _hor_. looke my lord, it comes. [sidenote: 172] _ham_. angels and ministers of grace defend vs: [sidenote: 32] be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, bring with thee ayres from heauen, or blasts from hell,[2] [footnote a: _here in the quarto:--_ this heauy headed reueale east and west[3] makes vs tradust, and taxed of other nations, they clip[4] vs drunkards, and with swinish phrase soyle our addition,[5] and indeede it takes from our atchieuements, though perform'd at height[6] the pith and marrow of our attribute, so oft it chaunces in particuler men,[7] that for some vicious mole[8] of nature in them as in their birth wherein they are not guilty,[8] (since nature cannot choose his origin) by their ore-grow'th of some complextion[10] oft breaking downe the pales and forts of reason or by[11] some habit, that too much ore-leauens the forme of plausiue[12] manners, that[13] these men carrying i say the stamp of one defect being natures liuery, or fortunes starre,[14] his[15] vertues els[16] be they as pure as grace, as infinite as man may vndergoe,[17] shall in the generall censure[18] take corruption from that particuler fault:[19] the dram of eale[20] doth all the noble substance of a doubt[21] to his[22] owne scandle.] [footnote 1: does hamlet here call his uncle an _upspring_, an _upstart_? or is the _upspring_ a dance, the english equivalent of 'the high _lavolt_' of _troil. and cress_. iv. 4, and governed by _reels_--'keeps wassels, and reels the swaggering upspring'--a dance that needed all the steadiness as well as agility available, if, as i suspect, it was that in which each gentleman lifted the lady high, and kissed her before setting her down? i cannot answer, i can only put the question. the word _swaggering_ makes me lean to the former interpretation.] [footnote 2: observe again hamlet's uncertainty. he does not take it for granted that it is _his father's_ spirit, though it is plainly his form.] [footnote 3: the quarto surely came too early for this passage to have been suggested by the shameful habits which invaded the court through the example of anne of denmark! perhaps shakspere cancelled it both because he would not have it supposed he had meant to reflect on the queen, and because he came to think it too diffuse.] [footnote 4: clepe, _call_.] [footnote 5: same as _attribute_, two lines lower--the thing imputed to, or added to us--our reputation, our title or epithet.] [footnote 6: performed to perfection.] [footnote 7: individuals.] [footnote 8: a mole on the body, according to the place where it appeared, was regarded as significant of character: in that relation, a _vicious mole_ would be one that indicated some special vice; but here the allusion is to a live mole of constitutional fault, burrowing within, whose presence the mole-_heap_ on the skin indicates.] [footnote 9: the order here would be: 'for some vicious mole of nature in them, as by their o'er-growth, in their birth--wherein they are not guilty, since nature cannot choose his origin (or parentage)--their o'ergrowth of (their being overgrown or possessed by) some complexion, &c.'] [footnote 10: _complexion_, as the exponent of the _temperament_, or masterful tendency of the nature, stands here for _temperament_--'oft breaking down &c.' both words have in them the element of _mingling_--a mingling to certain results.] [footnote 11: the connection is: that for some vicious mole- as by their o'ergrowth- or by some habit, &c.] [footnote 12: pleasing.] [footnote 13: repeat from above '--so oft it chaunces,' before 'that these men.'] [footnote 14: 'whether the thing come by nature or by destiny,' _fortune's star_: the mark set on a man by fortune to prove her share in him. 83.] [footnote 15: a change to the singular.] [footnote l6: 'be his virtues besides as pure &c.'] [footnote 17: _walk under; carry_.] [footnote 18: the judgment of the many.] [footnote 19: 'dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour: so doth a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour.' eccles. x. 1.] [footnote 20: compare quarto reading, page 112: the spirit that i haue scene may be a deale, and the deale hath power &c. if _deale_ here stand for _devil_, then _eale_ may in the same edition be taken to stand for _evil_. it is hardly necessary to suspect a scotch printer; _evil_ is often used as a monosyllable, and _eale_ may have been a pronunciation of it half-way towards _ill_, which is its contraction.] [footnote 21: i do not believe there is any corruption in the rest of the passage. 'doth it of a doubt:' _affects it with a doubt_, brings it into doubt. the following from _measure for measure_, is like, though not the same. i have on angelo imposed the office, who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home and yet my nature never in the fight _to do in slander._ 'to do my nature in slander'; to affect it with slander; to bring it into slander, 'angelo may punish in my name, but, not being present, i shall not be accused of cruelty, which would be to slander my nature.'] [footnote 22: _his_--the man's; see _note_ 13 above.] [page 46] [sidenote: 112] be thy euents wicked or charitable, [sidenote: thy intent] thou com'st in such a questionable shape[1] that i will speake to thee. ile call thee _hamlet_,[2] king, father, royall dane: oh, oh, answer me, [sidenote: dane, ã´ answere] let me not burst in ignorance; but tell why thy canoniz'd bones hearsed in death,[3] haue burst their cerments; why the sepulcher wherein we saw thee quietly enurn'd,[4] [sidenote: quietly interr'd[3]] hath op'd his ponderous and marble iawes, to cast thee vp againe? what may this meane? that thou dead coarse againe in compleat steele, reuisits thus the glimpses of the moone, making night hidious? and we fooles of nature,[6] so horridly to shake our disposition,[7] with thoughts beyond thee; reaches of our soules,[8] [sidenote: the reaches] say, why is this? wherefore? what should we doe?[9] _ghost beckens hamlet._ _hor._ it beckons you to goe away with it, [sidenote: beckins] as if it some impartment did desire to you alone. _mar._ looke with what courteous action it wafts you to a more remoued ground: [sidenote: waues] but doe not goe with it. _hor._ no, by no meanes. _ham_. it will not speake: then will i follow it. [sidenote: i will] _hor._ doe not my lord. _ham._ why, what should be the feare? i doe not set my life at a pins fee; and for my soule, what can it doe to that? being a thing immortall as it selfe:[10] it waues me forth againe; ile follow it. _hor._ what if it tempt you toward the floud my lord?[11] [footnote 1: --that of his father, so moving him to question it. _questionable_ does not mean _doubtful_, but _fit to be questioned_.] [footnote 2: 'i'll _call_ thee'--for the nonce.] [footnote 3: i think _hearse_ was originally the bier--french _herse_, a harrow--but came to be applied to the coffin: _hearsed_ in death--_coffined_ in death.] [footnote 4: there is no impropriety in the use of the word _inurned_. it is a figure--a word once-removed in its application: the sepulchre is the urn, the body the ashes. _interred_ shakspere had concluded incorrect, for the body was not laid in the earth.] [footnote 5: so in _1st q_.] [footnote 6: 'fooles of nature'--fools in the presence of her knowledge--to us no knowledge--of her action, to us inexplicable. _a fact_ that looks unreasonable makes one feel like a fool. see psalm lxxiii. 22: 'so foolish was i and ignorant, i was as a beast before thee.' as some men are our fools, we are all nature's fools; we are so far from knowing anything as it is.] [footnote 7: even if shakspere cared more about grammar than he does, a man in hamlet's perturbation he might well present as making a breach in it; but we are not reduced even to justification. _toschaken_ (_to_ as german _zu_ intensive) is a recognized english word; it means _to shake to pieces_. the construction of the passage is, 'what may this mean, that thou revisitest thus the glimpses of the moon, and that we so horridly to-shake our disposition?' so in _the merry wives_, and fairy-like to-pinch the unclean knight. 'our disposition': our _cosmic structure_.] [footnote 8: 'with thoughts that are too much for them, and as an earthquake to them.'] [footnote 9: like all true souls, hamlet wants to know what he is _to do_. he looks out for the action required of him.] [footnote 10: note here hamlet's mood--dominated by his faith. his life in this world his mother has ruined; he does not care for it a pin: he is not the less confident of a nature that is immortal. in virtue of this belief in life, he is indifferent to the form of it. when, later in the play, he seems to fear death, it is death the consequence of an action of whose rightness he is not convinced.] [footnote 11: _the quarto has dropped out_ 'lord.'] [page 48] or to the dreadfull sonnet of the cliffe, [sidenote: somnet] that beetles[1] o're his base into the sea, [sidenote: bettles] [sidenote: 112] and there assumes some other horrible forme,[2] [sidenote: assume] which might depriue your soueraignty[3] of reason and draw you into madnesse thinke of it? [a] _ham._ it wafts me still; goe on, ile follow thee. [sidenote: waues] _mar._ you shall not goe my lord. _ham._ hold off your hand. [sidenote: hands] _hor._ be rul'd, you shall not goe. _ham._ my fate cries out, and makes each petty artire[4] in this body, [sidenote: arture[4]] as hardy as the nemian lions nerue: still am i cal'd? vnhand me gentlemen: by heau'n, ile make a ghost of him that lets me: i say away, goe on, ile follow thee. _exeunt ghost & hamlet._ _hor._ he waxes desperate with imagination.[5] [sidenote: imagion] _mar._ let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him. _hor._ haue after, to what issue will this come? _mar._ something is rotten in the state of denmarke. _hor._ heauen will direct it. _mar._ nay, let's follow him. _exeunt._ _enter ghost and hamlet._ _ham._ where wilt thou lead me? speak; ile go no further. [sidenote: whether] _gho._ marke me. _ham._ i will. [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-the very place puts toyes of desperation without more motiue, into euery braine that lookes so many fadoms to the sea and heares it rore beneath.] [footnote 1: _1st q_. 'beckles'--perhaps for _buckles--bends_.] [footnote 2: note the unbelief in the ghost.] [footnote 3: sovereignty--_soul_: so in _romeo and juliet_, act v. sc. 1, l. 3:- my bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne.] [footnote 4: the word _artery_, invariably substituted by the editors, is without authority. in the first quarto, the word is _artiue_; in the second (see margin) _arture_. this latter i take to be the right one--corrupted into _artire_ in the folio. it seems to have troubled the printers, and possibly the editors. the third q. has followed the second; the fourth has _artyre_; the fifth q. and the fourth f. have _attire_; the second and third folios follow the first. not until the sixth q. does _artery_ appear. see _cambridge shakespeare. arture_ was to all concerned, and to the language itself, a new word. that _artery_ was not shakspere's intention might be concluded from its unfitness: what propriety could there be in _making an artery hardy_? the sole, imperfect justification i was able to think of for such use of the word arose from the fact that, before the discovery of the circulation of the blood (published in 1628), it was believed that the arteries (found empty after death) served for the movements of the animal spirits: this might vaguely _associate_ the arteries with _courage_. but the sight of the word _arture_ in the second quarto at once relieved me. i do not know if a list has ever been gathered of the words _made_ by shakspere: here is one of them--_arture_, from the same root as _artus, a joint--arcere, to hold together_, adjective _arctus, tight. arture_, then, stands for _juncture_. this perfectly fits. in terror the weakest parts are the joints, for their _artures_ are not _hardy_. 'and you, my sinews, ... bear me stiffly up.' 55, 56. since writing as above, a friend informs me that _arture_ is the exact equivalent of the [greek: haphae] of colossians ii. 19, as interpreted by bishop lightfoot--'the relation between contiguous limbs, not the parts of the limbs themselves in the neighbourhood of contact,'--for which relation 'there is no word in our language in common use.'] [footnote 5: 'with the things he imagines.'] [page 50] _gho._ my hower is almost come,[1] when i to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render vp my selfe. _ham._ alas poore ghost. _gho._ pitty me not, but lend thy serious hearing to what i shall vnfold. _ham._ speake, i am bound to heare. _gho._ so art thou to reuenge, when thou shalt heare. _ham._ what? _gho._ i am thy fathers spirit, doom'd for a certaine terme to walke the night;[2] and for the day confin'd to fast in fiers,[3] till the foule crimes done in my dayes of nature are burnt and purg'd away? but that i am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison-house; i could a tale vnfold, whose lightest word[4] would harrow vp thy soule, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes like starres, start from their spheres, thy knotty and combined locks to part, [sidenote: knotted] and each particular haire to stand an end,[5] like quilles vpon the fretfull[6] porpentine [sidenote: fearefull[6]] but this eternall blason[7] must not be to eares of flesh and bloud; list _hamlet_, oh list, [sidenote: blood, list, ã´ list;] if thou didst euer thy deare father loue. _ham._ oh heauen![8] [sidenote: god] _gho._ reuenge his foule and most vnnaturall murther.[9] _ham._ murther? _ghost._ murther most foule, as in the best it is; but this most foule, strange, and vnnaturall. _ham._ hast, hast me to know it, [sidenote: hast me to know't,] that with wings as swift [footnote 1: the night is the ghost's day.] [footnote 2: to walk the night, and see how things go, without being able to put a finger to them, is part of his cleansing.] [footnote 3: more horror yet for hamlet.] [footnote 4: he would have him think of life and its doings as of awful import. he gives his son what warning he may.] [footnote 5: _an end_ is like _agape, an hungred_. 71, 175.] [footnote 6: the word in the q. suggests _fretfull_ a misprint for _frightful_. it is _fretfull_ in the 1st q. as well.] [footnote 7: to _blason_ is to read off in proper heraldic terms the arms blasoned upon a shield. _a blason_ is such a reading, but is here used for a picture in words of other objects.] [footnote 8: --in appeal to god whether he had not loved his father.] [footnote 9: the horror still accumulates. the knowledge of evil--not evil in the abstract, but evil alive, and all about him--comes darkening down upon hamlet's being. not only is his father an inhabitant of the nether fires, but he is there by murder.] [page 52] as meditation, or the thoughts of loue, may sweepe to my reuenge.[1] _ghost._ i finde thee apt, and duller should'st thou be then the fat weede[2] [sidenote: 194] that rots it selfe in ease, on lethe wharfe,[4] [sidenote: rootes[3]] would'st thou not stirre in this. now _hamlet_ heare: it's giuen out, that sleeping in mine orchard, [sidenote: 'tis] a serpent stung me: so the whole eare of denmarke, is by a forged processe of my death rankly abus'd: but know thou noble youth, the serpent that did sting thy fathers life, now weares his crowne. [sidenote: 30,32] _ham._ o my propheticke soule: mine vncle?[5] [sidenote: my] _ghost._ i that incestuous, that adulterate beast[6] with witchcraft of his wits, hath traitorous guifts. [sidenote: wits, with] oh wicked wit, and gifts, that haue the power so to seduce? won to to this shamefull lust [sidenote: wonne to his] the will of my most seeming vertuous queene: oh _hamlet_, what a falling off was there, [sidenote: what failing] from me, whose loue was of that dignity, that it went hand in hand, euen with[7] the vow i made to her in marriage; and to decline vpon a wretch, whose naturall gifts were poore to those of mine. but vertue, as it neuer wil be moued, though lewdnesse court it in a shape of heauen: so lust, though to a radiant angell link'd, [sidenote: so but though] will sate it selfe in[8] a celestiall bed, and prey on garbage.[9] [sidenote: will sort it selfe] but soft, me thinkes i sent the mornings ayre; [sidenote: morning ayre,] briefe let me be: sleeping within mine orchard, [sidenote: my] my custome alwayes in the afternoone; [sidenote: of the] vpon my secure hower thy vncle stole [footnote 1: now, _for the moment_, he has no doubt, and vengeance is his first thought.] [footnote 2: hamlet may be supposed to recall this, if we suppose him afterwards to accuse himself so bitterly and so unfairly as in the _quarto_, 194.] [footnote 3: also _1st q_.] [footnote 4: landing-place on the bank of lethe, the hell-river of oblivion.] [footnote 5: this does not mean that he had suspected his uncle, but that his dislike to him was prophetic.] [footnote 6: how can it be doubted that in this speech the ghost accuses his wife and brother of adultery? their marriage was not adultery. see how the ghastly revelation grows on hamlet--his father in hell--murdered by his brother--dishonoured by his wife!] [footnote 7: _parallel with; correspondent to_.] [footnote 8: _1st q_. 'fate itself from a'.] [footnote 9: this passage, from 'oh _hamlet_,' most indubitably asserts the adultery of gertrude.] [page 54] with iuyce of cursed hebenon[1] in a violl, [sidenote: hebona] and in the porches of mine eares did poure [sidenote: my] the leaperous distilment;[2] whose effect holds such an enmity with bloud of man, that swift as quick-siluer, it courses[3] through the naturall gates and allies of the body; and with a sodaine vigour it doth posset [sidenote: doth possesse] and curd, like aygre droppings into milke, [sidenote: eager[4]] the thin and wholsome blood: so did it mine; and a most instant tetter bak'd about, [sidenote: barckt about[5]] most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust, all my smooth body. thus was i, sleeping, by a brothers hand, of life, of crowne, and queene at once dispatcht; [sidenote: of queene] [sidenote: 164] cut off euen in the blossomes of my sinne, vnhouzzled, disappointed, vnnaneld,[6] [sidenote: vnhuzled, | vnanueld,] [sidenote: 262] no reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head; oh horrible, oh horrible, most horrible: if thou hast nature in thee beare it not; let not the royall bed of denmarke be a couch for luxury and damned incest.[7] but howsoeuer thou pursuest this act, [sidenote: howsomeuer thou pursues] [sidenote: 30,174] taint not thy mind; nor let thy soule contriue [sidenote: 140] against thy mother ought; leaue her to heauen, and to those thornes that in her bosome lodge, to pricke and sting her. fare thee well at once; the glow-worme showes the matine to be neere, and gins to pale his vneffectuall fire: adue, adue, _hamlet_: remember me. _exit_. [sidenote: adiew, adiew, adiew, remember me.[8]] _ham._ oh all you host of heauen! oh earth: what els? and shall i couple hell?[9] oh fie[10]: hold my heart; [sidenote: hold, hold my] and you my sinnewes, grow not instant old; [footnote 1: ebony.] [footnote 2: _producing leprosy_--as described in result below.] [footnote 3: _1st q_. 'posteth'.] [footnote 4: so also _1st q_.] [footnote 5: this _barckt_--meaning _cased as a bark cases its tree_--is used in _1st q_. also: 'and all my smoothe body, barked, and tetterd ouer.' the word is so used in scotland still.] [footnote 6: _husel (anglo-saxon)_ is _an offering, the sacrament. disappointed, not appointed_: dr. johnson. _unaneled, unoiled, without the extreme unction_.] [footnote 7: it is on public grounds, as a king and a dane, rather than as a husband and a murdered man, that he urges on his son the execution of justice. note the tenderness towards his wife that follows--more marked, 174; here it is mingled with predominating regard to his son to whose filial nature he dreads injury.] [footnote 8: _q_. omits _exit_.] [footnote 9: he must: his father is there!] [footnote 10: the interjection is addressed to _heart_ and _sinews_, which forget their duty.] [page 56] but beare me stiffely vp: remember thee?[1] [sidenote: swiftly vp] i, thou poore ghost, while memory holds a seate [sidenote: whiles] in this distracted globe[2]: remember thee? yea, from the table of my memory,[3] ile wipe away all triuiall fond records, all sawes[4] of bookes, all formes, all presures past, that youth and obseruation coppied there; and thy commandment all alone shall liue within the booke and volume of my braine, vnmixt with baser matter; yes, yes, by heauen: [sidenote: matter, yes by] [sidenote: 168] oh most pernicious woman![5] oh villaine, villaine, smiling damned villaine! my tables, my tables; meet it is i set it downe,[6] [sidenote: my tables, meet] that one may smile, and smile and be a villaine; at least i'm sure it may be so in denmarke; [sidenote: i am] so vnckle there you are: now to my word;[7] it is; adue, adue, remember me:[8] i haue sworn't. [sidenote: _enter horatio, and marcellus_] _hor. and mar. within_. my lord, my lord. [sidenote: _hora._ my] _enter horatio and marcellus._ _mar_. lord _hamlet_. _hor_. heauen secure him. [sidenote: heauens] _mar_. so be it. _hor_. illo, ho, ho, my lord. _ham_. hillo, ho, ho, boy; come bird, come.[9] [sidenote: boy come, and come.] _mar_. how ist't my noble lord? _hor_. what newes, my lord? _ham_. oh wonderfull![10] _hor_. good my lord tell it. _ham_. no you'l reueale it. [sidenote: you will] _hor_. not i, my lord, by heauen. _mar_. nor i, my lord. _ham_. how say you then, would heart of man once think it? but you'l be secret? [footnote 1: for the moment he has no doubt that he has seen and spoken with the ghost of his father.] [footnote 2: his head.] [footnote 3: the whole speech is that of a student, accustomed to books, to take notes, and to fix things in his memory. 'table,' _tablet_.] [footnote 4: _wise sayings_.] [footnote 5: the ghost has revealed her adultery: hamlet suspects her of complicity in the murder, 168.] [footnote 6: it may well seem odd that hamlet should be represented as, at such a moment, making a note in his tablets; but without further allusion to the student-habit, i would remark that, in cases where strongest passion is roused, the intellect has yet sometimes an automatic trick of working independently. for instance from shakspere, see constance in _king john_--how, in her agony over the loss of her son, both her fancy, playing with words, and her imagination, playing with forms, are busy. note the glimpse of hamlet's character here given: he had been something of an optimist; at least had known villainy only from books; at thirty years of age it is to him a discovery that a man may smile and be a villain! then think of the shock of such discoveries as are here forced upon him! villainy is no longer a mere idea, but a fact! and of all villainous deeds those of his own mother and uncle are the worst! but note also his honesty, his justice to humanity, his philosophic temperament, in the qualification he sets to the memorandum, '--at least in denmark!'] [footnote 7: 'my word,'--the word he has to keep in mind; his cue.] [footnote 8: should not the actor here make a pause, with hand uplifted, as taking a solemn though silent oath?] [footnote 9: --as if calling to a hawk.] [footnote 10: here comes the test of the actor's _possible_: here hamlet himself begins to act, and will at once assume a _rã´le_, ere yet he well knows what it must be. one thing only is clear to him--that the communication of the ghost is not a thing to be shared--that he must keep it with all his power of secrecy: the honour both of father and of mother is at stake. in order to do so, he must begin by putting on himself a cloak of darkness, and hiding his feelings--first of all the present agitation which threatens to overpower him. his immediate impulse or instinctive motion is to force an air, and throw a veil of grimmest humour over the occurrence. the agitation of the horror at his heart, ever working and constantly repressed, shows through the veil, and gives an excited uncertainty to his words, and a wild vacillation to his manner and behaviour.] [page 58] _both_. i, by heau'n, my lord.[1] _ham_. there's nere a villaine dwelling in all denmarke but hee's an arrant knaue. _hor_. there needs no ghost my lord, come from the graue, to tell vs this. _ham_. why right, you are i'th'right; [sidenote: in the] and so, without more circumstance at all, i hold it fit that we shake hands, and part: you, as your busines and desires shall point you: [sidenote: desire] for euery man ha's businesse and desire,[2] [sidenote: hath] such as it is: and for mine owne poore part, [sidenote: my] looke you, ile goe pray.[4] [sidenote: i will goe pray.[3]] _hor_. these are but wild and hurling words, my lord. [sidenote: whurling[5]] _ham_. i'm sorry they offend you heartily: [sidenote: i am] yes faith, heartily. _hor_. there's no offence my lord. _ham_. yes, by saint _patricke_, but there is my lord,[6] [sidenote: there is _horatio_] and much offence too, touching this vision heere;[7] [sidenote: 136] it is an honest ghost, that let me tell you:[8] for your desire to know what is betweene vs, o'remaster't as you may. and now good friends, as you are friends, schollers and soldiers, giue me one poore request. _hor_. what is't my lord? we will. _ham_. neuer make known what you haue seen to night.[9] _both_. my lord, we will not. _ham_. nay, but swear't. _hor_. infaith my lord, not i.[10] _mar_. nor i my lord: in faith. _ham_. vpon my sword.[11] [footnote 1: _q. has not_ 'my lord.'] [footnote 2: here shows the philosopher.] [footnote 3: _q. has not_ 'looke you.'] [footnote 4: '--nothing else is left me.' this seems to me one of the finest touches in the revelation of hamlet.] [footnote 5: _1st q_. 'wherling'.] [footnote 6: i take the change from the _quarto_ here to be no blunder.] [footnote 7: _point thus_: 'too!--touching.'] [footnote 8: the struggle to command himself is plain throughout.] [footnote 9: he could not endure the thought of the resulting gossip;--which besides would interfere with, possibly frustrate, the carrying out of his part.] [footnote 10: this is not a refusal to swear; it is the oath itself: '_in faith i will not_!'] [footnote 11: he would have them swear on the cross-hilt of his sword.] [page 60] _marcell._ we haue sworne my lord already.[1] _ham._ indeed, vpon my sword, indeed. _gho._ sweare.[2] _ghost cries vnder the stage._[3] _ham._ ah ha boy, sayest thou so. art thou [sidenote: ha, ha,] there truepenny?[4] come one you here this fellow [sidenote: come on, you heare] in the selleredge consent to sweare. _hor._ propose the oath my lord.[5] _ham._ neuer to speake of this that you haue seene. sweare by my sword. _gho._ sweare. _ham. hic & vbique_? then wee'l shift for grownd, [sidenote: shift our] come hither gentlemen, and lay your hands againe vpon my sword, neuer to speake of this that you haue heard:[6] sweare by my sword. _gho._ sweare.[7] [sidenote: sweare by his sword.] _ham._ well said old mole, can'st worke i'th' ground so fast? [sidenote: it'h' earth] a worthy pioner, once more remoue good friends. _hor._ oh day and night: but this is wondrous strange. _ham._ and therefore as a stranger giue it welcome. there are more things in heauen and earth, _horatio_, then are dream't of in our philosophy but come, [sidenote: in your] here as before, neuer so helpe you mercy, how strange or odde so ere i beare my selfe; [sidenote: how | so mere] (as i perchance heereafter shall thinke meet [sidenote: as] [sidenote: 136, 156, 178] to put an anticke disposition on:)[8] [sidenote: on] that you at such time seeing me, neuer shall [sidenote: times] with armes encombred thus, or thus, head shake; [sidenote: or this head] [footnote 1: he feels his honour touched.] [footnote 2: the ghost's interference heightens hamlet's agitation. if he does not talk, laugh, jest, it will overcome him. also he must not show that he believes it his father's ghost: that must be kept to himself--for the present at least. he shows it therefore no respect--treats the whole thing humorously, so avoiding, or at least parrying question. it is all he can do to keep the mastery of himself, dodging horror with half-forced, half-hysterical laughter. yet is he all the time intellectually on the alert. see how, instantly active, he makes use of the voice from beneath to enforce his requisition of silence. very speedily too he grows quiet: a glimmer of light as to the course of action necessary to him has begun to break upon him: it breaks from his own wild and disjointed behaviour in the attempt to hide the conflict of his feelings--which suggests to him the idea of shrouding himself, as did david at the court of the philistines, in the cloak of madness: thereby protected from the full force of what suspicion any absorption of manner or outburst of feeling must occasion, he may win time to lay his plans. note how, in the midst of his horror, he is yet able to think, plan, resolve.] [footnote 3: _1st q. 'the gost under the stage.'_] [footnote 4: while hamlet seems to take it so coolly, the others have fled in terror from the spot. he goes to them. their fear must be what, on the two occasions after, makes him shift to another place when the ghost speaks.] [footnote 5: now at once he consents.] [footnote 6: in the _quarto_ this and the next line are transposed.] [footnote 7: what idea is involved as the cause of the ghost's thus interfering?--that he too sees what difficulties must encompass the carrying out of his behest, and what absolute secrecy is thereto essential.] [footnote 8: this idea, hardly yet a resolve, he afterwards carries out so well, that he deceives not only king and queen and court, but the most of his critics ever since: to this day they believe him mad. such must have studied in the play a phantom of their own misconception, and can never have seen the hamlet of shakspere. thus prejudiced, they mistake also the effects of moral and spiritual perturbation and misery for further sign of intellectual disorder--even for proof of moral weakness, placing them in the same category with the symptoms of the insanity which he simulates, and by which they are deluded.] [page 62] or by pronouncing of some doubtfull phrase; as well, we know, or we could and if we would, [sidenote: as well, well, we] or if we list to speake; or there be and if there might, [sidenote: if they might] or such ambiguous giuing out to note, [sidenote: note] that you know ought of me; this not to doe: [sidenote: me, this doe sweare,] so grace and mercy at your most neede helpe you: sweare.[1] _ghost_. sweare.[2] _ham_. rest, rest perturbed spirit[3]: so gentlemen, with all my loue i doe commend me to you; and what so poore a man as _hamlet_ is, may doe t'expresse his loue and friending to you, god willing shall not lacke: let vs goe in together, and still your fingers on your lippes i pray, the time is out of ioynt: oh cursed spight,[4] [sidenote: 126] that euer i was borne to set it right. nay, come let's goe together. _exeunt._[5] * * * * * summary of act i. this much of hamlet we have now learned: he is a thoughtful man, a genuine student, little acquainted with the world save through books, and a lover of his kind. his university life at wittenberg is suddenly interrupted by a call to the funeral of his father, whom he dearly loves and honours. ere he reaches denmark, his uncle claudius has contrived, in an election (202, 250, 272) probably hastened and secretly influenced, to gain the voice of the representatives at least of the people, and ascend the throne. hence his position must have been an irksome one from the first; but, within a month of his father's death, his mother's marriage with his uncle--a relation universally regarded as incestuous--plunges him in the deepest misery. the play introduces him at the first court held after the wedding. he is attired in the mourning of his father's funeral, which he had not laid aside for the wedding. his aspect is of absolute dejection, and he appears in a company for which he is so unfit only for the sake of desiring permission to leave the court, and go back to his studies at wittenberg.[a] left to himself, he breaks out in agonized and indignant lamentation over his mother's conduct, dwelling mainly on her disregard of his father's memory. her conduct and his partial discovery of her character, is the sole cause of his misery. in such his mood, horatio, a fellow-student, brings him word that his father's spirit walks at night. he watches for the ghost, and receives from him a frightful report of his present condition, into which, he tells him, he was cast by the murderous hand of his brother, with whom his wife had been guilty of adultery. he enjoins him to put a stop to the crime in which they are now living, by taking vengeance on his uncle. uncertain at the moment how to act, and dreading the consequences of rousing suspicion by the perturbation which he could not but betray, he grasps at the sudden idea of affecting madness. we have learned also hamlet's relation to ophelia, the daughter of the selfish, prating, busy polonius, who, with his son laertes, is destined to work out the earthly fate of hamlet. of laertes, as yet, we only know that he prates like his father, is self-confident, and was educated at paris, whither he has returned. of ophelia we know nothing but that she is gentle, and that she is fond of hamlet, whose attentions she has encouraged, but with whom, upon her father's severe remonstrance, she is ready, outwardly at least, to break. [footnote a: roger ascham, in his _scholemaster_, if i mistake not, sets the age, up to which a man should be under tutors, at twenty-nine.] [footnote 1: 'sweare' _not in quarto_.] [footnote 2: they do not this time shift their ground, but swear--in dumb show.] [footnote 3: --for now they had obeyed his command and sworn secrecy.] [footnote 4: 'cursed spight'--not merely that he had been born to do hangman's work, but that he should have been born at all--of a mother whose crime against his father had brought upon him the wretched necessity which must proclaim her ignominy. let the student do his best to realize the condition of hamlet's heart and mind in relation to his mother.] [footnote: 5 this first act occupies part of a night, a day, and part of the next night.] [page 64] actus secundus.[1] _enter polonius, and reynoldo._ [sidenote: _enter old polonius, with his man, or two._] _polon._ giue him his money, and these notes _reynoldo_.[2] [sidenote: this money] _reynol._ i will my lord. _polon._ you shall doe maruels wisely: good _reynoldo_, [sidenote: meruiles] before you visite him you make inquiry [sidenote: him, to make inquire] of his behauiour.[3] _reynol._ my lord, i did intend it. _polon._ marry, well said; very well said. looke you sir, enquire me first what danskers are in paris; and how, and who; what meanes; and where they keepe: what company, at what expence: and finding by this encompassement and drift of question, that they doe know my sonne: come you more neerer[4] then your particular demands will touch it, take you as 'twere some distant knowledge of him, and thus i know his father and his friends, [sidenote: as thus] and in part him. doe you marke this _reynoldo_? _reynol._ i, very well my lord. _polon._ and in part him, but you may say not well; but if't be hee i meane, hees very wilde; addicted so and so; and there put on him what forgeries you please: marry, none so ranke, as may dishonour him; take heed of that: but sir, such wanton, wild, and vsuall slips, as are companions noted and most knowne to youth and liberty. [footnote 1: _not in quarto._ between this act and the former, sufficient time has passed to allow the ambassadors to go to norway and return: 74. see 138, and what hamlet says of the time since his father's death, 24, by which together the interval _seems_ indicated as about two months, though surely so much time was not necessary. cause and effect _must_ be truly presented; time and space are mere accidents, and of small consequence in the drama, whose very idea is compression for the sake of presentation. all that is necessary in regard to time is, that, either by the act-pause, or the intervention of a fresh scene, the passing of it should be indicated. this second act occupies the forenoon of one day.] [footnote 2: _1st q._ _montano_, here, these letters to my sonne, and this same mony with my blessing to him, and bid him ply his learning good _montano_.] [footnote 3: the father has no confidence in the son, and rightly, for both are unworthy: he turns on him the cunning of the courtier, and sends a spy on his behaviour. the looseness of his own principles comes out very clear in his anxieties about his son; and, having learned the ideas of the father as to what becomes a gentleman, we are not surprised to find the son such as he afterwards shows himself. till the end approaches, we hear no more of laertes, nor is more necessary; but without this scene we should have been unprepared for his vileness.] [footnote 4: _point thus_: 'son, come you more nearer; then &c.' the _then_ here does not stand for _than_, and to change it to _than_ makes at once a contradiction. the sense is: 'having put your general questions first, and been answered to your purpose, then your particular demands will come in, and be of service; they will reach to the point--_will touch it_.' the _it_ is impersonal. after it should come a period.] [page 66] _reynol._ as gaming my lord. _polon._ i, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarelling, drabbing. you may goe so farre. _reynol._ my lord that would dishonour him. _polon._ faith no, as you may season it in the charge;[1] [sidenote: fayth as you] you must not put another scandall on him, that hee is open to incontinencie;[2] that's not my meaning: but breath his faults so quaintly, that they may seeme the taints of liberty; the flash and out-breake of a fiery minde, a sauagenes in vnreclaim'd[3] bloud of generall assault.[4] _reynol._ but my good lord.[5] _polon._ wherefore should you doe this?[6] _reynol._ i my lord, i would know that. _polon._ marry sir, heere's my drift, and i belieue it is a fetch of warrant:[7] [sidenote: of wit,] you laying these slight sulleyes[8] on my sonne, [sidenote: sallies[8]] as 'twere a thing a little soil'd i'th'working: [sidenote: soiled with working,] marke you your party in conuerse; him you would sound, hauing euer seene. in the prenominate crimes, [sidenote: seene in the] the youth you breath of guilty, be assur'd he closes with you in this consequence: good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman. according to the phrase and the addition,[9] [sidenote: phrase or the] of man and country. _reynol._ very good my lord. _polon._ and then sir does he this? [sidenote: doos a this a doos, what was _i_] he does: what was i about to say? i was about to say somthing: where did i leaue? [sidenote: by the masse i was] _reynol._ at closes in the consequence: at friend, or so, and gentleman.[10] [footnote 1: _1st q._ i faith not a whit, no not a whit, as you may bridle it not disparage him a iote.] [footnote 2: this may well seem prating inconsistency, but i suppose means that he must not be represented as without moderation in his wickedness.] [footnote 3: _untamed_, as a hawk.] [footnote 4: the lines are properly arranged in _q_. a sauagenes in vnreclamed blood, of generall assault. --that is, 'which assails all.'] [footnote 5: here a hesitating pause.] [footnote 6: --with the expression of, 'is that what you would say?'] [footnote 7: 'a fetch with warrant for it'--a justifiable trick.] [footnote 8: compare _sallied_, 25, both quartos; _sallets_ 67, 103; and see _soil'd_, next line.] [footnote 9: 'addition,' epithet of courtesy in address.] [footnote 10: _q_. has not this line] [page 68] _polon._ at closes in the consequence, i marry, he closes with you thus. i know the gentleman, [sidenote: he closes thus,] i saw him yesterday, or tother day; [sidenote: th'other] or then or then, with such and such; and as you say, [sidenote: or such,] [sidenote: 25] there was he gaming, there o'retooke in's rouse, [sidenote: was a gaming there, or tooke] there falling out at tennis; or perchance, i saw him enter such a house of saile; [sidenote: sale,] _videlicet_, a brothell, or so forth. see you now; your bait of falshood, takes this cape of truth; [sidenote: take this carpe] and thus doe we of wisedome and of reach[1] with windlesses,[2] and with assaies of bias, by indirections finde directions out: so by my former lecture and aduice shall you my sonne; you haue me, haue you not? _reynol._ my lord i haue. _polon._ god buy you; fare you well, [sidenote: ye | ye] _reynol._ good my lord. _polon._ obserue his inclination in your selfe.[3] _reynol._ i shall my lord. _polon._ and let him[4] plye his musicke. _reynol._ well, my lord. _exit_. _enter ophelia_. _polon_. farewell: how now _ophelia_, what's the matter? _ophe_. alas my lord, i haue beene so affrighted. [sidenote: o my lord, my lord,] _polon_. with what, in the name of heauen? [sidenote: i'th name of god?] _ophe_. my lord, as i was sowing in my chamber, [sidenote: closset,] lord _hamlet_ with his doublet all vnbrac'd,[5] no hat vpon his head, his stockings foul'd, vngartred, and downe giued[6] to his anckle, pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, and with a looke so pitious in purport, as if he had been loosed out of hell, [footnote 1: of far reaching mind.] [footnote 2: the word windlaces is explained in the dictionaries as _shifts, subtleties_--but apparently on the sole authority of this passage. there must be a figure in _windlesses_, as well as in _assaies of bias_, which is a phrase plain enough to bowlers: the trying of other directions than that of the _jack_, in the endeavour to come at one with the law of the bowl's bias. i find _wanlass_ a term in hunting: it had to do with driving game to a given point--whether in part by getting to windward of it, i cannot tell. the word may come of the verb wind, from its meaning '_to manage by shifts or expedients_': _barclay_. as he has spoken of fishing, could the _windlesses_ refer to any little instrument such as now used upon a fishing-rod? i do not think it. and how do the words _windlesses_ and _indirections_ come together? was a windless some contrivance for determining how the wind blew? i bethink me that a thin withered straw is in scotland called a _windlestrae_: perhaps such straws were thrown up to find out 'by indirection' the direction of the wind. the press-reader sends me two valuable quotations, through latham's edition of johnson's dictionary, from dr. h. hammond (1605-1660), in which _windlass_ is used as a verb:-'a skilful woodsman, by windlassing, presently gets a shoot, which, without taking a compass, and thereby a commodious stand, he could never have obtained.' 'she is not so much at leasure as to windlace, or use craft, to satisfy them.' to _windlace_ seems then to mean 'to steal along to leeward;' would it be absurd to suggest that, so-doing, the hunter _laces the wind_? shakspere, with many another, i fancy, speaks of _threading the night_ or _the darkness_. johnson explains the word in the text as 'a handle by which anything is turned.'] [footnote 3: 'in your selfe.' may mean either 'through the insight afforded by your own feelings'; or 'in respect of yourself,' 'toward yourself.' i do not know which is intended.] [footnote 4: 1st q. 'and bid him'.] [footnote 5: loose; _undone_.] [footnote 6: his stockings, slipped down in wrinkles round his ankles, suggested the rings of _gyves_ or fetters. the verb _gyve_, of which the passive participle is here used, is rarer.] [page 70] to speake of horrors: he comes before me. _polon._ mad for thy loue? _ophe._ my lord, i doe not know: but truly i do feare it.[1] _polon._ what said he? _ophe._[2] he tooke me by the wrist, and held me hard; then goes he to the length of all his arme; and with his other hand thus o're his brow, he fals to such perusall of my face, as he would draw it. long staid he so, [sidenote: as a] at last, a little shaking of mine arme: and thrice his head thus wauing vp and downe; he rais'd a sigh, so pittious and profound, that it did seeme to shatter all his bulke, [sidenote: as it] and end his being. that done, he lets me goe, and with his head ouer his shoulders turn'd, [sidenote: shoulder] he seem'd to finde his way without his eyes, for out adores[3] he went without their helpe; [sidenote: helps,] and to the last, bended their light on me. _polon._ goe with me, i will goe seeke the king, [sidenote: come, goe] this is the very extasie of loue, whose violent property foredoes[4] it selfe, and leads the will to desperate vndertakings, as oft as any passion vnder heauen, [sidenote: passions] that does afflict our natures. i am sorrie, what haue you giuen him any hard words of late? _ophe_. no my good lord: but as you did command, [sidenote: 42, 82] i did repell his letters, and deny'de his accesse to me.[5] _pol_. that hath made him mad. i am sorrie that with better speed and judgement [sidenote: better heede] [sidenote: 83] i had not quoted[6] him. i feare he did but trifle, [sidenote: coted[6] | fear'd] and meant to wracke thee: but beshrew my iealousie: [footnote 1: she would be glad her father should think so.] [footnote 2: the detailed description of hamlet and his behaviour that follows, must be introduced in order that the side mirror of narrative may aid the front mirror of drama, and between them be given a true notion of his condition both mental and bodily. although weeks have passed since his interview with the ghost, he is still haunted with the memory of it, still broods over its horrible revelation. that he had, probably soon, begun to feel far from certain of the truth of the apparition, could not make the thoughts and questions it had awaked, cease tormenting his whole being. the stifling smoke of his mother's conduct had in his mind burst into loathsome flame, and through her he has all but lost his faith in humanity. to know his uncle a villain, was to know his uncle a villain; to know his mother false, was to doubt women, doubt the whole world. in the meantime ophelia, in obedience to her father, and evidently without reason assigned, has broken off communication with him: he reads her behaviour by the lurid light of his mother's. she too is false! she too is heartless! he can look to her for no help! she has turned against him to curry favour with his mother and his uncle! can she be such as his mother! why should she not be? his mother had seemed as good! he would give his life to know her honest and pure. might he but believe her what he had believed her, he would yet have a hiding-place from the wind, a covert from the tempest! if he could but know the truth! alone with her once more but for a moment, he would read her very soul by the might of his! he must see her! he would see her! in the agony of a doubt upon which seemed to hang the bliss or bale of his being, yet not altogether unintimidated by a sense of his intrusion, he walks into the house of polonius, and into the chamber of ophelia. ever since the night of the apparition, the court, from the behaviour assumed by hamlet, has believed his mind affected; and when he enters her room, ophelia, though such is the insight of love that she is able to read in the face of the son the father's purgatorial sufferings, the picture of one 'loosed out of hell, to speak of horrors,' attributes all the strangeness of his appearance and demeanour, such as she describes them to her father, to that supposed fact. but there is, in truth, as little of affected as of actual madness in his behaviour in her presence. when he comes before her pale and trembling, speechless and with staring eyes, it is with no simulated insanity, but in the agonized hope, scarce distinguishable from despair, of finding, in the testimony of her visible presence, an assurance that the doubts ever tearing his spirit and sickening his brain, are but the offspring of his phantasy. there she sits!--and there he stands, vainly endeavouring through her eyes to read her soul! for, alas, there's no art to find the mind's construction in the face! --until at length, finding himself utterly baffled, but unable, save by the removal of his person, to take his eyes from her face, he retires speechless as he came. such is the man whom we are now to see wandering about the halls and corridors of the great castle-palace. he may by this time have begun to doubt even the reality of the sight he had seen. the moment the pressure of a marvellous presence is removed, it is in the nature of man the same moment to begin to doubt; and instead of having any reason to wish the apparition a true one, he had every reason to desire to believe it an illusion or a lying spirit. great were his excuse even if he forced likelihoods, and suborned witnesses in the court of his own judgment. to conclude it false was to think his father in heaven, and his mother not an adulteress, not a murderess! at once to kill his uncle would be to seal these horrible things irrevocable, indisputable facts. strongest reasons he had for not taking immediate action in vengeance; but no smallest incapacity for action had share in his delay. the poet takes recurrent pains, as if he foresaw hasty conclusions, to show his hero a man of promptitude, with this truest fitness for action, that he would not make unlawful haste. without sufficing assurance, he would have no part in the fate either of the uncle he disliked or the mother he loved.] [footnote 3: _a doors_, like _an end_. 51, 175.] [footnote 4: _undoes, frustrates, destroys_.] [footnote 5: see quotation from _1st quarto,_ 43.] [footnote 6: _quoted_ or _coted: observed_; fr. _coter_, to mark the number. compare 95.] [page 72] it seemes it is as proper to our age, [sidenote: by heauen it is] to cast beyond our selues[1] in our opinions, as it is common for the yonger sort to lacke discretion.[2] come, go we to the king, this must be knowne, which being kept close might moue more greefe to hide, then hate to vtter loue.[3] [sidenote: come.] _exeunt._ _scena secunda._[4] _enter king, queene, rosincrane, and guildensterne cum alijs. [sidenote: florish: enter king and queene, rosencraus and guyldensterne.[5]] _king._ welcome deere _rosincrance_ and _guildensterne_. moreouer,[6] that we much did long to see you, the neede we haue to vse you, did prouoke [sidenote: 92] our hastie sending.[7] something haue you heard of _hamlets_ transformation: so i call it, [sidenote: so call] since not th'exterior, nor the inward man [sidenote: sith nor] resembles that it was. what it should bee more then his fathers death, that thus hath put him so much from th'understanding of himselfe, i cannot deeme of.[8] i intreat you both, [sidenote: dreame] that being of so young dayes[9] brought vp with him: and since so neighbour'd to[10] his youth,and humour, [sidenote: and sith | and hauior,] that you vouchsafe your rest heere in our court some little time: so by your companies to draw him on to pleasures, and to gather [sidenote: 116] so much as from occasions you may gleane, [sidenote: occasion] [a] that open'd lies within our remedie.[11] [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-whether ought to vs vnknowne afflicts him thus,] [footnote 1: 'to be overwise--to overreach ourselves' 'ambition, which o'erleaps itself,' --_macbeth_, act i. sc. 7.] [footnote 2: polonius is a man of faculty. his courtier-life, his self-seeking, his vanity, have made and make him the fool he is.] [footnote 3: he hopes now to get his daughter married to the prince. we have here a curious instance of shakspere's not unfrequently excessive condensation. expanded, the clause would be like this: 'which, being kept close, might move more grief by the hiding of love, than to utter love might move hate:' the grief in the one case might be greater than the hate in the other would be. it verges on confusion, and may not be as shakspere wrote it, though it is like his way. _1st q._ lets to the king, this madnesse may prooue, though wilde a while, yet more true to thy loue.] [footnote 4: _not in quarto._] [footnote 5: _q._ has not _cum alijs._] [footnote 6: 'moreover that &c.': _moreover_ is here used as a preposition, with the rest of the clause for its objective.] [footnote 7: rosincrance and guildensterne are, from the first and throughout, the creatures of the king.] [footnote 8: the king's conscience makes him suspicious of hamlet's suspicion.] [footnote 9: 'from such an early age'.] [footnote 10: 'since then so familiar with'.] [footnote 11: 'to gather as much as you may glean from opportunities, of that which, when disclosed to us, will lie within our remedial power.' if the line of the quarto be included, it makes plainer construction. the line beginning with '_so much_,' then becomes parenthetical, and _to gather_ will not immediately govern that line, but the rest of the sentence.] [page 74] _qu._ good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you, and sure i am, two men there are not liuing, [sidenote: there is not] to whom he more adheres. if it will please you to shew vs so much gentrie,[1] and good will, as to expend your time with vs a-while, for the supply and profit of our hope,[2] your visitation shall receiue such thankes as fits a kings remembrance. _rosin._ both your maiesties might by the soueraigne power you haue of vs, put your dread pleasures, more into command then to entreatie, _guil._ we both[3] obey, [sidenote: but we] and here giue vp our selues, in the full bent,[4] to lay our seruices freely at your feete, [sidenote: seruice] to be commanded. _king._ thankes _rosincrance_, and gentle _guildensterne_. _qu._ thankes _guildensterne_ and gentle _rosincrance_,[5] and i beseech you instantly to visit my too much changed sonne. go some of ye, [sidenote: you] and bring the gentlemen where _hamlet_ is, [sidenote: bring these] _guil._ heauens make our presence and our practises pleasant and helpfull to him. _exit_[6] _queene._ amen. [sidenote: amen. _exeunt ros. and guyld._] _enter polonius._ [sidenote: 18] _pol._ th'ambassadors from norwey, my good lord, are ioyfully return'd. [footnote 1: gentleness, grace, favour.] [footnote 2: their hope in hamlet, as their son and heir.] [footnote 3: both majesties.] [footnote 4: if we put a comma after _bent_, the phrase will mean 'in the full _purpose_ or _design_ to lay our services &c.' without the comma, the content of the phrase would be general:--'in the devoted force of our faculty.' the latter is more like shakspere.] [footnote 5: is there not tact intended in the queen's reversal of her husband's arrangement of the two names--that each might have precedence, and neither take offence?] [footnote 6: _not in quarto._] [page 76] _king._ thou still hast bin the father of good newes. _pol._ haue i, my lord?[1] assure you, my good liege, [sidenote: i assure my] i hold my dutie, as i hold my soule, both to my god, one to my gracious king:[2] [sidenote: god, and to[2]] and i do thinke, or else this braine of mine hunts not the traile of policie, so sure as i haue vs'd to do: that i haue found [sidenote: it hath vsd] the very cause of _hamlets_ lunacie. _king._ oh speake of that, that i do long to heare. [sidenote: doe i long] _pol._ giue first admittance to th'ambassadors, my newes shall be the newes to that great feast, [sidenote: the fruite to that] _king._ thy selfe do grace to them, and bring them in. he tels me my sweet queene, that he hath found [sidenote: my deere gertrard he] the head[3] and sourse of all your sonnes distemper. _qu._ i doubt it is no other, but the maine, his fathers death, and our o're-hasty marriage.[4] [sidenote: our hastie] _enter polonius, voltumand, and cornelius._ [sidenote: _enter_ embassadors.] _king._ well, we shall sift him. welcome good frends: [sidenote: my good] say _voltumand_, what from our brother norwey? _volt._ most faire returne of greetings, and desires. vpon our first,[5] he sent out to suppresse his nephewes leuies, which to him appear'd to be a preparation 'gainst the poleak: [sidenote: pollacke,] but better look'd into, he truly found it was against your highnesse, whereat greeued, that so his sicknesse, age, and impotence was falsely borne in hand,[6] sends[7] out arrests on _fortinbras_, which he (in breefe) obeyes, [footnote 1: to be spoken triumphantly, but in the peculiar tone of one thinking, 'you little know what better news i have behind!'] [footnote 2: i cannot tell which is the right reading; if the _q.'s_, it means, '_i hold my duty precious as my soul, whether to my god or my king_'; if the _f.'s_, it is a little confused by the attempt of polonius to make a fine euphuistic speech:--'_i hold my duty as i hold my soul,--both at the command of my god, one at the command of my king_.'] [footnote 3: the spring; the river-head 'the spring, the head, the fountain of your blood' _macbeth,_ act ii. sc. 3.] [footnote 4: she goes a step farther than the king in accounting for hamlet's misery--knows there is more cause of it yet, but hopes he does not know so much cause for misery as he might know.] [footnote 5: either 'first' stands for _first desire_, or it is a noun, and the meaning of the phrase is, 'the instant we mentioned the matter'.] [footnote 6: 'borne in hand'--played with, taken advantage of. 'how you were borne in hand, how cross'd,' _macbeth,_ act iii. sc. 1.] [footnote 7: the nominative pronoun was not _quite_ indispensable to the verb in shakspere's time.] [page 78] receiues rebuke from norwey: and in fine, makes vow before his vnkle, neuer more to giue th'assay of armes against your maiestie. whereon old norwey, ouercome with ioy, giues him three thousand crownes in annuall fee, [sidenote: threescore thousand] and his commission to imploy those soldiers so leuied as before, against the poleak: [sidenote: pollacke,] with an intreaty heerein further shewne, [sidenote: 190] that it might please you to giue quiet passe through your dominions, for his enterprize, [sidenote: for this] on such regards of safety and allowance, as therein are set downe. _king_. it likes vs well: and at our more consider'd[1] time wee'l read, answer, and thinke vpon this businesse. meane time we thanke you, for your well-tooke labour. go to your rest, at night wee'l feast together.[2] most welcome home. _exit ambass_. [sidenote: exeunt embassadors] _pol_. this businesse is very well ended.[3] [sidenote: is well] my liege, and madam, to expostulate[4] what maiestie should be, what dutie is,[5] why day is day; night, night; and time is time, were nothing but to waste night, day and time. therefore, since breuitie is the soule of wit, [sidenote: therefore breuitie] and tediousnesse, the limbes and outward flourishes,[6] i will be breefe. your noble sonne is mad: mad call i it; for to define true madnesse, what is't, but to be nothing else but mad.[7] but let that go. _qu_. more matter, with lesse art.[8] _pol_. madam, i sweare i vse no art at all: that he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pittie, [sidenote: hee's mad] and pittie it is true; a foolish figure,[9] [sidenote: pitty tis tis true,] [footnote 1: time given up to, or filled with consideration; _or, perhaps_, time chosen for a purpose.] [footnote 2: he is always feasting.] [footnote 3: now for _his_ turn! he sets to work at once with his rhetoric.] [footnote 4: to lay down beforehand as postulates.] [footnote 5: we may suppose a dash and pause after '_dutie is_'. the meaning is plain enough, though logical form is wanting.] [footnote 6: as there is no imagination in polonius, we cannot look for great aptitude in figure.] [footnote 7: the nature of madness also is a postulate.] [footnote 8: she is impatient, but wraps her rebuke in a compliment. art, so-called, in speech, was much favoured in the time of elizabeth. and as a compliment polonius takes the form in which she expresses her dislike of his tediousness, and her anxiety after his news: pretending to wave it off, he yet, in his gratification, coming on the top of his excitement with the importance of his fancied discovery, plunges immediately into a very slough of _art_, and becomes absolutely silly.] [footnote 9: it is no figure at all. it is hardly even a play with the words.] [page 80] but farewell it: for i will vse no art. mad let vs grant him then: and now remaines that we finde out the cause of this effect, or rather say, the cause of this defect; for this effect defectiue, comes by cause, thus it remaines, and the remainder thus. perpend, i haue a daughter: haue, whil'st she is mine, [sidenote: while] who in her dutie and obedience, marke, hath giuen me this: now gather, and surmise. _the letter_.[1] _to the celestiall, and my soules idoll, the most beautified ophelia_. that's an ill phrase, a vilde phrase, beautified is a vilde phrase: but you shall heare these in her thus in her excellent white bosome, these.[2] [sidenote: these, &c] _qu_. came this from _hamlet_ to her. _pol_. good madam stay awhile, i will be faithfull. _doubt thou, the starres are fire_, [sidenote: _letter_] _doubt, that the sunne doth moue; doubt truth to be a lier, but neuer doubt, i loue.[3] o deere ophelia, i am ill at these numbers: i haue not art to reckon my grones; but that i loue thee best, oh most best beleeue it. adieu. thine euermore most deere lady, whilst this machine is to him_, hamlet. this in obedience hath my daughter shew'd me: [sidenote: _pol_. this showne] and more aboue hath his soliciting, [sidenote: more about solicitings] as they fell out by time, by meanes, and place, all giuen to mine eare. _king_. but how hath she receiu'd his loue? _pol_. what do you thinke of me? _king_. as of a man, faithfull and honourable. _pol_. i wold faine proue so. but what might you think? [footnote 1: _not in quarto._] [footnote 2: _point thus_: 'but you shall heare. _these, in her excellent white bosom, these_:' ladies, we are informed, wore a small pocket in front of the bodice;--but to accept the fact as an explanation of this passage, is to cast the passage away. hamlet _addresses_ his letter, not to ophelia's pocket, but to ophelia herself, at her house--that is, in the palace of her bosom, excellent in whiteness. in like manner, signing himself, he makes mention of his body as a machine of which he has the use for a time. so earnest is hamlet that when he makes love, he is the more a philosopher. but he is more than a philosopher: he is a man of the universe, not a man of this world only. we must not allow the fashion of the time in which the play was written, to cause doubt as to the genuine heartiness of hamlet's love-making.] [footnote 3: _1st q._ doubt that in earth is fire, doubt that the starres doe moue, doubt trueth to be a liar, but doe not doubt i loue.] [page 82] when i had seene this hot loue on the wing, as i perceiued it, i must tell you that before my daughter told me, what might you or my deere maiestie your queene heere, think, if i had playd the deske or table-booke,[1] or giuen my heart a winking, mute and dumbe, [sidenote: working] or look'd vpon this loue, with idle sight,[2] what might you thinke? no, i went round to worke, and (my yong mistris) thus i did bespeake[3] lord _hamlet_ is a prince out of thy starre,[4] this must not be:[5] and then, i precepts gaue her, [sidenote: i prescripts] that she should locke her selfe from his resort, [sidenote: from her] [sidenote: 42[6], 43, 70] admit no messengers, receiue no tokens: which done, she tooke the fruites of my aduice,[7] and he repulsed. a short tale to make, [sidenote: repell'd, a] fell into a sadnesse, then into a fast,[8] thence to a watch, thence into a weaknesse, [sidenote: to a wath,] thence to a lightnesse, and by this declension [sidenote: to lightnes] into the madnesse whereon now he raues, [sidenote: wherein] and all we waile for.[9] [sidenote: mourne for] _king_. do you thinke 'tis this?[10] [sidenote: thinke this?] _qu_. it may be very likely. [sidenote: like] _pol_. hath there bene such a time, i'de fain know that, [sidenote: i would] that i haue possitiuely said, 'tis so, when it prou'd otherwise? _king_. not that i know. _pol_. take this from this[11]; if this be otherwise, if circumstances leade me, i will finde where truth is hid, though it were hid indeede within the center. _king_. how may we try it further? [footnote 1: --behaved like a piece of furniture.] [footnote 2: the love of talk makes a man use many idle words, foolish expressions, and useless repetitions.] [footnote 3: notwithstanding the parenthesis, i take 'mistris' to be the objective to 'bespeake'--that is, _address_.] [footnote 4: _star_, mark of sort or quality; brand (45). the _1st q_. goes on- an'd one that is vnequall for your loue: but it may mean, as suggested by my _reader_, 'outside thy destiny,'--as ruled by the star of nativity--and i think it does.] [footnote 5: here is a change from the impression conveyed in the first act: he attributes his interference to his care for what befitted royalty; whereas, talking to ophelia (40, 72), he attributes it entirely to his care for her;--so partly in the speech correspondent to the present in _1st q_.:- now since which time, seeing his loue thus cross'd, which i tooke to be idle, and but sport, he straitway grew into a melancholy,] [footnote 6: see also passage in note from _1st q_.] [footnote 7: she obeyed him. the 'fruits' of his advice were her conformed actions.] [footnote 8: when the appetite goes, and the sleep follows, doubtless the man is on the steep slope of madness. but as to hamlet, and how matters were with him, what polonius says is worth nothing.] [footnote 9: '_wherein_ now he raves, and _wherefor_ all we wail.'] [footnote 10: _to the queen_.] [footnote 11: head from shoulders.] [page 84] _pol_. you know sometimes he walkes foure houres together, heere[1] in the lobby. _qu_. so he ha's indeed. [sidenote: he dooes indeede] [sidenote: 118] _pol_. at such a time ile loose my daughter to him, be you and i behinde an arras then, marke the encounter: if he loue her not, and be not from his reason falne thereon; let me be no assistant for a state, and keepe a farme and carters. [sidenote: but keepe] _king_. we will try it. _enter hamlet reading on a booke._[2] _qu_. but looke where sadly the poore wretch comes reading.[3] _pol_. away i do beseech you, both away, he boord[4] him presently. _exit king & queen_[5] oh giue me leaue.[6] how does my good lord _hamlet_? _ham_. well, god-a-mercy. _pol_. do you know me, my lord? [sidenote: 180] _ham_. excellent, excellent well: y'are a fish-monger.[7] [sidenote: excellent well, you are] _pol_. not i my lord. _ham_. then i would you were so honest a man. _pol_. honest, my lord? _ham_. i sir, to be honest as this world goes, is to bee one man pick'd out of two thousand. [sidenote: tenne thousand[8]] _pol_. that's very true, my lord. _ham_.[9] for if the sun breed magots in a dead dogge, being a good kissing carrion--[10] [sidenote: carrion. have] haue you a daughter?[11] _pol_. i haue my lord. [footnote 1: _1st q_. the princes walke is here in the galery, there let _ofelia_, walke vntill hee comes: your selfe and i will stand close in the study,] [footnote 2: _not in quarto_.] [footnote 3: _1st q_.- _king_. see where hee comes poring vppon a booke.] [footnote 4: the same as accost, both meaning originally _go to the side of_.] [footnote 5: _a line back in the quarto_.] [footnote 6: 'please you to go away.' 89, 203. here should come the preceding stage-direction.] [footnote 7: now first the play shows us hamlet in his affected madness. he has a great dislike to the selfish, time-serving courtier, who, like his mother, has forsaken the memory of his father--and a great distrust of him as well. the two men are moral antipodes. each is given to moralizing--but compare their reflections: those of polonius reveal a lover of himself, those of hamlet a lover of his kind; polonius is interested in success; hamlet in humanity.] [footnote 8: so also in _1st q_.] [footnote 9: --reading, or pretending to read, the words from the book he carries.] [footnote 10: when the passion for emendation takes possession of a man, his opportunities are endless--so many seeming emendations offer themselves which are in themselves not bad, letters and words affording as much play as the keys of a piano. 'being a god kissing carrion,' is in itself good enough; but shakspere meant what stands in both quarto and folio: _the dead dog being a carrion good at kissing_. the arbitrary changes of the editors are amazing.] [footnote 11: he cannot help his mind constantly turning upon women; and if his thoughts of them are often cruelly false, it is not hamlet but his mother who is to blame: her conduct has hurled him from the peak of optimism into the bottomless pool of pessimistic doubt, above the foul waters of which he keeps struggling to lift his head.] [page 86] _ham_. let her not walke i'th'sunne: conception[1] is a blessing, but not as your daughter may [sidenote: but as your] conceiue. friend looke too't. [sidenote: 100] _pol_.[2] how say you by that? still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said [sidenote: a sayd i] i was a fishmonger: he is farre gone, farre gone: [sidenote: fishmonger, a is farre gone, and truly] and truly in my youth, i suffred much extreamity and truly for loue: very neere this. ile speake to him againe. what do you read my lord? _ham_. words, words, words. _pol_. what is the matter, my lord? _ham_. betweene who?[3] _pol_. i meane the matter you meane, my [sidenote: matter that you reade my] lord. _ham_. slanders sir: for the satyricall slaue [sidenote: satericall rogue sayes] saies here, that old men haue gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thicke amber, or plum-tree gumme: and that they haue [sidenote: amber, and] a plentifull locke of wit, together with weake [sidenote: lacke | with most weake] hammes. all which sir, though i most powerfully, and potently beleeue; yet i holde it not honestie[4] to haue it thus set downe: for you [sidenote: for your selfe sir shall grow old as i am:] your selfe sir, should be old as i am, if like a crab you could go backward. _pol_.[5] though this be madnesse, yet there is method in't: will you walke out of the ayre[6] my lord? _ham_. into my graue? _pol_. indeed that is out o'th'ayre: [sidenote: that's out of the ayre;] how pregnant (sometimes) his replies are? a happinesse, that often madnesse hits on, which reason and sanitie could not [sidenote: sanctity] so prosperously be deliuer'd of. [footnote 1: one of the meanings of the word, and more in use then than now, is _understanding_.] [footnote 2: (_aside_).] [footnote 3: --pretending to take him to mean by _matter_, the _point of quarrel_.] [footnote 4: propriety.] [footnote 5: (_aside_).] [footnote 6: the draught.] [page 88] [a] i will leaue him, and sodainely contriue the meanes of meeting betweene him,[1] and my daughter. my honourable lord, i will most humbly take my leaue of you. _ham_. you cannot sir take from[2] me any thing, that i will more willingly part withall, except my [sidenote: will not more | my life, except my] life, my life.[3] [sidenote: _enter guyldersterne, and rosencrans_.] _polon_. fare you well my lord. _ham_. these tedious old fooles. _polon_. you goe to seeke my lord _hamlet_; [sidenote: the lord] there hee is. _enter rosincran and guildensterne_.[4] _rosin_. god saue you sir. _guild_. mine honour'd lord? _rosin_. my most deare lord? _ham_. my excellent good friends? how do'st [sidenote: my extent good] thou _guildensterne_? oh, _rosincrane_; good lads: [sidenote: a rosencraus] how doe ye both? [sidenote: you] _rosin_. as the indifferent children of the earth. _guild_. happy, in that we are not ouer-happy: [sidenote: euer happy on] on fortunes cap, we are not the very button. [sidenote: fortunes lap,] _ham_. nor the soales of her shoo? _rosin_. neither my lord. _ham_. then you liue about her waste, or in the middle of her fauour? [sidenote: fauors.] _guil_. faith, her priuates, we. _ham_. in the secret parts of fortune? oh, most true: she is a strumpet.[5] what's the newes? [sidenote: what newes?] _rosin_. none my lord; but that the world's [sidenote: but the] growne honest. _ham_. then is doomesday neere: but your [footnote a: _in the quarto, the speech ends thus_:--i will leaue him and my daughter.[6] my lord, i will take my leaue of you.] [footnote 1: from 'and sodainely' _to_ 'betweene him,' _not in quarto_.] [footnote 2: it is well here to recall the modes of the word _leave_: '_give me leave_,' polonius says with proper politeness to the king and queen when he wants _them_ to go--that is, 'grant me your _departure_'; but he would, going himself, _take_ his leave, his departure, _of_ or _from_ them--by their permission to go. hamlet means, 'you cannot take from me anything i will more willingly part with than your leave, or, my permission to you to go.' 85, 203. see the play on the two meanings of the word in _twelfth night_, act ii. sc. 4: _duke_. give me now leave to leave thee; though i suspect it ought to be- _duke_. give me now leave. _clown_. to leave thee!--now, the melancholy &c.] [footnote 3: it is a relief to him to speak the truth under the cloak of madness--ravingly. he has no one to whom to open his heart: what lies there he feels too terrible for even the eye of horatio. he has not apparently told him as yet more than the tale of his father's murder.] [footnote 4: _above, in quarto_.] [footnote 5: in this and all like utterances of hamlet, we see what worm it is that lies gnawing at his heart.] [footnote 6: this is a slip in the _quarto_--rectified in the _folio_: his daughter was not present.] [page 90] newes is not true.[1] [2] let me question more in particular: what haue you my good friends, deserued at the hands of fortune, that she sends you to prison hither? _guil_. prison, my lord? _ham_. denmark's a prison. _rosin_. then is the world one. _ham_. a goodly one, in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons; _denmarke_ being one o'th'worst. _rosin_. we thinke not so my lord. _ham_. why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so[3]: to me it is a prison. _rosin_. why then your ambition makes it one: 'tis too narrow for your minde.[4] _ham_. o god, i could be bounded in a nutshell, and count my selfe a king of infinite space; were it not that i haue bad dreames. _guil_. which dreames indeed are ambition: for the very substance[5] of the ambitious, is meerely the shadow of a dreame. _ham_. a dreame it selfe is but a shadow. _rosin_. truely, and i hold ambition of so ayry and light a quality, that it is but a shadowes shadow. _ham_. then are our beggers bodies; and our monarchs and out-stretcht heroes the beggers shadowes: shall wee to th'court: for, by my fey[6] i cannot reason?[7] _both_. wee'l wait vpon you. _ham_. no such matter.[8] i will not sort you with the rest of my seruants: for to speake to you like an honest man: i am most dreadfully attended;[9] but in the beaten way of friendship,[10] [sidenote: but in] what make you at _elsonower_? [footnote 1: 'it is not true that the world is grown honest': he doubts themselves. his eye is sharper because his heart is sorer since he left wittenberg. he proceeds to examine them.] [footnote 2: this passage, beginning with 'let me question,' and ending with 'dreadfully attended,' is not in the _quarto_. who inserted in the folio this and other passages? was it or was it not shakspere? beyond a doubt they are shakspere's all. then who omitted those omitted? was shakspere incapable of refusing any of his own work? or would these editors, who profess to have all opportunity, and who, belonging to the theatre, must have had the best of opportunities, have desired or dared to omit what far more painstaking editors have since presumed, though out of reverence, to restore?] [footnote 3: 'but it is thinking that makes it so:'] [footnote 4: --feeling after the cause of hamlet's strangeness, and following the readiest suggestion, that of chagrin at missing the succession.] [footnote 5: objects and aims.] [footnote 6: _foi_.] [footnote 7: does he choose beggars as the representatives of substance because they lack ambition--that being shadow? or does he take them as the shadows of humanity, that, following rosincrance, he may get their shadows, the shadows therefore of shadows, to parallel _monarchs_ and _heroes_? but he is not satisfied with his own analogue--therefore will to the court, where good logic is not wanted--where indeed he knows a hellish lack of reason.] [footnote 8: 'on no account.'] [footnote 9: 'i have very bad servants.' perhaps he judges his servants spies upon him. or might he mean that he was _haunted with bad thoughts_? or again, is it a stroke of his pretence of madness--suggesting imaginary followers?] [footnote: 10: 'to speak plainly, as old friends.'] [page 92] _rosin_. to visit you my lord, no other occasion. _ham_. begger that i am, i am euen poore in [sidenote: am ever poore] thankes; but i thanke you: and sure deare friends my thanks are too deare a halfepeny[1]; were you [sidenote: 72] not sent for? is it your owne inclining? is it a free visitation?[2] come, deale iustly with me: come, come; nay speake. [sidenote: come, come,] _guil_. what should we say my lord?[3] _ham_. why any thing. but to the purpose; [sidenote: any thing but to'th purpose:] you were sent for; and there is a kinde confession [sidenote: kind of confession] in your lookes; which your modesties haue not craft enough to color, i know the good king and [sidenote: 72] queene haue sent for you. _rosin_. to what end my lord? _ham_. that you must teach me: but let mee coniure[4] you by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth,[5] by the obligation of our euer-preserued loue, and by what more deare, a better proposer could charge you withall; [sidenote: can] be euen and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no. _rosin_. what say you?[6] _ham_. nay then i haue an eye of you[7]: if you loue me hold not off.[8] [sidenote: 72] _guil_. my lord, we were sent for. _ham_. i will tell you why; so shall my anticipation preuent your discouery of your secricie to [sidenote: discovery, and your secrecie to the king and queene moult no feather,[10]] the king and queene[9] moult no feather, i haue [sidenote: 116] of late, but wherefore i know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custome of exercise; and indeed, [sidenote: exercises;] it goes so heauenly with my disposition; that this [sidenote: heauily] goodly frame the earth, seemes to me a sterrill promontory; this most excellent canopy the ayre, look you, this braue ore-hanging, this maiesticall [sidenote: orehanging firmament,] roofe, fretted with golden fire: why, it appeares no [sidenote: appeareth] [footnote 1: --because they were by no means hearty thanks.] [footnote 2: he wants to know whether they are in his uncle's employment and favour; whether they pay court to himself for his uncle's ends.] [footnote 3: he has no answer ready.] [footnote 4: he will not cast them from him without trying a direct appeal to their old friendship for plain dealing. this must be remembered in relation to his treatment of them afterwards. he affords them every chance of acting truly--conjuring them to honesty--giving them a push towards repentance.] [footnote 5: either, 'the harmony of our young days,' or, 'the sympathies of our present youth.'] [footnote 6: --_to guildenstern_.] [footnote 7: (_aside_) 'i will keep an eye upon you;'.] [footnote 8: 'do not hold back.'] [footnote 9: the _quarto_ seems here to have the right reading.] [footnote 10: 'your promise of secrecy remain intact;'.] [page 94] other thing to mee, then a foule and pestilent congregation [sidenote: nothing to me but a] of vapours. what a piece of worke is [sidenote: what peece] a man! how noble in reason? how infinite in faculty? in forme and mouing how expresse and [sidenote: faculties,] admirable? in action, how like an angel? in apprehension, how like a god? the beauty of the world, the parragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me;[1] no, nor woman neither; though by your [sidenote: not me, nor women] smiling you seeme to say so.[2] _rosin._ my lord, there was no such stuffe in my thoughts. _ham._ why did you laugh, when i said, man [sidenote: yee laugh then, when] delights not me? _rosin._ to thinke, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenton entertainment the players shall receiue from you:[3] wee coated them[4] on the way, and hither are they comming to offer you seruice. _ham._[5] he that playes the king shall be welcome; his maiesty shall haue tribute of mee: [sidenote: on me,] the aduenturous knight shal vse his foyle and target: the louer shall not sigh _gratis_, the humorous man[6] shall end his part in peace: [7] the clowne shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled a'th' sere:[8] and the lady shall say her minde freely; or the blanke verse shall halt for't[9]: [sidenote: black verse] what players are they? _rosin._ euen those you were wont to take [sidenote: take such delight] delight in the tragedians of the city. _ham._ how chances it they trauaile? their residence both in reputation and profit was better both wayes. _rosin._ i thinke their inhibition comes by the meanes of the late innouation?[10] [footnote 1: a genuine description, so far as it goes, of the state of hamlet's mind. but he does not reveal the operating cause--his loss of faith in women, which has taken the whole poetic element out of heaven, earth, and humanity: he would have his uncle's spies attribute his condition to mere melancholy.] [footnote 2: --said angrily, i think.] [footnote 3: --a ready-witted subterfuge.] [footnote 4: came alongside of them; got up with them; apparently rather from fr. _cã´tã©_ than _coter_; like _accost_. compare 71. but i suspect it only means _noted_, _observed_, and is from _coter_.] [footnote 5: --_with humorous imitation, perhaps, of each of the characters_.] [footnote 6: --the man with a whim.] [footnote 7: this part of the speech--from [7] to [8], is not in the _quarto_.] [footnote 8: halliwell gives a quotation in which the touch-hole of a pistol is called the _sere_: the _sere_, then, of the lungs would mean the opening of the lungs--the part with which we laugh: those 'whose lungs are tickled a' th' sere,' are such as are ready to laugh on the least provocation: _tickled_--_irritable, ticklish_--ready to laugh, as another might be to cough. 'tickled o' the sere' was a common phrase, signifying, thus, _propense_. _1st q._ the clowne shall make them laugh that are tickled in the lungs,] [footnote 9: does this refer to the pause that expresses the unutterable? or to the ruin of the measure of the verse by an incompetent heroine?] [footnote 10: does this mean, 'i think their prohibition comes through the late innovation,'--of the children's acting; or, 'i think they are prevented from staying at home by the late new measures,'--such, namely, as came of the puritan opposition to stage-plays? this had grown so strong, that, in 1600, the privy council issued an order restricting the number of theatres in london to two: by such an _innovation_ a number of players might well be driven to the country.] [page 96] _ham_. doe they hold the same estimation they did when i was in the city? are they so follow'd? _rosin_. no indeed, they are not. [sidenote: are they not.] [1]_ham_. how comes it? doe they grow rusty? _rosin_. nay, their indeauour keepes in the wonted pace; but there is sir an ayrie of children,[2] little yases,[3] that crye out[4] on the top of question;[5] and are most tyrannically clap't for't: these are now the fashion, and so be-ratled the common stages[6] (so they call them) that many wearing rapiers,[7] are affraide of goose-quils, and dare scarse come thither.[8] _ham_. what are they children? who maintains 'em? how are they escoted?[9] will they pursue the quality[10] no longer then they can sing?[11] will they not say afterwards if they should grow themselues to common players (as it is like most[12] if their meanes are no better) their writers[13] do them wrong, to make them exclaim against their owne succession.[14] _rosin_. faith there ha's bene much to do on both sides: and the nation holds it no sinne, to tarre them[15] to controuersie. there was for a while, no mony bid for argument, vnlesse the poet and the player went to cuffes in the question.[16] _ham_. is't possible? _guild_. oh there ha's beene much throwing about of braines. _ham_. do the boyes carry it away?[17] _rosin_. i that they do my lord, _hercules_ and his load too.[18] _ham_. it is not strange: for mine vnckle is [sidenote: not very strange, | my] king of denmarke, and those that would make mowes at him while my father liued; giue twenty, [sidenote: make mouths] [footnote 1: the whole of the following passage, beginning with 'how comes it,' and ending with 'hercules and his load too,' belongs to the _folio_ alone--is not in the _quarto_. in the _1st quarto_ we find the germ of the passage--unrepresented in the _2nd_, developed in the _folio_. _ham_. players, what players be they? _ross_. my lord, the tragedians of the citty, those that you tooke delight to see so often. _ham_. how comes it that they trauell? do they grow restie? _gil_. no my lord, their reputation holds as it was wont. _ham_. how then? _gil_. yfaith my lord, noueltie carries it away, for the principall publike audience that came to them, are turned to priuate playes,[19] and to the humour[20] of children. _ham_. i doe not greatly wonder of it, for those that would make mops and moes at my vncle, when my father liued, &c.] [footnote 2: _a nest of children_. the acting of the children of two or three of the chief choirs had become the rage.] [footnote 3: _eyases_--unfledged hawks.] [footnote 4: children _cry out_ rather than _speak_ on the stage.] [footnote 5: 'cry out beyond dispute'--_unquestionably_; 'cry out and no mistake.' 'he does not top his part.' _the rehearsal_, iii. 1.--'_he is not up to it_.' but perhaps here is intended _above reason_: 'they cry out excessively, excruciatingly.' 103. this said, in top of rage the lines she rents,--_a lover's complaint_.] [footnote 6: i presume it should be the present tense, _beratle_--except the _are_ of the preceding member be understood: 'and so beratled _are_ the common stages.' if the _present_, then the children 'so abuse the grown players,'--in the pieces they acted, particularly in the new _arguments_, written for them--whence the reference to _goose-quills_.] [footnote 7: --of the play-going public.] [footnote 8: --for dread of sharing in the ridicule.] [footnote 9: _paid_--from the french _escot_, a shot or reckoning: _dr. johnson_.] [footnote 10: --the quality of players; the profession of the stage.] [footnote 11: 'will they cease playing when their voices change?'] [footnote 12: either _will_ should follow here, or _like_ and _most_ must change places.] [footnote 13: 'those that write for them'.] [footnote 14: --what they had had to come to themselves.] [footnote 15: 'to incite the children and the grown players to controversy': _to tarre them on like dogs_: see _king john_, iv. 1.] [footnote 16: 'no stage-manager would buy a new argument, or prologue, to a play, unless the dramatist and one of the actors were therein represented as falling out on the question of the relative claims of the children and adult actors.'] [footnote 17: 'have the boys the best of it?'] [footnote 18: 'that they have, out and away.' steevens suggests that allusion is here made to the sign of the globe theatre--hercules bearing the world for atlas.] [footnote 19: amateur-plays.] [footnote 20: whimsical fashion.] [page 98] forty, an hundred ducates a peece, for his picture[1] [sidenote: fortie, fifty, a hundred] in little.[2] there is something in this more then [sidenote: little, s'bloud there is] naturall, if philosophic could finde it out. _flourish for tke players_.[3] [sidenote: _a florish_.] _guil_. there are the players. _ham_. gentlemen, you are welcom to _elsonower_: your hands, come: the appurtenance of [sidenote: come then, th'] welcome, is fashion and ceremony. let me [sidenote: 260] comply with you in the garbe,[4] lest my extent[5] to [sidenote: in this garb: let me extent] the players (which i tell you must shew fairely outward) should more appeare like entertainment[6] [sidenote: outwards,] then yours.[7] you are welcome: but my vnckle father, and aunt mother are deceiu'd. _guil_. in what my deere lord? _ham_. i am but mad north, north-west: when the winde is southerly, i know a hawke from a handsaw.[8] _enter polonius_. _pol_. well[9] be with you gentlemen. _ham_. hearke you _guildensterne_, and you too: at each eare a hearer: that great baby you see there, is not yet out of his swathing clouts. [sidenote: swadling clouts.] _rosin_. happily he's the second time come to [sidenote: he is] them: for they say, an old man is twice a childe. _ham_. i will prophesie. hee comes to tell me of the players. mark it, you say right sir: for a [sidenote: sir, a monday] monday morning 'twas so indeed.[10] [sidenote: t'was then indeede.] _pol_. my lord, i haue newes to tell you. _ham_. my lord, i haue newes to tell you. when _rossius_ an actor in rome----[11] [sidenote: _rossius_ was an] _pol_. the actors are come hither my lord. _ham_. buzze, buzze.[12] _pol_. vpon mine honor.[13] [sidenote: my] _ham_. then can each actor on his asse--- [sidenote: came each] [footnote 1: if there be any logical link here, except that, after the instance adduced, no change in social fashion--nothing at all indeed, is to be wondered at, i fail to see it. perhaps the speech is intended to belong to the simulation. the last sentence of it appears meant to convey the impression that he suspects nothing--is only bewildered by the course of things.] [footnote 2: his miniature.] [footnote 3: --to indicate their approach.] [footnote 4: _com'ply_--accent on first syllable--'pass compliments with you' (260)--_in the garb_, either 'in appearance,' or 'in the fashion of the hour.'] [footnote 5: 'the amount of courteous reception i extend'--'my advances to the players.'] [footnote 6: reception, welcome.] [footnote 7: he seems to desire that they shall no more be on the footing of fellow-students, and thus to rid himself of the old relation. perhaps he hints that they are players too. from any further show of friendliness he takes refuge in convention--and professed convention--supplying a reason in order to escape a dangerous interpretation of his sudden formality--'lest you should suppose me more cordial to the players than to you.' the speech is full of inwoven irony, doubtful, and refusing to be ravelled out. with what merely half-shown, yet scathing satire it should be spoken and accompanied!] [footnote 8: a proverb of the time comically corrupted--_handsaw for hernshaw_--a heron, the quarry of the hawk. he denies his madness as madmen do--and in terms themselves not unbefitting madness--so making it seem the more genuine. yet every now and then, urged by the commotion of his being, he treads perilously on the border of self-betrayal.] [footnote 9: used as a noun.] [footnote 10: _point thus_: 'mark it.--you say right, sir; &c.' he takes up a speech that means nothing, and might mean anything, to turn aside the suspicion their whispering might suggest to polonius that they had been talking about him--so better to lay his trap for him.] [footnote 11: he mentions the _actor_ to lead polonius so that his prophecy of him shall come true.] [footnote 12: an interjection of mockery: he had made a fool of him.] [footnote 13: polonius thinks he is refusing to believe him.] [page 100] _polon_. the best actors in the world, either for tragedie, comedie, historic, pastorall: pastoricallcomicall-historicall-pastorall: [1] tragicall-historicall: tragicall-comicall--historicall-pastorall[1]: scene indiuible,[2] or poem vnlimited.[3] _seneca_ cannot [sidenote: scene indeuidible,[2]] be too heauy, nor _plautus_ too light, for the law of writ, and the liberty. these are the onely men.[4] _ham_. o _iephta_ iudge of israel, what a treasure had'st thou? _pol_. what a treasure had he, my lord?[5] _ham_. why one faire daughter, and no more,[6] the which he loued passing well.[6] [sidenote: 86] _pol_. still on my daughter. _ham_. am i not i'th'right old _iephta_? _polon_. if you call me _iephta_ my lord, i haue a daughter that i loue passing well. _ham_. nay that followes not.[7] _polon_. what followes then, my lord? _ham_. why, as by lot, god wot:[6] and then you know, it came to passe, as most like it was:[6] the first rowe of the _pons[8] chanson_ will shew you more, [sidenote: pious chanson] for looke where my abridgements[9] come. [sidenote: abridgment[9] comes] _enter foure or fiue players._ [sidenote: _enter the players._] y'are welcome masters, welcome all. i am glad [sidenote: you are] to see thee well: welcome good friends. o my [sidenote: oh old friend, why thy face is valanct[10]] olde friend? thy face is valiant[10] since i saw thee last: com'st thou to beard me in denmarke? what, my yong lady and mistris?[11] byrlady [sidenote: by lady] your ladiship is neerer heauen then when i saw [sidenote: nerer to] you last, by the altitude of a choppine.[12] pray god your voice like a peece of vncurrant gold be not crack'd within the ring.[13] masters, you are all welcome: wee'l e'ne to't like french faulconers,[14] [sidenote: like friendly fankner] flie at any thing we see: wee'l haue a speech [footnote 1: from [1] to [1] is not in the _quarto_.] [footnote 2: does this phrase mean _all in one scene_?] [footnote 3: a poem to be recited only--one not _limited_, or _divided_ into speeches.] [footnote 4: _point thus_: 'too light. for the law of writ, and the liberty, these are the onely men':--_either for written plays_, that is, _or for those in which the players extemporized their speeches_. _1st q_. 'for the law hath writ those are the onely men.'] [footnote 5: polonius would lead him on to talk of his daughter.] [footnote 6: these are lines of the first stanza of an old ballad still in existence. does hamlet suggest that as jephthah so polonius had sacrificed his daughter? or is he only desirous of making him talk about her?] [footnote 7: 'that is not as the ballad goes.'] [footnote 8: that this is a corruption of the _pious_ in the _quarto_, is made clearer from the _1st quarto_: 'the first verse of the godly ballet wil tel you all.'] [footnote 9: _abridgment_--that which _abridges_, or cuts short. his 'abridgements' were the players.] [footnote 10: _1st q_. 'vallanced'--_with a beard_, that is. both readings may be correct.] [footnote 11: a boy of course: no women had yet appeared on the stage.] [footnote 12: a venetian boot, stilted, sometimes very high.] [footnote 13: --because then it would be unfit for a woman-part. a piece of gold so worn that it had a crack reaching within the inner circle was no longer current. _1st q_. 'in the ring:'--was a pun intended?] [footnote 14: --like french sportsmen of the present day too.] [page 102] straight. come giue vs a tast of your quality: come, a passionate speech. _1. play._ what speech, my lord? [sidenote: my good lord?] _ham._ i heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was neuer acted: or if it was, not aboue once, for the play i remember pleas'd not the million, 'twas _cauiarie_ to the generall[1]: but it was (as i receiu'd it, and others, whose iudgement in such matters, cried in the top of mine)[2] an excellent play; well digested in the scoenes, set downe with as much modestie, as cunning.[3] i remember one said there was no sallets[4] in the lines, to make the [sidenote: were] matter sauoury; nor no matter in the phrase,[5] that might indite the author of affectation, but cal'd it [sidenote: affection,] an honest method[a]. one cheefe speech in it, i [sidenote: one speech in't i] cheefely lou'd, 'twas _ã�neas_ tale to _dido_, and [sidenote: _aeneas_ talke to] thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of [sidenote: when] _priams_[6] slaughter. if it liue in your memory, begin at this line, let me see, let me see: the rugged _pyrrhus_ like th'_hyrcanian_ beast.[7] it is [sidenote: tis not] not so: it begins[8] with _pyrrhus_.[9] [10] the rugged _pyrrhus_, he whose sable armes[11] blacke as his purpose, did the night resemble when he lay couched in the ominous[12] horse, hath now this dread and blacke complexion smear'd with heraldry more dismall: head to foote now is he to take geulles,[13] horridly trick'd [sidenote: is he totall gules [18]] with blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sonnes, [14] bak'd and impasted with the parching streets, that lend a tyrannous, and damned light [sidenote: and a damned] [footnote a: _here in the quarto:_-as wholesome as sweete, and by very much, more handsome then fine:] [footnote 1: the salted roe of the sturgeon is a delicacy disliked by most people.] [footnote 2: 'were superior to mine.' the _1st quarto_ has, 'cried in the toppe of their iudgements, an excellent play,'--that is, _pronounced it, to the best of their judgments, an excellent play_. note the difference between 'the top of _my_ judgment', and 'the top of _their_ judgments'. 97.] [footnote 3: skill.] [footnote 4: coarse jests. 25, 67.] [footnote 5: _style_.] [footnote 6: _1st q_. 'princes slaughter.'] [footnote 7: _1st q_. 'th'arganian beast:' 'the hyrcan tiger,' macbeth, iii. 4.] [footnote 8: 'it _begins_': emphasis on begins.] [footnote 9: a pause; then having recollected, he starts afresh.] [footnote 10: these passages are shakspere's own, not quotations: the quartos differ. but when he wrote them he had in his mind a phantom of marlowe's _dido, queen of carthage_. i find steevens has made a similar conjecture, and quotes from marlowe two of the passages i had marked as being like passages here.] [footnote 11: the poetry is admirable in its kind--intentionally _charged_, to raise it to the second stage-level, above the blank verse, that is, of the drama in which it is set, as that blank verse is raised above the ordinary level of speech. 143. the correspondent passage in _1st q_. runs nearly parallel for a few lines.] [footnote 12:--like _portentous_.] [footnote 13: 'all red', _1st q_. 'totall guise.'] [footnote 14: here the _1st quarto_ has:- back't and imparched in calagulate gore, rifted in earth and fire, olde grandsire _pryam_ seekes: so goe on.] [page 104] to their vilde murthers, roasted in wrath and fire, [sidenote: their lords murther,] and thus o're-sized with coagulate gore, with eyes like carbuncles, the hellish _pyrrhus_ old grandsire _priam_ seekes.[1] [sidenote: seekes; so proceede you.[2]] _pol_. fore god, my lord, well spoken, with good accent, and good discretion.[3] _1. player_. anon he findes him, [sidenote: _play_] striking too short at greekes.[4] his anticke sword, rebellious to his arme, lyes where it falles repugnant to command[4]: vnequall match, [sidenote: matcht,] _pyrrhus_ at _priam_ driues, in rage strikes wide: but with the whiffe and winde of his fell sword, th'vnnerued father fals.[5] then senselesse illium,[6] seeming to feele his blow, with flaming top [sidenote: seele[7] this blowe,] stoopes to his bace, and with a hideous crash takes prisoner _pyrrhus_ eare. for loe, his sword which was declining on the milkie head of reuerend _priam_, seem'd i'th'ayre to sticke: so as a painted tyrant _pyrrhus_ stood,[8] [sidenote: stood like] and like a newtrall to his will and matter,[9] did nothing.[10] [11] but as we often see against some storme, a silence in the heauens, the racke stand still, the bold windes speechlesse, and the orbe below as hush as death: anon the dreadfull thunder [sidenote: 110] doth rend the region.[11] so after _pyrrhus_ pause, arowsed vengeance sets him new a-worke, and neuer did the cyclops hammers fall on mars his armours, forg'd for proofe eterne, [sidenote: _marses_ armor] with lesse remorse then _pyrrhus_ bleeding sword now falles on _priam_. [12] out, out, thou strumpet-fortune, all you gods, in generall synod take away her power: breake all the spokes and fallies from her wheele, [sidenote: follies] [footnote 1: this, though horrid enough, is in degree below the description in _dido_.] [footnote 2: he is directing the player to take up the speech there where he leaves it. see last quotation from _1st q_.] [footnote 3: _judgment_.] [footnote 4: --with an old man's under-reaching blows--till his arm is so jarred by a missed blow, that he cannot raise his sword again.] [footnote 5: whereat he lifted up his bedrid limbs, and would have grappled with achilles' son, * * * * * which he, disdaining, whisk'd his sword about, and with the wound[13] thereof the king fell down. marlowe's _dido, queen of carthage_.] [footnote 6: the _quarto_ has omitted '_then senselesse illium_,' or something else.] [footnote 7: printed with the long f[symbol for archaic long s].] [footnote 8: --motionless as a tyrant in a picture.] [footnote 9: 'standing between his will and its object as if he had no relation to either.'] [footnote 10: and then in triumph ran into the streets, through which he could not pass for slaughtered men; so, leaning on his sword, he stood stone still, viewing the fire wherewith rich ilion burnt. marlowe's _dido, queen of carthage_.] [footnote 11: who does not feel this passage, down to 'region,' thoroughly shaksperean!] [footnote 12: is not the rest of this speech very plainly shakspere's?] [footnote 13: _wind_, i think it should be.] [page 106] and boule the round naue downe the hill of heauen, as low as to the fiends. _pol_. this is too long. _ham_. it shall to'th barbars, with your beard. [sidenote: to the] prythee say on: he's for a iigge, or a tale of baudry, or hee sleepes. say on; come to _hecuba_. _1. play_. but who, o who, had seen the inobled[1] queen. [sidenote: but who, a woe, had | mobled[1]] _ham_. the inobled[1] queene? [sidenote: mobled] _pol_. that's good: inobled[1] queene is good.[2] _1. play_. run bare-foot vp and downe, threatning the flame [sidenote: flames] with bisson rheume:[3] a clout about that head, [sidenote: clout vppon] where late the diadem stood, and for a robe about her lanke and all ore-teamed loines,[4] a blanket in th'alarum of feare caught vp. [sidenote: the alarme] who this had seene, with tongue in venome steep'd, 'gainst fortunes state, would treason haue pronounc'd?[5] but if the gods themselues did see her then, when she saw _pyrrhus_ make malicious sport in mincing with his sword her husbands limbes,[6] [sidenote: husband] the instant burst of clamour that she made (vnlesse things mortall moue them not at all) would haue made milche[7] the burning eyes of heauen, and passion in the gods.[8] _pol_. looke where[9] he ha's not turn'd his colour, and ha's teares in's eyes. pray you no more. [sidenote: prethee] _ham_. 'tis well, he haue thee speake out the rest, soone. good my lord, will you see the [sidenote: rest of this] players wel bestow'd. do ye heare, let them be [sidenote: you] well vs'd: for they are the abstracts and breefe [sidenote: abstract] chronicles of the time. after your death, you [footnote 1: '_mobled_'--also in _1st q_.--may be the word: _muffled_ seems a corruption of it: compare _mob-cap_, and 'the moon does mobble up herself' --_shirley_, quoted by _farmer_; but i incline to '_inobled_,' thrice in the _folio_--once with a capital: i take it to stand for _'ignobled,' degraded_.] [footnote 2: 'inobled queene is good.' _not in quarto_.] [footnote 3: --threatening to put the flames out with blind tears: '_bisen,' blind_--ang. sax.] [footnote 4: --she had had so many children.] [footnote 5: there should of course be no point of interrogation here.] [footnote 6: this butcher, whilst his hands were yet held up, treading upon his breast, struck off his hands. marlowe's _dido, queen of carthage_.] [footnote 7: '_milche_'--capable of giving milk: here _capable of tears_, which the burning eyes of the gods were not before.] [footnote 8: 'and would have made passion in the gods.'] [footnote 9: 'whether'.] [page 108] were better haue a bad epitaph, then their ill report while you liued.[1] [sidenote: live] _pol_. my lord, i will vse them according to their desart. _ham_. gods bodykins man, better. vse euerie [sidenote: bodkin man, much better,] man after his desart, and who should scape whipping: [sidenote: shall] vse them after your own honor and dignity. the lesse they deserue, the more merit is in your bountie. take them in. _pol_. come sirs. _exit polon_.[2] _ham_. follow him friends: wee'l heare a play to morrow.[3] dost thou heare me old friend, can you play the murther of _gonzago_? _play_. i my lord. _ham_. wee'l ha't to morrow night. you could for a need[4] study[5] a speech of some dosen or sixteene [sidenote: for neede | dosen lines, or] lines, which i would set downe, and insert in't? could ye not?[6] [sidenote: you] _play_. i my lord. _ham_. very well. follow that lord, and looke you mock him not.[7] my good friends, ile leaue you til night you are welcome to _elsonower_? [sidenote: _exeuent pol. and players_.] _rosin_. good my lord. _exeunt_. _manet hamlet_.[8] _ham_. i so, god buy'ye[9]: now i am alone. [sidenote: buy to you,[9]] oh what a rogue and pesant slaue am i?[10] is it not monstrous that this player heere,[11] but in a fixion, in a dreame of passion, could force his soule so to his whole conceit,[12] [sidenote: his own conceit] that from her working, all his visage warm'd; [sidenote: all the visage wand,] teares in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, [sidenote: in his] a broken voyce, and his whole function suiting [sidenote: an his] with formes, to his conceit?[13] and all for nothing? [footnote 1: why do the editors choose the present tense of the _quarto_? hamlet does not mean, 'it is worse to have the ill report of the players while you live, than a bad epitaph after your death.' the order of the sentence has provided against that meaning. what he means is, that their ill report in life will be more against your reputation after death than a bad epitaph.] [footnote 2: _not in quarto_.] [footnote 3: he detains their leader.] [footnote 4: 'for a special reason'.] [footnote 5: _study_ is still the player's word for _commit to memory_.] [footnote 6: note hamlet's quick resolve, made clearer towards the end of the following soliloquy.] [footnote 7: polonius is waiting at the door: this is intended for his hearing.] [footnote 8: _not in q_.] [footnote 9: note the varying forms of _god be with you_.] [footnote 10: _1st q_. why what a dunghill idiote slaue am i? why these players here draw water from eyes: for hecuba, why what is hecuba to him, or he to hecuba?] [footnote 11: everything rings on the one hard, fixed idea that possesses him; but this one idea has many sides. of late he has been thinking more upon the woman-side of it; but the player with his speech has brought his father to his memory, and he feels he has been forgetting him: the rage of the actor recalls his own 'cue for passion.' always more ready to blame than justify himself, he feels as if he ought to have done more, and so falls to abusing himself.] [footnote 12: _imagination_.] [footnote 13: 'his whole operative nature providing fit forms for the embodiment of his imagined idea'--of which forms he has already mentioned his _warmed visage_, his _tears_, his _distracted look_, his _broken voice_. in this passage we have the true idea of the operation of the genuine _acting faculty_. actor as well as dramatist, the poet gives us here his own notion of his second calling.] [page 110] for _hecuba_? what's _hecuba_ to him, or he to _hecuba_,[1] [sidenote: or he to her,] that he should weepe for her? what would he doe, had he the motiue and the cue[2] for passion [sidenote: , and that for] that i haue? he would drowne the stage with teares, and cleaue the generall eare with horrid speech: make mad the guilty, and apale[3] the free,[4] confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed, the very faculty of eyes and eares. yet i, [sidenote: faculties] a dull and muddy-metled[5] rascall, peake like iohn a-dreames, vnpregnant of my cause,[6] and can say nothing: no, not for a king, vpon whose property,[7] and most deere life, a damn'd defeate[8] was made. am i a coward?[9] who calles me villaine? breakes my pate a-crosse? pluckes off my beard, and blowes it in my face? tweakes me by'th'nose?[10] giues me the lye i'th' throate, [sidenote: by the] as deepe as to the lungs? who does me this? ha? why i should take it: for it cannot be, [sidenote: hah, s'wounds i] but i am pigeon-liuer'd, and lacke gall[11] to make oppression bitter, or ere this, [sidenote: 104] i should haue fatted all the region kites [sidenote: should a fatted] with this slaues offall, bloudy: a bawdy villaine, [sidenote: bloody, baudy] remorselesse,[12] treacherous, letcherous, kindles[13] villaine! oh vengeance![14] who? what an asse am i? i sure, this is most braue, [sidenote: why what an asse am i, this] that i, the sonne of the deere murthered, [sidenote: a deere] prompted to my reuenge by heauen, and hell, must (like a whore) vnpacke my heart with words, and fall a cursing like a very drab,[15] a scullion? fye vpon't: foh. about my braine.[16] [sidenote: a stallyon, | braines; hum,] [footnote 1: here follows in 1st _q_. what would he do and if he had my losse? his father murdred, and a crowne bereft him, [sidenote: 174] he would turne all his teares to droppes of blood, amaze the standers by with his laments, &c. &c.] [footnote 2: speaking of the player, he uses the player-word.] [footnote 3: _make pale_--appal.] [footnote 4: _the innocent_.] [footnote 5: _mettle_ is spirit--rather in the sense of _animal-spirit_: _mettlesome_--spirited, _as a horse_.] [footnote 6: '_unpossessed by_ my cause'.] [footnote 7: _personality, proper person_.] [footnote 8: _undoing, destruction_--from french _dã©faire_.] [footnote 9: in this mood he no more understands, and altogether doubts himself, as he has previously come to doubt the world.] [footnote 10: _1st q_. 'or twites my nose.'] [footnote 11: it was supposed that pigeons had no gall--i presume from their livers not tasting bitter like those of perhaps most birds.] [footnote 12: _pitiless_.] [footnote 13: _unnatural_.] [footnote 14: this line is not in the _quarto_.] [footnote 15: here in _q._ the line runs on to include _foh_. the next line ends with _heard_.] [footnote 16: _point thus_: 'about! my brain.' he apostrophizes his brain, telling it to set to work.] [page 112] i haue heard, that guilty creatures sitting at a play, haue by the very cunning of the scoene,[1] bene strooke so to the soule, that presently they haue proclaim'd their malefactions. for murther, though it haue no tongue, will speake with most myraculous organ.[2] ile haue these players, play something like the murder of my father, before mine vnkle. ile obserue his lookes, [sidenote: 137] ile tent him to the quicke: if he but blench[3] [sidenote: if a doe blench] i know my course. the spirit that i haue seene [sidenote: 48] may[4] be the diuell, and the diuel hath power [sidenote: may be a deale, and the deale] t'assume a pleasing shape, yea and perhaps out of my weaknesse, and my melancholly,[5] as he is very potent with such spirits,[6] [sidenote: 46] abuses me to damne me.[7] ile haue grounds more relatiue then this: the play's the thing, wherein ile catch the conscience of the king. _exit._ * * * * * summary. the division between the second and third acts is by common consent placed here. the third act occupies the afternoon, evening, and night of the same day with the second. this soliloquy is hamlet's first, and perhaps we may find it correct to say _only_ outbreak of self-accusation. he charges himself with lack of feeling, spirit, and courage, in that he has not yet taken vengeance on his uncle. but unless we are prepared to accept and justify to the full his own hardest words against himself, and grant him a muddy-mettled, pigeon-livered rascal, we must examine and understand him, so as to account for his conduct better than he could himself. if we allow that perhaps he accuses himself too much, we may find on reflection that he accuses himself altogether wrongfully. if a man is content to think the worst of hamlet, i care to hold no argument with that man. we must not look for _expressed_ logical sequence in a soliloquy, which is a vocal mind. the mind is seldom conscious of the links or transitions of a yet perfectly logical process developed in it. this remark, however, is more necessary in regard to the famous soliloquy to follow. in hamlet, misery has partly choked even vengeance; and although sure in his heart that his uncle is guilty, in his brain he is not sure. bitterly accusing himself in an access of wretchedness and rage and credence, he forgets the doubt that has restrained him, with all besides which he might so well urge in righteous defence, not excuse, of his delay. but ungenerous criticism has, by all but universal consent, accepted his own verdict against himself. so in common life there are thousands on thousands who, upon the sad confession of a man immeasurably greater than themselves, and showing his greatness in the humility whose absence makes admission impossible to them, immediately pounce upon him with vituperation, as if he were one of the vile, and they infinitely better. such should be indignant with st. paul and say--if he was the chief of sinners, what insolence to lecture _them_! and certainly the more justified publican would never by them have been allowed to touch the robe of the less justified pharisee. such critics surely take little or no pains to understand the object of their contempt: because hamlet is troubled and blames himself, they without hesitation condemn him--and there where he is most commendable. it is the righteous man who is most ready to accuse himself; the unrighteous is least ready. who is able when in deep trouble, rightly to analyze his feelings? delay in action is not necessarily abandonment of duty; in hamlet's case it is a due recognition of duty, which condemns precipitancy--and action in the face of doubt, so long as it is nowise compelled, is precipitancy. the first thing is _to be sure_: hamlet has never been sure; he spies at length a chance of making himself sure; he seizes upon it; and while his sudden resolve to make use of the players, like the equally sudden resolve to shroud himself in pretended madness, manifests him fertile in expedient, the carrying out of both manifests him right capable and diligent in execution--_a man of action in every true sense of the word_. the self-accusation of hamlet has its ground in the lapse of weeks during which nothing has been done towards punishing the king. suddenly roused to a keen sense of the fact, he feels as if surely he might have done something. the first act ends with a burning vow of righteous vengeance; the second shows him wandering about the palace in profoundest melancholy--such as makes it more than easy for him to assume the forms of madness the moment he marks any curious eye bent upon him. let him who has never loved and revered a mother, call such melancholy weakness. he has indeed done nothing towards the fulfilment of his vow; but the way in which he made the vow, the terms in which he exacted from his companions their promise of silence, and his scheme for eluding suspicion, combine to show that from the first he perceived its fulfilment would be hard, saw the obstacles in his way, and knew it would require both time and caution. that even in the first rush of his wrath he should thus be aware of difficulty, indicates moral symmetry; but the full weight of what lay in his path could appear to him only upon reflection. partly in the light of passages yet to come, i will imagine the further course of his thoughts, which the closing couplet of the first act shows as having already begun to apale 'the native hue of resolution.' 'but how shall i take vengeance on my uncle? shall i publicly accuse him, or slay him at once? in the one case what answer can i make to his denial? in the other, what justification can i offer? if i say the spirit of my father accuses him, what proof can i bring? my companions only saw the apparition--heard no word from him; and my uncle's party will assert, with absolute likelihood to the minds of those who do not know me--and who here knows me but my mother!--that charge is a mere coinage of jealous disappointment, working upon the melancholy i have not cared to hide. (174-6.) when i act, it must be to kill him, and to what misconstruction shall i not expose myself! (272) if the thing must so be, i must brave all; but i could never present myself thereafter as successor to the crown of one whom i had first slain and then vilified on the accusation of an apparition whom no one heard but myself! i must find _proof_--such proof as will satisfy others as well as myself. my immediate duty is _evidence_, not vengeance.' we have seen besides, that, when informed of the haunting presence of the ghost, he expected the apparition with not a little doubt as to its authenticity--a doubt which, even when he saw it, did not immediately vanish: is it any wonder that when the apparition was gone, the doubt should return? return it did, in accordance with the reaction which waits upon all high-strung experience. if he did not believe in the person who performed it, would any man long believe in any miracle? hamlet soon begins to question whether he can with confidence accept the appearance for that which it appeared and asserted itself to be. he steps over to the stand-point of his judges, and doubts the only testimony he has to produce. far more:--was he not bound in common humanity, not to say _filialness_, to doubt it? to doubt the ghost, was to doubt a testimony which to accept was to believe his father in horrible suffering, his uncle a murderer, his mother at least an adulteress; to kill his uncle was to set his seal to the whole, and, besides, to bring his mother into frightful suspicion of complicity in his father's murder. ought not the faintest shadow of a doubt, assuaging ever so little the glare of the hell-sun of such crime, to be welcome to the tortured heart? wretched wife and woman as his mother had shown herself, the ghost would have him think her far worse--perhaps, even accessory to her husband's murder! for action he _must_ have proof! at the same time, what every one knew of his mother, coupled now with the mere idea of the ghost's accusation, wrought in him such misery, roused in him so many torturing and unanswerable questions, so blotted the face of the universe and withered the heart of hope, that he could not but doubt whether, in such a world of rogues and false women, it was worth his while to slay one villain out of the swarm. ophelia's behaviour to him, in obedience to her father, of which she gives him no explanation, has added 'the pangs of disprized love,' and increased his doubts of woman-kind. 120. but when his imagination, presenting afresh the awful interview, brings him more immediately under the influence of the apparition and its behest, he is for the moment delivered both from the stunning effect of its communication and his doubt of its truth; forgetting then the considerations that have wrought in him, he accuses himself of remissness, blames himself grievously for his delay. soon, however, his senses resume their influence, and he doubts again. so goes the mill-round of his thoughts, with the revolving of many wheels. his whole conscious nature is frightfully shaken: he would be the poor creature most of his critics would make of him, were it otherwise; it is because of his greatness that he suffers so terribly, and doubts so much. a mother's crime is far more paralyzing than a father's murder is stimulating; and either he has not set himself in thorough earnest to find the proof he needs, or he has as yet been unable to think of any serviceable means to the end, when the half real, half simulated emotion of the player yet again rouses in him the sense of remissness, leads him to accuse himself of forgotten obligation and heartlessness, and simultaneously suggests a device for putting the ghost and his words to the test. instantly he seizes the chance: when a thing has to be done, and can be done, hamlet is _never_ wanting--shows himself the very promptest of men. in the last passage of this act i do not take it that he is expressing an idea then first occurring to him: that the whole thing may be a snare of the devil is a doubt with which during weeks he has been familiar. the delay through which, in utter failure to comprehend his character, he has been so miserably misjudged, falls really between the first and second acts, although it seems in the regard of most readers to underlie and protract the whole play. its duration is measured by the journey of the ambassadors to and from the neighbouring kingdom of norway. it is notably odd, by the way, that those who accuse hamlet of inaction, are mostly the same who believe his madness a reality! in truth, however, his affected madness is one of the strongest signs of his activity, and his delay one of the strongest proofs of his sanity. this second act, the third act, and a part always given to the fourth, but which really belongs to the third, occupy in all only one day. [footnote 1: here follows in _1st q._ confest a murder committed long before. this spirit that i haue seene may be the diuell, and out of my weakenesse and my melancholy, as he is very potent with such men, doth seeke to damne me, i will haue sounder proofes, the play's the thing, &c.] [footnote 2: 'stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;' &c. _macbeth_, iii. 4.] [footnote 3: in the _1st q._ hamlet, speaking to horatio (l 37), says, and if he doe not bleach, and change at that,-_bleach_ is radically the same word as _blench_:--to bleach, to blanch, to blench--_to grow white_.] [footnote 4: emphasis on _may_, as resuming previous doubtful thought and suspicion.] [footnote 5: --caused from the first by his mother's behaviour, not constitutional.] [footnote 6: --'such conditions of the spirits'.] [footnote 7: here is one element in the very existence of the preceding act: doubt as to the facts of the case has been throughout operating to restrain him; and here first he reveals, perhaps first recognizes its influence. subject to change of feeling with the wavering of conviction, he now for a moment regards his uncertainty as involving unnatural distrust of a being in whose presence he cannot help _feeling_ him his father. he was familiar with the lore of the supernatural, and knew the doubt he expresses to be not without support.--his companions as well had all been in suspense as to the identity of the apparition with the late king.] [page 116] _enter king, queene, polonius, ophelia, rosincrance, guildenstern, and lords._[1] [sidenote: guyldensterne, lords.] [sidenote: 72] _king._ and can you by no drift of circumstance [sidenote: an can | of conference] get from him why he puts on[2] this confusion: grating so harshly all his dayes of quiet with turbulent and dangerous lunacy. _rosin._ he does confesse he feeles himselfe distracted, [sidenote: 92] but from what cause he will by no meanes speake. [sidenote: a will] _guil._ nor do we finde him forward to be sounded, but with a crafty madnesse[3] keepes aloofe: when we would bring him on to some confession of his true state. _qu._ did he receiue you well? _rosin._ most like a gentleman. _guild._ but with much forcing of his disposition.[4] _rosin._ niggard of question, but of our demands most free in his reply.[5] _qu._ did you assay him to any pastime? _rosin._ madam, it so fell out, that certaine players we ore-wrought on the way: of these we told him, [sidenote: ore-raught[6]] and there did seeme in him a kinde of ioy to heare of it: they are about the court, [sidenote: are heere about] and (as i thinke) they haue already order this night to play before him. _pol._ 'tis most true; and he beseech'd me to intreate your majesties to heare, and see the matter. _king._ with all my heart, and it doth much content me to heare him so inclin'd. good gentlemen, [footnote 1: this may be regarded as the commencement of the third act.] [footnote 2: the phrase seems to imply a doubt of the genuineness of the lunacy.] [footnote 3: _nominative pronoun omitted here._] [footnote 4: he has noted, without understanding them, the signs of hamlet's suspicion of themselves.] [footnote 5: compare the seemingly opposite statements of the two: hamlet had bewildered them.] [foonote 6: _over-reached_--came up with, caught up, overtook.] [page 118] giue him a further edge,[1] and driue his purpose on [sidenote: purpose into these] to these delights. _rosin._ we shall my lord. _exeunt._ [sidenote: _exeunt ros. & guyl._] _king._ sweet gertrude leaue vs too, [sidenote: gertrard | two] for we haue closely sent for _hamlet_ hither, [sidenote: 84] that he, as 'twere by accident, may there [sidenote: heere] affront[2] _ophelia_. her father, and my selfe[3] (lawful espials)[4] will so bestow our selues, that seeing vnseene we may of their encounter frankely iudge, and gather by him, as he is behaued, if't be th'affliction of his loue, or no, that thus he suffers for. _qu._ i shall obey you, and for your part _ophelia_,[5] i do wish that your good beauties be the happy cause of _hamlets_ wildenesse: so shall i hope your vertues [sidenote: 240] will bring him to his wonted way againe, to both your honors.[6] _ophe._ madam, i wish it may. _pol. ophelia_, walke you heere. gracious so please ye[7] [sidenote: you,] we will bestow our selues: reade on this booke,[8] that shew of such an exercise may colour your lonelinesse.[9] we are oft too blame in this,[10] [sidenote: lowlines:] 'tis too much prou'd, that with deuotions visage, and pious action, we do surge o're [sidenote: sugar] the diuell himselfe. [sidenote: 161] _king._ oh 'tis true: [sidenote: tis too true] how smart a lash that speech doth giue my conscience? the harlots cheeke beautied with plaist'ring art is not more vgly to the thing that helpes it,[11] then is my deede, to my most painted word.[12] oh heauie burthen![13] [footnote 1: '_edge_ him on'--somehow corrupted into _egg_.] [footnote 2: _confront_.] [footnote 3: _clause in parenthesis not in q._] [footnote 4: --apologetic to the queen.] [footnote 5: --_going up to ophelia_--i would say, who stands at a little distance, and has not heard what has been passing between them.] [footnote 6: the queen encourages ophelia in hoping to marry hamlet, and may so have a share in causing a certain turn her madness takes.] [footnote 7: --_aside to the king_.] [footnote 8: --_to ophelia:_ her prayer-book. 122.] [footnote 9: _1st q._ and here _ofelia_, reade you on this booke, and walke aloofe, the king shal be vnseene.] [footnote 10: --_aside to the king._ i insert these _asides_, and suggest the queen's going up to ophelia, to show how we may easily hold ophelia ignorant of their plot. poor creature as she was, i would believe shakspere did not mean her to lie to hamlet. this may be why he omitted that part of her father's speech in the _1st q._ given in the note immediately above, telling her the king is going to hide. still, it would be excuse enough for _her_, that she thought his madness justified the deception.] [footnote 11: --ugly to the paint that helps by hiding it--to which it lies so close, and from which it has no secrets. or, 'ugly to' may mean, 'ugly _compared with_.'] [footnote 12: 'most painted'--_very much painted_. his painted word is the paint to the deed. _painted_ may be taken for _full of paint_.] [footnote 13: this speech of the king is the first _assurance_ we have of his guilt.] [page 120] _pol._ i heare him comming, let's withdraw my lord. [sidenote: comming, with-draw] _exeunt._[1] _enter hamlet._[2] _ham._ to be, or not to be, that is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the minde to suffer the slings and arrowes of outragious fortune, [sidenote: 200,250] or to take armes against a sea of troubles,[3] and by opposing end them:[4] to dye, to sleepe no more; and by a sleepe, to say we end the heart-ake, and the thousand naturall shockes that flesh is heyre too? 'tis a consummation deuoutly to be wish'd.[5] to dye to sleepe, to sleepe, perchance to dreame;[6] i, there's the rub, for in that sleepe of death, what[7] dreames may come,[8] when we haue shuffle'd off this mortall coile, [sidenote: 186] must giue vs pawse.[9] there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life:[10] for who would beare the whips and scornes of time, the oppressors wrong, the poore mans contumely, [sidenote: proude mans] [sidenote: 114] the pangs of dispriz'd loue,[11] the lawes delay, [sidenote: despiz'd] the insolence of office, and the spurnes that patient merit of the vnworthy takes, [sidenote: th'] when he himselfe might his _quietus_ make [sidenote: 194,252-3] with a bare bodkin?[12] who would these fardles beare[13] [sidenote: would fardels] to grunt and sweat vnder a weary life, [sidenote: 194] but that the dread of something after death,[14] the vndiscouered countrey, from whose borne no traueller returnes,[15] puzels the will, and makes vs rather beare those illes we haue, then flye to others that we know not of. thus conscience does make cowards of vs all,[16] [sidenote: 30] and thus the natiue hew of resolution[17] is sicklied o're, with the pale cast of thought,[18] [sidenote: sickled] [footnote 1: _not in q._--they go behind the tapestry, where it hangs over the recess of the doorway. ophelia thinks they have left the room.] [footnote 2: _in q. before last speech._] [footnote 3: perhaps to a danish or dutch critic, or one from the eastern coast of england, this simile would not seem so unfit as it does to some.] [footnote 4: to print this so as i would have it read, i would complete this line from here with points, and commence the next with points. at the other breaks of the soliloquy, as indicated below, i would do the same--thus: and by opposing end them.... ....to die--to sleep,] [footnote 5: _break_.] [footnote 6: _break_.] [footnote 7: emphasis on _what_.] [footnote 8: such dreams as the poor ghost's.] [footnote 9: _break._ --'_pawse_' is the noun, and from its use at page 186, we may judge it means here 'pause for reflection.'] [footnote 10: 'makes calamity so long-lived.'] [footnote 11: --not necessarily disprized by the _lady_; the disprizer in hamlet's case was the worldly and suspicious father--and that in part, and seemingly to hamlet altogether, for the king's sake.] [footnote 12: _small sword_. if there be here any allusion to suicide, it is on the general question, and with no special application to himself. 24. but it is the king and the bare bodkin his thought associates. how could he even glance at the things he has just mentioned, as each, a reason for suicide? it were a cowardly country indeed where the question might be asked, 'who would not commit suicide because of any one of these things, except on account of what may follow after death?'! one might well, however, be tempted to destroy an oppressor, _and risk his life in that._] [footnote 13: _fardel_, burden: the old french for _fardeau_, i am informed.] [footnote 14: --a dread caused by conscience.] [footnote 15: the ghost could not be imagined as having _returned_.] [footnote 16: 'of us all' _not in q._ it is not the fear of evil that makes us cowards, but the fear of _deserved_ evil. the poet may intend that conscience alone is the cause of fear in man. '_coward_' does not here involve contempt: it should be spoken with a grim smile. but hamlet would hardly call turning from _suicide_ cowardice in any sense. 24.] [footnote 17: --such as was his when he vowed vengeance.] [footnote 18: --such as immediately followed on that the _native_ hue of resolution--that which is natural to man till interruption comes--is ruddy; the hue of thought is pale. i suspect the '_pale cast_' of an allusion to whitening with _rough-cast_.] [page 122] and enterprizes of great pith and moment,[1] [sidenote: pitch [1]] with this regard their currants turne away, [sidenote: awry] and loose the name of action.[2] soft you now, [sidenote: 119] the faire _ophelia_? nimph, in thy orizons[3] be all my sinnes remembred.[4] _ophe._ good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day? _ham._ i humbly thanke you: well, well, well.[5] _ophe._ my lord, i haue remembrances of yours, that i haue longed long to re-deliuer. i pray you now, receiue them. _ham._ no, no, i neuer gaue you ought.[6] [sidenote: no, not i, i never] _ophe._ my honor'd lord, i know right well you did, [sidenote: you know] and with them words of so sweet breath compos'd, as made the things more rich, then perfume left: [sidenote: these things | their perfume lost.[7]] take these againe, for to the noble minde rich gifts wax poore, when giuers proue vnkinde. there my lord.[8] _ham._ ha, ha: are you honest?[9] _ophe._ my lord. _ham._ are you faire? _ophe._ what meanes your lordship? _ham._ that if you be honest and faire, your [sidenote: faire, you should admit] honesty[10] should admit no discourse to your beautie. _ophe._ could beautie my lord, haue better comerce[11] then your honestie?[12] [sidenote: then with honestie?[11]] _ham._ i trulie: for the power of beautie, will sooner transforme honestie from what it is, to a bawd, then the force of honestie can translate beautie into his likenesse. this was sometime a paradox, but now the time giues it proofe. i did loue you once.[13] _ophe._ indeed my lord, you made me beleeue so. [footnote 1: how could _suicide_ be styled _an enterprise of great pith_? yet less could it be called _of great pitch_.] [footnote 2: i allow this to be a general reflection, but surely it serves to show that _conscience_ must at least be one of hamlet's restraints.] [footnote 3: --by way of intercession.] [footnote 4: note the entire change of mood from that of the last soliloquy. the right understanding of this soliloquy is indispensable to the right understanding of hamlet. but we are terribly trammelled and hindered, as in the understanding of hamlet throughout, so here in the understanding of his meditation, by traditional assumption. i was roused to think in the right direction concerning it, by the honoured friend and relative to whom i have feebly acknowledged my obligation by dedicating to him this book. i could not at first see it as he saw it: 'think about it, and you will,' he said. i did think, and by degrees--not very quickly--my prejudgments thinned, faded, and almost vanished. i trust i see it now as a whole, and in its true relations, internal and external--its relations to itself, to the play, and to the hamlet, of shakspere. neither in its first verse, then, nor in it anywhere else, do i find even an allusion to suicide. what hamlet is referring to in the said first verse, it is not possible with certainty to determine, for it is but the vanishing ripple of a preceding ocean of thought, from which he is just stepping out upon the shore of the articulate. he may have been plunged in some profound depth of the metaphysics of existence, or he may have been occupied with the one practical question, that of the slaying of his uncle, which has, now in one form, now in another, haunted his spirit for weeks. perhaps, from the message he has just received, he expects to meet the king, and conscience, confronting temptation, has been urging the necessity of proof; perhaps a righteous consideration of consequences, which sometimes have share in the primary duty, has been making him shrink afresh from the shedding of blood, for every thoughtful mind recoils from the irrevocable, and that is an awful form of the irrevocable. but whatever thought, general or special, this first verse may be dismissing, we come at once thereafter into the light of a definite question: 'which is nobler--to endure evil fortune, or to oppose it _ã  outrance_; to bear in passivity, or to resist where resistance is hopeless--resist to the last--to the death which is its unavoidable end?' then comes a pause, during which he is thinking--we will not say 'too precisely on the event,' but taking his account with consequences: the result appears in the uttered conviction that the extreme possible consequence, death, is a good and not an evil. throughout, observe, how here, as always, he generalizes, himself being to himself but the type of his race. then follows another pause, during which he seems prosecuting the thought, for he has already commenced further remark in similar strain, when suddenly a new and awful element introduces itself: ....to die--to sleep.- --to _sleep_! perchance to _dream_! he had been thinking of death only as the passing away of the present with its troubles; here comes the recollection that death has its own troubles--its own thoughts, its own consciousness: if it be a sleep, it has its dreams. '_what dreams may come_' means, 'the sort of dreams that may come'; the emphasis is on the _what_, not on the _may_; there is no question whether dreams will come, but there is question of the character of the dreams. this consideration is what makes calamity so long-lived! 'for who would bear the multiform ills of life'--he alludes to his own wrongs, but mingles, in his generalizing way, others of those most common to humanity, and refers to the special cure for some of his own which was close to his hand--'who would bear these things if he could, as i can, make his quietus with a bare bodkin'--that is, by slaying his enemy--'who would then bear them, but that he fears the future, and the divine judgment upon his life and actions--that conscience makes a coward of him!'[14] to run, not the risk of death, but the risks that attend upon and follow death, hamlet must be certain of what he is about; he must be sure it is a right thing he does, or he will leave it undone. compare his speech, 250, 'does it not, &c.':--by the time he speaks this speech, he has had perfect proof, and asserts the righteousness of taking vengeance in almost an agony of appeal to horatio. the more continuous and the more formally logical a soliloquy, the less natural it is. the logic should be all there, but latent; the bones of it should not show: they do not show here.] [footnote 5: _one_ 'well' _only in q._] [footnote 6: he does not want to take them back, and so sever even that weak bond between them. he has not given her up.] [footnote 7: the _q._ reading seems best. the perfume of his gifts was the sweet words with which they were given; those words having lost their savour, the mere gifts were worth nothing.] [footnote 8: released from the commands her father had laid upon her, and emboldened by the queen's approval of more than the old relation between them, she would timidly draw hamlet back to the past--to love and a sound mind.] [footnote 9: i do not here suppose a noise or movement of the arras, or think that the talk from this point bears the mark of the madness he would have assumed on the least suspicion of espial. his distrust of ophelia comes from a far deeper source--suspicion of all women, grown doubtful to him through his mother. hopeless for her, he would give his life to know that ophelia was not like her. hence the cruel things he says to her here and elsewhere; they are the brood of a heart haunted with horrible, alas! too excusable phantoms of distrust. a man wretched as hamlet must be forgiven for being rude; it is love suppressed, love that can neither breathe nor burn, that makes him rude. his horrid insinuations are a hungry challenge to indignant rejection. he would sting ophelia to defence of herself and her sex. but, either from her love, or from gentleness to his supposed madness, as afterwards in the play-scene, or from the poverty and weakness of a nature so fathered and so brothered, she hears, and says nothing. 139.] [footnote 10: honesty is here figured as a porter,--just after, as a porter that may be corrupted.] [footnote 11: if the _folio_ reading is right, _commerce_ means _companionship_; if the _quarto_ reading, then it means _intercourse_. note _then_ constantly for our _than_.] [footnote 12: i imagine ophelia here giving hamlet a loving look--which hardens him. but i do not think she lays emphasis on _your_; the word is here, i take it, used (as so often then) impersonally.] [footnote 13: '--proof in you and me: _i_ loved _you_ once, but my honesty did not translate your beauty into its likeness.'] [footnote 14: that the great judgement was here in shakspere's thought, will be plain to those who take light from the corresponding passage in the _1st quarto_. as it makes an excellent specimen of that issue in the character i am most inclined to attribute to it--that of original sketch and continuous line of notes, with more or less finished passages in place among the notes--i will here quote it, recommending it to my student's attention. if it be what i suggest, it is clear that shakspere had not at first altogether determined how he would carry the soliloquy--what line he was going to follow in it: here hope and fear contend for the place of motive to patience. the changes from it in the text are well worth noting: the religion is lessened: the hope disappears: were they too much of pearls to cast before 'barren spectators'? the manuscript could never have been meant for any eye but his own, seeing it was possible to print from it such a chaos--over which yet broods the presence of the formative spirit of the poet. _ham._ to be, or not to be, i there's the point, to die, to sleepe, is that all? i all: no, to sleepe, to dreame, i mary there it goes, for in that dreame of death, when wee awake, [sidenote: 24, 247, 260] and borne before an euerlasting iudge, from whence no passenger euer retur'nd, the vndiscouered country, at whose sight the happy smile, and the accursed damn'd. but for this, the ioyfull hope of this, whol'd beare the scornes and flattery of the world, scorned by the right rich, the rich curssed of the poore? the widow being oppressed, the orphan wrong'd, the taste of hunger, or a tirants raigne, and thousand more calamities besides, to grunt and sweate vnder this weary life, when that he may his full _quietus_ make, with a bare bodkin, who would this indure, but for a hope of something after death? which pulses the braine, and doth confound the sence, which makes vs rather beare those euilles we haue, than flie to others that we know not of. i that, o this conscience makes cowardes of vs all, lady in thy orizons, be all my sinnes remembred.] [page 126] _ham._ you should not haue beleeued me. for vertue cannot so innocculate[1] our old stocke,[2] but we shall rellish of it.[3] i loued you not.[4] _ophe._ i was the more deceiued. _ham._ get thee to a nunnerie. why would'st [sidenote: thee a] thou be a breeder of sinners? i am my selfe indifferent[5] [sidenote: 132] honest, but yet i could accuse me of such things,[6] that it were better my mother had [sidenote: 62] not borne me,[7] i am very prowd, reuengefull, ambitious, with more offences at my becke, then i haue thoughts to put them in imagination, to giue them shape, or time to acte them in. what should such fellowes as i do, crawling betweene heauen [sidenote: earth and heauen] and earth.[8] we are arrant knaues all[10], beleeue none of vs.[9] goe thy wayes to a nunnery. where's your father?[11] _ophe._ at home, my lord.[12] _ham._ let the doores be shut vpon him, that he may play the foole no way, but in's owne house.[13] [sidenote: no where but] farewell.[14] _ophe._ o helpe him, you sweet heauens. _ham._[15] if thou doest marry, ile giue thee this plague for thy dowrie. be thou as chast as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.[16] get thee to a nunnery. go,[17] farewell.[18] or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool: for wise men know well enough, what monsters[19] you make of them. to a nunnery go, and quickly too. farwell.[20] _ophe._ o[21] heauenly powers, restore him. _ham._[22] i haue heard of your pratlings[23] too wel [sidenote: your paintings well] enough. god has giuen you one pace,[23] and you [sidenote: hath | one face,] make your selfe another: you gidge, you amble, [sidenote: selfes | you gig and amble, and] and you lispe, and nickname gods creatures, and [sidenote: you list you nickname] make your wantonnesse, your[24] ignorance.[25] go [footnote 1: 'inoculate'--_bud_, in the horticultural use.] [footnote 2: _trunk_ or _stem_ of the family tree.] [footnote 3: emphasis on _relish_--'keep something of the old flavour of the stock.'] [footnote 4: he tries her now with denying his love--perhaps moved in part by a feeling, taught by his mother's, of how imperfect it was.] [footnote 5: tolerably.] [footnote 6: he turns from baiting woman in her to condemn himself. is it not the case with every noble nature, that the knowledge of wrong in another arouses in it the consciousness of its own faults and sins, of its own evil possibilities? hurled from the heights of ideal humanity, hamlet not only recognizes in himself every evil tendency of his race, but almost feels himself individually guilty of every transgression. 'god, god, forgive us all!' exclaims the doctor who has just witnessed the misery of lady macbeth, unveiling her guilt. this whole speech of hamlet is profoundly sane--looking therefore altogether insane to the shallow mind, on which the impression of its insanity is deepened by its coming from him so freely. the common nature disappointed rails at humanity; hamlet, his earthly ideal destroyed, would tear his individual human self to pieces.] [footnote 7: this we may suppose uttered with an expression as startling to ophelia as impenetrable.] [footnote 8: he is disgusted with himself, with his own nature and consciousness--] [footnote 9: --and this reacts on his kind.] [footnote 10: 'all' _not in q._] [footnote 11: here, perhaps, he grows suspicious--asks himself why he is allowed this prolonged _tãªte ã  tãªte_.] [footnote 12: i am willing to believe she thinks so.] [footnote 13: whether he trusts ophelia or not, he does not take her statement for correct, and says this in the hope that polonius is not too far off to hear it. the speech is for him, not for ophelia, and will seem to her to come only from his madness.] [footnote 14: _exit_.] [footnote 15: (_re-entering_)] [footnote 16: 'so many are bad, that your virtue will not be believed in.'] [footnote 17: 'go' _not in q._] [footnote 18: _exit, and re-enter._] [footnote 19: _cornuti._] [footnote 20: _exit._] [footnote 21: 'o' _not in q._] [footnote 22: (_re-entering_)] [footnote 23: i suspect _pratlings_ to be a corruption, not of the printed _paintings_, but of some word substituted for it by the poet, perhaps _prancings_, and _pace_ to be correct.] [footnote 24: 'your' _not in q._] [footnote 25: as the present type to him of womankind, he assails her with such charges of lightness as are commonly brought against women. he does not go farther: she is not his mother, and he hopes she is innocent. but he cannot make her speak!] [page 128] too, ile no more on't, it hath made me mad. i say, we will haue no more marriages.[1] those that are [sidenote: no mo marriage,] married already,[2] all but one shall liue, the rest shall keep as they are. to a nunnery, go. _exit hamlet_. [sidenote: _exit_] [3]_ophe._ o what a noble minde is heere o're-throwne? the courtiers, soldiers, schollers: eye, tongue, sword, th'expectansie and rose[4] of the faire state, [sidenote: th' expectation,] the glasse of fashion,[5] and the mould of forme,[6] th'obseru'd of all obseruers, quite, quite downe. haue i of ladies most deiect and wretched, [sidenote: and i of] that suck'd the honie of his musicke vowes: [sidenote: musickt] now see that noble, and most soueraigne reason, [sidenote: see what] like sweet bels iangled out of tune, and harsh,[7] [sidenote: out of time] that vnmatch'd forme and feature of blowne youth,[8] [sidenote: and stature of] blasted with extasie.[9] oh woe is me, t'haue scene what i haue scene: see what i see.[10] [sidenote: _exit_.] _enter king, and polonius_. _king_. loue? his affections do not that way tend, nor what he spake, though it lack'd forme a little, [sidenote: not] was not like madnesse.[11] there's something in his soule? o're which his melancholly sits on brood, and i do doubt the hatch, and the disclose[12] will be some danger,[11] which to preuent [sidenote: which for to] i haue in quicke determination [sidenote: 138, 180] thus set it downe. he shall with speed to england for the demand of our neglected tribute: haply the seas and countries different [footnote 1: 'the thing must be put a stop to! the world must cease! it is not fit to go on.'] [footnote 2: 'already--(_aside_) all but one--shall live.'] [footnote 3: _1st q_. _ofe._ great god of heauen, what a quicke change is this? the courtier, scholler, souldier, all in him, all dasht and splinterd thence, o woe is me, to a seene what i haue seene, see what i see. _exit_. to his cruel words ophelia is impenetrable--from the conviction that not he but his madness speaks. the moment he leaves her, she breaks out in such phrase as a young girl would hardly have used had she known that the king and her father were listening. i grant, however, the speech may be taken as a soliloquy audible to the spectators only, who to the persons of a play are _but_ the spiritual presences.] [footnote 4: 'the hope and flower'--the _rose_ is not unfrequently used in english literature as the type of perfection.] [footnote 5: 'he by whom fashion dressed herself'--_he who set the fashion_. his great and small virtues taken together, hamlet makes us think of sir philip sidney--ten years older than shakspere, and dead sixteen years before _hamlet_ was written.] [footnote 6: 'he after whose ways, or modes of behaviour, men shaped theirs'--therefore the mould in which their forms were cast;--_the object of universal imitation_.] [footnote 7: i do not know whether this means--the peal rung without regard to tune or time--or--the single bell so handled that the tongue checks and jars the vibration. in some country places, i understand, they go about ringing a set of hand-bells.] [footnote 8: youth in full blossom.] [footnote 9: madness 177.] [footnote 10: 'to see now such a change from what i saw then.'] [footnote 11: the king's conscience makes him keen. he is, all through, doubtful of the madness.] [footnote 12: --of the factor fancy-egg on which his melancholy sits brooding] [page 130] with variable obiects, shall expell this something setled matter[1] in his heart whereon his braines still beating, puts him thus from[2] fashion of himselfe. what thinke you on't? _pol_. it shall do well. but yet do i beleeue the origin and commencement of this greefe [sidenote: his greefe,] sprung from neglected loue.[3] how now _ophelia_? you neede not tell vs, what lord _hamlet_ saide, we heard it all.[4] my lord, do as you please, but if you hold it fit after the play, let his queene mother all alone intreat him to shew his greefes: let her be round with him, [sidenote: griefe,] and ile be plac'd so, please you in the eare of all their conference. if she finde him not,[5] to england send him: or confine him where your wisedome best shall thinke. _king_. it shall be so: madnesse in great ones, must not vnwatch'd go.[6] [sidenote: unmatched] _exeunt_. _enter hamlet, and two or three of the players_. [sidenote: _and three_] _ham_.[7] speake the speech i pray you, as i pronounc'd it to you trippingly[8] on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, [sidenote: of our players] i had as liue[9] the town-cryer had spoke my [sidenote: cryer spoke] lines:[10] nor do not saw the ayre too much your [sidenote: much with] hand thus, but vse all gently; for in the verie torrent, tempest, and (as i may say) the whirlewinde [sidenote: say, whirlwind] of passion, you must acquire and beget a [sidenote: of your] temperance that may giue it smoothnesse.[11] o it offends mee to the soule, to see a robustious perywig-pated [sidenote: to heare a] fellow, teare a passion to tatters, to [sidenote: totters,] verie ragges, to split the eares of the groundlings:[12] [sidenote: spleet] who (for the most part) are capeable[13] of nothing, but inexplicable dumbe shewes,[14] and noise:[15] i could haue such a fellow whipt for o're-doing [sidenote: would] [footnote 1: 'something of settled matter'--_idã©e fixe_.] [footnote 2: '_away from_ his own true likeness'; 'makes him so unlike himself.'] [footnote 3: polonius is crestfallen, but positive.] [footnote 4: this supports the notion of ophelia's ignorance of the espial. polonius thinks she is about to disclose what has passed, and _informs_ her of its needlessness. but it _might_ well enough be taken as only an assurance of the success of their listening--that they had heard without difficulty.] [footnote 5: 'if she do not find him out': a comparable phrase, common at the time, was, _take me with you_, meaning, _let me understand you_. polonius, for his daughter's sake, and his own in her, begs for him another chance.] [footnote 6: 'in the insignificant, madness may roam the country, but in the great it must be watched.' the _unmatcht_ of the _quarto_ might bear the meaning of _countermatched_.] [footnote 7: i should suggest this exhortation to the players introduced with the express purpose of showing how absolutely sane hamlet was, could i believe that shakspere saw the least danger of hamlet's pretence being mistaken for reality.] [footnote 8: he would have neither blundering nor emphasis such as might rouse too soon the king's suspicion, or turn it into certainty.] [footnote 9: 'liue'--_lief_] [footnote 10: 1st q.:- i'de rather heare a towne bull bellow, then such a fellow speake my lines. _lines_ is a player-word still.] [footnote 11: --smoothness such as belongs to the domain of art, and will both save from absurdity, and allow the relations with surroundings to manifest themselves;--harmoniousness, which is the possibility of co-existence.] [footnote 12: those on the ground--that is, in the pit; there was no gallery then.] [footnote 13: _receptive_.] [footnote 14: --gestures extravagant and unintelligible as those of a dumb show that could not by the beholder be interpreted; gestures incorrespondent to the words. a _dumb show_ was a stage-action without words.] [footnote 15: speech that is little but rant, and scarce related to the sense, is hardly better than a noise; it might, for the purposes of art, as well be a sound inarticulate.] [page 132] termagant[1]: it out-herod's herod[2] pray you auoid it. _player._ i warrant your honor. _ham._ be not too tame neyther: but let your owne discretion be your tutor. sute the action to the word, the word to the action, with this speciall obseruance: that you ore-stop not the [sidenote: ore-steppe] modestie of nature; for any thing so ouer-done, [sidenote ore-doone] is fro[3] the purpose of playing, whose end both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twer the mirrour vp to nature; to shew vertue her owne [sidenote: her feature;] feature, scorne[4] her owne image, and the verie age and bodie of the time, his forme and pressure.[5] now, this ouer-done, or come tardie off,[6] though it make the vnskilfull laugh, cannot but make the [sidenote: it makes] iudicious greeue; the censure of the which one,[7] [sidenote: of which one] must in your allowance[8] o're-way a whole theater of others. oh, there bee players that i haue scene play, and heard others praise, and that highly [sidenote: praysd,] (not to speake it prophanely) that neyther hauing the accent of christians, nor the gate of christian, pagan, or norman, haue so strutted and bellowed, [sidenote: pagan, nor man, haue] that i haue thought some of natures iouerney-men had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abhominably.[9] [sidenote: 126] _play._ i hope we haue reform'd that indifferently[10] with vs, sir. _ham._ o reforme it altogether. and let those that play your clownes, speake no more then is set downe for them.[12] for there be of them, that will themselues laugh, to set on some quantitie of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meane time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered:[12] that's villanous, and shewes a most pittifull ambition in the fool that vses it.[13] go make you readie. _exit players_ [footnote 1: 'an imaginary god of the mahometans, represented as a most violent character in the old miracle-plays and moralities.'--_sh. lex._] [footnote 2: 'represented as a swaggering tyrant in the old dramatic performances.'--_sh. lex._] [footnote 3: _away from_: inconsistent with.] [footnote 4: --that which is deserving of scorn.] [footnote 5: _impression_, as on wax. some would persuade us that shakspere's own plays do not do this; but such critics take the _accidents_ or circumstances of a time for the _body_ of it--the clothes for the person. _human_ nature is 'nature,' however _dressed_. there should be a comma after 'age.'] [footnote 6: 'laggingly represented'--a word belonging to _time_ is substituted for a word belonging to _space_:--'this over-done, or inadequately effected'; 'this over-done, or under-done.'] [footnote 7: 'and the judgment of such a one.' '_the which_' seems equivalent to _and--such_.] [footnote 8: 'must, you will grant.'] [footnote 9: shakspere may here be playing with a false derivation, as i was myself when the true was pointed out to me--fancying _abominable_ derived from _ab_ and _homo_. if so, then he means by the phrase: 'they imitated humanity so from the nature of man, so _inhumanly_.'] [footnote 10: tolerably.] [footnote 11: 'sir' _not in q._] [footnote 12: shakspere must have himself suffered from such clowns: coleridge thinks some of their _gag_ has crept into his print.] [footnote 13: here follow in the _1st q._ several specimens of such a clown's foolish jests and behaviour.] [page 134] _enter polonius, rosincrance, and guildensterne_.[1] [sidenote: _guyldensterne, & rosencraus_.] how now my lord, will the king heare this peece of worke? _pol_. and the queene too, and that presently.[2] _ham_. bid the players make hast. _exit polonius_.[3] will you two helpe to hasten them?[4] _both_. we will my lord. _exeunt_. [sidenote: _ros_. i my lord. _exeunt they two_.] _enter horatio_[5] _ham_. what hoa, _horatio_? [sidenote: what howe,] _hora_. heere sweet lord, at your seruice. [sidenote: 26] _ham_.[7] _horatio_, thou art eene as iust a man as ere my conversation coap'd withall. _hora_. o my deere lord.[6] _ham_.[7] nay do not thinke i flatter: for what aduancement may i hope from thee,[8] that no reuennew hast, but thy good spirits to feed and cloath thee. why shold the poor be flatter'd? no, let the candied[9] tongue, like absurd pompe, [sidenote: licke] and crooke the pregnant hindges of the knee,[10] where thrift may follow faining? dost thou heare, [sidenote: fauning;] since my deere soule was mistris of my choyse;[11] [sidenote: her choice,] and could of men distinguish, her election hath seal'd thee for her selfe. for thou hast bene [sidenote: s'hath seald] [sidenote: 272] as one in suffering all, that suffers nothing. a man that fortunes buffets, and rewards hath 'tane with equall thankes. and blest are those, [sidenote: hast] whose blood and iudgement are so well co-mingled, [sidenote: comedled,[12]] [sidenote: 26] that they are not a pipe for fortunes finger, to sound what stop she please.[13] giue me that man, that is not passions slaue,[14] and i will weare him in my hearts core: i, in my heart of heart,[15] as i do thee. something too much of this.[16] [footnote 1: _in q. at end of speech._] [footnote 2: he humours hamlet as if he were a child.] [footnote 3: _not in q._] [footnote 4: he has sent for horatio, and is expecting him.] [footnote 5: _in q. after next speech._] [footnote 6: --repudiating the praise.] [footnote 7: to know a man, there is scarce a readier way than to hear him talk of his friend--why he loves, admires, chooses him. the poet here gives us a wide window into hamlet. so genuine is his respect for _being_, so indifferent is he to _having_, that he does not shrink, in argument for his own truth, from reminding his friend to his face that, being a poor man, nothing is to be gained from him--nay, from telling him that it is through his poverty he has learned to admire him, as a man of courage, temper, contentment, and independence, with nothing but his good spirits for an income--a man whose manhood is dominant both over his senses and over his fortune--a true stoic. he describes an ideal man, then clasps the ideal to his bosom as his own, in the person of his friend. only a great man could so worship another, choosing him for such qualities; and hereby shakspere shows us his hamlet--a brave, noble, wise, pure man, beset by circumstances the most adverse conceivable. that hamlet had not misapprehended horatio becomes evident in the last scene of all. 272.] [footnote 8: the mother of flattery is self-advantage.] [footnote 9: _sugared_. _1st q._: let flattery sit on those time-pleasing tongs; to glose with them that loues to heare their praise; and not with such as thou _horatio_. there is a play to night, &c.] [footnote 10: a pregnant figure and phrase, requiring thought.] [footnote 11: 'since my real self asserted its dominion, and began to rule my choice,' making it pure, and withdrawing it from the tyranny of impulse and liking.] [footnote 12: the old word _medle_ is synonymous with _mingle._] [footnote 13: to hamlet, the lordship of man over himself, despite of circumstance, is a truth, and therefore a duty.] [footnote 14: the man who has chosen his friend thus, is hardly himself one to act without sufficing reason, or take vengeance without certain proof of guilt.] [footnote 15: he justifies the phrase, repeating it.] [footnote 16: --apologetic for having praised him to his face.] [page 136] there is a play to night before the king, one scoene of it comes neere the circumstance which i haue told thee, of my fathers death. i prythee, when thou see'st that acte a-foot,[1] euen with the verie comment of my[2] soule [sidenote: thy[2] soule] obserue mine vnkle: if his occulted guilt, [sidenote: my vncle,] do not it selfe vnkennell in one speech, [sidenote: 58] it is a damned ghost that we haue seene:[3] and my imaginations are as foule as vulcans stythe.[4] giue him needfull note, [sidenote: stithy; | heedfull] for i mine eyes will riuet to his face: and after we will both our iudgements ioyne,[5] to censure of his seeming.[6] [sidenote: in censure] _hora._ well my lord. if he steale ought the whil'st this play is playing. [sidenote: if a] and scape detecting, i will pay the theft.[1] [sidenote: detected,] _enter king, queene, polonius, ophelia, rosincrance, guildensterne, and other lords attendant with his guard carrying torches. danish march. sound a flourish._ [sidenote: _enter trumpets and kettle drummes, king, queene, polonius, ophelia._] _ham._ they are comming to the play: i must [sidenote: 60, 156, 178] be idle.[7] get you a place. _king._ how fares our cosin _hamlet_? _ham._ excellent ifaith, of the camelions dish: [sidenote: 154] i eate the ayre promise-cramm'd,[8] you cannot feed capons so.[9] _king._ i haue nothing with this answer _hamlet_, these words are not mine.[10] _ham._ no, nor mine. now[11] my lord, you plaid once i'th'vniuersity, you say? _polon._ that i did my lord, and was accounted [sidenote: did i] a good actor. [footnote 1: here follows in _1st q._ marke thou the king, doe but obserue his lookes, for i mine eies will riuet to his face: [sidenote: 112] and if he doe not bleach, and change at that, it is a damned ghost that we haue seene. _horatio_, haue a care, obserue him well. _hor_. my lord, mine eies shall still be on his face, and not the smallest alteration that shall appeare in him, but i shall note it.] [footnote 2: i take 'my' to be right: 'watch my uncle with the comment--the discriminating judgment, that is--of _my_ soul, more intent than thine.'] [footnote 3: he has then, ere this, taken horatio into his confidence--so far at least as the ghost's communication concerning the murder.] [footnote 4: a dissyllable: _stithy_, _anvil_; scotch, _studdy_. hamlet's doubt is here very evident: he hopes he may find it a false ghost: what good man, what good son would not? he has clear cause and reason--it is his duty to delay. that the cause and reason and duty are not invariably clear to hamlet himself--not clear in every mood, is another thing. wavering conviction, doubt of evidence, the corollaries of assurance, the oppression of misery, a sense of the worthlessness of the world's whole economy--each demanding delay, might yet well, all together, affect the man's feeling as mere causes of rather than reasons for hesitation. the conscientiousness of hamlet stands out the clearer that, throughout, his dislike to his uncle, predisposing him to believe any ill of him, is more than evident. by his incompetent or prejudiced judges, hamlet's accusations and justifications of himself are equally placed to the _discredit_ of his account. they seem to think a man could never accuse himself except he were in the wrong; therefore if ever he excuses himself, he is the more certainly in the wrong: whatever point may tell on the other side, it is to be disregarded.] [footnote 5: 'bring our two judgments together for comparison.'] [footnote 6: 'in order to judge of the significance of his looks and behaviour.'] [footnote 7: does he mean _foolish_, that is, _lunatic_? or _insouciant_, and _unpreoccupied_?] [footnote 8: the king asks hamlet how he _fares_--that is, how he gets on; hamlet pretends to think he has asked him about his diet. his talk has at once become wild; ere the king enters he has donned his cloak of madness. here he confesses to ambition--will favour any notion concerning himself rather than give ground for suspecting the real state of his mind and feeling. in the _1st q._ 'the camelions dish' almost appears to mean the play, not the king's promises.] [footnote 9: in some places they push food down the throats of the poultry they want to fatten, which is technically, i believe, called _cramming_ them.] [footnote 10: 'you have not taken me with you; i have not laid hold of your meaning; i have nothing by your answer.' 'your words have not become my property; they have not given themselves to me in their meaning.'] [footnote 11: _point thus_: 'no, nor mine now.--my lord,' &c. '--not mine, now i have uttered them, for so i have given them away.' or does he mean to disclaim their purport?] [page 138] _ham._ and[1] what did you enact? _pol._ i did enact _iulius caesar_, i was kill'd i'th'capitol: _brutus_ kill'd me. _ham._ it was a bruite part of him, to kill so capitall a calfe there.[2] be the players ready? _rosin._ i my lord, they stay vpon your patience. _qu._ come hither my good _hamlet_, sit by me. [sidenote: my deere] _ham._ no good mother, here's mettle more attractiue.[3] _pol._ oh ho, do you marke that?[4] _ham._ ladie, shall i lye in your lap? _ophe._ no my lord. _ham._ i meane, my head vpon your lap?[5] _ophe._ i my lord.[6] _ham._ do you thinke i meant country[7] matters? _ophe._ i thinke nothing, my lord. _ham._ that's a faire thought to ly between maids legs. _ophe._ what is my lord? _ham._ nothing. _ophe._ you are merrie, my lord? _ham._ who i? _ophe._ i my lord.[8] _ham._ oh god, your onely iigge-maker[9]: what should a man do, but be merrie. for looke you how cheerefully my mother lookes, and my father dyed within's two houres. [sidenote: 65] _ophe._ nay, 'tis twice two moneths, my lord.[10] _ham._ so long? nay then let the diuel weare [sidenote: 32] blacke, for ile haue a suite of sables.[11] oh heauens! dye two moneths ago, and not forgotten yet?[12] then there's hope, a great mans memorie, may out-liue his life halfe a yeare: but byrlady [sidenote: ber lady a] he must builde churches then: or else shall he [sidenote: shall a] [footnote 1: 'and ' _not in q._] [footnote 2: emphasis on _there_. 'there' is not in _1st q._ hamlet means it was a desecration of the capitol.] [footnote 3: he cannot be familiar with his mother, so avoids her--will not sit by her, cannot, indeed, bear to be near her. but he loves and hopes in ophelia still.] [footnote 4: '--did i not tell you so?'] [footnote 5: this speech and the next are not in the _q._, but are shadowed in the _1st q._] [footnote 6: _--consenting_.] [footnote 7: in _1st quarto_, 'contrary.' hamlet hints, probing her character--hoping her unable to understand. it is the festering soreness of his feeling concerning his mother, making him doubt with the haunting agony of a loathed possibility, that prompts, urges, forces from him his ugly speeches--nowise to be justified, only to be largely excused in his sickening consciousness of his mother's presence. such pain as hamlet's, the ferment of subverted love and reverence, may lightly bear the blame of hideous manners, seeing, they spring from no wantonness, but from the writhing of tortured and helpless purity. good manners may be as impossible as out of place in the presence of shameless evil.] [footnote 8: ophelia bears with him for his own and his madness' sake, and is less uneasy because of the presence of his mother. to account _satisfactorily_ for hamlet's speeches to her, is not easy. the freer custom of the age, freer to an extent hardly credible in this, will not _satisfy_ the lovers of hamlet, although it must have _some_ weight. the necessity for talking madly, because he is in the presence of his uncle, and perhaps, to that end, for uttering whatever comes to him, without pause for choice, might give us another hair's-weight. also he may be supposed confident that ophelia would not understand him, while his uncle would naturally set such worse than improprieties down to wildest madness. but i suspect that here as before (123), shakepere would show hamlet's soul full of bitterest, passionate loathing; his mother has compelled him to think of horrors and women together, so turning their preciousness into a disgust; and this feeling, his assumed madhess allows him to indulge and partly relieve by utterance. could he have provoked ophelia to rebuke him with the severity he courted, such rebuke would have been joy to him. perhaps yet a small addition of weight to the scale of his excuse may be found in his excitement about his play, and the necessity for keeping down that excitement. suggestion is easier than judgment.] [footnote 9: 'here's for the jig-maker! he's the right man!' or perhaps he is claiming the part as his own: 'i am your only jig-maker!'] [footnote 10: this needs not be taken for the exact time. the statement notwithstanding suggests something like two months between the first and second acts, for in the first, hamlet says his father has not been dead two months. 24. we are not bound to take it for more than a rough approximation; ophelia would make the best of things for the queen, who is very kind to her.] [footnote 11: the fur of the sable.] [footnote 12: _1st q._ nay then there's some likelyhood, a gentlemans death may outliue memorie, but by my faith &c.] [page 140] suffer not thinking on, with the hoby-horsse, whose epitaph is, for o, for o, the hoby-horse is forgot. _hoboyes play. the dumbe shew enters._ [sidenote: _the trumpets sounds. dumbe show followes._] _enter a king and queene, very louingly; the queene [sidenote: _and a queene, the queen_] embracing him. she kneeles, and makes shew of [sidenote: _embracing him, and he her, he takes her up, and_] protestation vnto him. he takes her vp, and declines his head vpon her neck. layes him downe [sidenote: _necke, he lyes_] vpon a banke of flowers. she seeing him a-sleepe, leaues him. anon comes in a fellow, [sidenote: _anon come in an other man_,] takes off his crowne, kisses it, and powres poyson [sidenote: _it, pours_] in the kings eares, and exits. the queene returnes, [sidenote: _the sleepers eares, and leaues him:_] findes the king dead, and makes passionate [sidenote: dead, makes] action. the poysoner, with some two or [sidenote: _some three or foure come in againe, seeme to condole_] three mutes comes in againe, seeming to lament with her. the dead body is carried away: the [sidenote: _with her, the_] poysoner wooes the queene with gifts, she [sidenote: 54] seemes loath and vnwilling awhile, but in the end, [sidenote: _seemes harsh awhile_,] accepts his loue.[1] _exeunt[2]_ [sidenote: _accepts loue._] _ophe._ what meanes this, my lord? _ham._ marry this is miching _malicho_[3] that [sidenote: this munching _mallico_] meanes mischeefe. _ophe._ belike this shew imports the argument of the play? _ham._ we shall know by these fellowes: [sidenote: this fellow, _enter prologue_] the players cannot keepe counsell, they'l tell [sidenote: keepe, they'le] all.[4] _ophe._ will they tell vs what this shew meant? [sidenote: will a tell] _ham._ i, or any shew that you'l shew him. bee [sidenote: you will] not you asham'd to shew, hee'l not shame to tell you what it meanes. _ophe._ you are naught,[5] you are naught, ile marke the play. [footnote 1: the king, not the queen, is aimed at. hamlet does not forget the injunction of the ghost to spare his mother. 54. the king should be represented throughout as struggling not to betray himself.] [footnote 2: _not in q._] [footnote 3: _skulking mischief_: the latter word is spanish, to _mich_ is to _play truant_. how tenderly her tender hands betweene in yvorie cage she did the micher bind. _the countess of pembroke's arcadia_, page 84. my _reader_ tells me the word is still in use among printers, with the pronunciation _mike_, and the meaning _to skulk_ or _idle_.] [footnote 4: --their part being speech, that of the others only dumb show.] [footnote 5: _naughty_: persons who do not behave well are treated as if they were not--are made nought of--are set at nought; hence our word naughty. 'be naught awhile' (_as you like it_, i. 1)--'take yourself away;' 'be nobody;' 'put yourself in the corner.'] [page 142] _enter[1] prologue._ _for vs, and for our tragedie, heere stooping to your clemencie: we begge your hearing patientlie._ _ham._ is this a prologue, or the poesie[2] of a [sidenote: posie] ring? _ophe._ 'tis[3] briefe my lord. _ham._ as womans loue. [4] _enter king and his queene._ [sidenote: _and queene_] [sidenote: 234] _king._ full thirtie times[5] hath phoebus cart gon round, neptunes salt wash, and _tellus_ orbed ground: [sidenote: orb'd the] and thirtie dozen moones with borrowed sheene, about the world haue times twelue thirties beene, since loue our hearts, and _hymen_ did our hands vnite comutuall, in most sacred bands.[6] _bap._ so many iournies may the sunne and moone [sidenote: _quee._] make vs againe count o're, ere loue be done. but woe is me, you are so sicke of late, so farre from cheere, and from your forme state, [sidenote: from our former state,] that i distrust you: yet though i distrust, discomfort you (my lord) it nothing must: [a] for womens feare and loue, holds quantitie, [sidenote: and womens hold] in neither ought, or in extremity:[7] [sidenote: eyther none, in neither] now what my loue is, proofe hath made you know, [sidenote: my lord is proofe] and as my loue is siz'd, my feare is so. [sidenote: ciz'd,] [b] [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:- for women feare too much, euen as they loue,] [footnote b: _here in the quarto_:- where loue is great, the litlest doubts are feare, where little feares grow great, great loue growes there.] [footnote 1: _enter_ not in _q._] [footnote 2: commonly _posy_: a little sentence engraved inside a ring--perhaps originally a tiny couplet, therefore _poesy_, _1st q._, 'a poesie for a ring?'] [footnote 3: emphasis on ''tis.'] [footnote 4: very little blank verse of any kind was written before shakspere's; the usual form of dramatic verse was long, irregular, rimed lines: the poet here uses the heroic couplet, which gives a resemblance to the older plays by its rimes, while also by its stately and monotonous movement the play-play is differenced from the play into which it is introduced, and caused to _look_ intrinsically like a play in relation to the rest of the play of which it is part. in other words, it stands off from the surrounding play, slightly elevated both by form and formality. 103.] [footnote 5: _1st q._ _duke._ full fortie yeares are past, their date is gone, since happy time ioyn'd both our hearts as one: and now the blood that fill'd my youthfull veines, ruunes weakely in their pipes, and all the straines of musicke, which whilome pleasde mine eare, is now a burthen that age cannot beare: and therefore sweete nature must pay his due, to heauen must i, and leaue the earth with you.] [footnote 6: here hamlet gives the time his father and mother had been married, and shakspere points at hamlet's age. 234. the poet takes pains to show his hero's years.] [footnote 7: this line, whose form in the _quarto_ is very careless, seems but a careless correction, leaving the sense as well as the construction obscure: 'women's fear and love keep the scales level; in _neither_ is there ought, or in _both_ there is fulness;' or: 'there is no moderation in their fear and their love; either they have _none_ of either, or they have _excess_ of both.' perhaps he tried to express both ideas at once. but compression is always in danger of confusion.] [page 144] _king._ faith i must leaue thee loue, and shortly too: my operant powers my functions leaue to do: [sidenote: their functions] and thou shall liue in this faire world behinde, honour'd, belou'd, and haply, one as kinde. for husband shalt thou---_bap._ oh confound the rest: [sidenote: _quee._] such loue, must needs be treason in my brest: in second husband, let me be accurst, none wed the second, but who kill'd the first.[1] _ham._ wormwood, wormwood. [sidenote: _ham_. that's wormwood[2]] _bapt._ the instances[3] that second marriage moue, are base respects of thrift,[4] but none of loue. a second time, i kill my husband dead, when second husband kisses me in bed. _king._ i do beleeue you. think what now you speak: but what we do determine, oft we breake: purpose is but the slaue to memorie,[5] of violent birth, but poore validitie:[6] which now like fruite vnripe stickes on the tree, [sidenote: now the fruite] but fall vnshaken, when they mellow bee.[7] most necessary[8] 'tis, that we forget to pay our selues, what to our selues is debt: what to our selues in passion we propose, the passion ending, doth the purpose lose. the violence of other greefe or ioy, [sidenote: eyther,] their owne ennactors with themselues destroy: [sidenote: ennactures] where ioy most reuels, greefe doth most lament; greefe ioyes, ioy greeues on slender accident.[9] [sidenote: greefe ioy ioy griefes] this world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange that euen our loues should with our fortunes change. for 'tis a question left vs yet to proue, whether loue lead fortune, or else fortune loue. [footnote 1: is this to be supposed in the original play, or inserted by hamlet, embodying an unuttered and yet more fearful doubt with regard to his mother?] [footnote 2: this speech is on the margin in the _quarto_, and the queene's speech runs on without break.] [footnote 3: the urgencies; the motives.] [footnote 4: worldly advantage.] [footnote 5: 'purpose holds but while memory holds.'] [footnote 6: 'purpose is born in haste, but is of poor strength to live.'] [footnote 7: here again there is carelessness of construction, as if the poet had not thought it worth his while to correct this subsidiary portion of the drama. i do not see how to lay the blame on the printer.--'purpose is a mere fruit, which holds on or falls only as it must. the element of persistency is not in it.'] [footnote 8: unavoidable--coming of necessity.] [footnote 9: 'grief turns into joy, and joy into grief, on a slight chance.'] [page 146] the great man downe, you marke his fauourites flies, [sidenote: fauourite] the poore aduanc'd, makes friends of enemies: and hitherto doth loue on fortune tend, for who not needs, shall neuer lacke a frend: and who in want a hollow friend doth try, directly seasons him his enemie.[1] but orderly to end, where i begun, our willes and fates do so contrary run, that our deuices still are ouerthrowne, our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our owne.[2] [sidenote: 246] so thinke thou wilt no second husband wed. but die thy thoughts, when thy first lord is dead. _bap._ nor earth to giue me food, nor heauen light, [sidenote: _quee._] sport and repose locke from me day and night:[3] [a] each opposite that blankes the face of ioy, meet what i would haue well, and it destroy: both heere, and hence, pursue me lasting strife,[4] if once a widdow, euer i be wife.[5] [sidenote: once i be a | be a wife] _ham._ if she should breake it now.[6] _king._ 'tis deepely sworne: sweet, leaue me heere a while, my spirits grow dull, and faine i would beguile the tedious day with sleepe. _qu._ sleepe rocke thy braine, [sidenote: sleepes[7]] and neuer come mischance betweene vs twaine, _exit_ [sidenote: _exeunt._] _ham._ madam, how like you this play? _qu._ the lady protests to much me thinkes, [sidenote: doth protest] _ham._ oh but shee'l keepe her word. [footnote a: _here in the quarto:_- to desperation turne my trust and hope,[8] and anchors[9] cheere in prison be my scope] [footnote 1: all that is wanted to make a real enemy of an unreal friend is the seasoning of a requested favour.] [footnote 2: 'our thoughts are ours, but what will come of them we cannot tell.'] [footnote 3: 'may day and night lock from me sport and repose.'] [footnote 4: 'may strife pursue me in the world and out of it.'] [footnote 5: in all this, there is nothing to reflect on his mother beyond what everybody knew.] [footnote 6: _this speech is in the margin of the quarto._] [footnote 7: _not in q._] [footnote 8: 'may my trust and hope turn to despair.'] [footnote 9: an anchoret's.] [page 148] _king_. haue you heard the argument, is there no offence in't?[1] _ham_. no, no, they do but iest, poyson in iest, no offence i'th'world.[2] _king_. what do you call the play? _ham._ the mouse-trap: marry how? tropically:[3] this play is the image of a murder done in _vienna: gonzago_ is the dukes name, his wife _baptista_: you shall see anon: 'tis a knauish peece of worke: but what o'that? your maiestie, and [sidenote: of that?] wee that haue free soules, it touches vs not: let the gall'd iade winch: our withers are vnrung.[4] _enter lucianus._[5] this is one _lucianus_ nephew to the king. _ophe_. you are a good chorus, my lord. [sidenote: are as good as a chorus] _ham_. i could interpret betweene you and your loue: if i could see the puppets dallying.[6] _ophe_. you are keene my lord, you are keene. _ham_. it would cost you a groaning, to take off my edge. [sidenote: mine] _ophe_. still better and worse. _ham_. so you mistake husbands.[7] [sidenote: mistake your] begin murderer. pox, leaue thy damnable faces, [sidenote: murtherer, leave] and begin. come, the croaking rauen doth bellow for reuenge.[8] _lucian_. thoughts blacke, hands apt, drugges fit, and time agreeing: confederate season, else, no creature seeing:[9] [sidenote: considerat] thou mixture ranke, of midnight weeds collected, with hecats ban, thrice blasted, thrice infected, [sidenote: invected] thy naturall magicke, and dire propertie, on wholsome life, vsurpe immediately. [sidenote: vsurps] _powres the poyson in his eares_.[10] _ham_. he poysons him i'th garden for's estate: [sidenote: a poysons | for his] [footnote 1: --said, perhaps, to polonius. is there a lapse here in the king's self-possession? or is this speech only an outcome of its completeness--a pretence of fearing the play may glance at the queen for marrying him?] [footnote 2: 'it is but jest; don't be afraid: there is no reality in it'--as one might say to a child seeing a play.] [footnote 3: figuratively: from _trope_. in the _1st q._ the passage stands thus: _ham_. mouse-trap: mary how trapically: this play is the image of a murder done in _guyana_,] [footnote 4: here hamlet endangers himself to force the king to self-betrayal.] [footnote 5: _in q. after next line._] [footnote 6: in a puppet-play, if she and her love were the puppets, he could supply the speeches.] [footnote 7: is this a misprint for 'so you _must take_ husbands'--for better and worse, namely? or is it a thrust at his mother--'so you mis-take husbands, going from the better to a worse'? in _1st q._: 'so you must take your husband, begin.'] [footnote 8: probably a mocking parody or burlesque of some well-known exaggeration--such as not a few of marlowe's lines.] [footnote 9: 'none beholding save the accomplice hour:'.] [footnote 10: _not in q._] [page 150] his name's _gonzago_: the story is extant and writ [sidenote: and written] in choyce italian. you shall see anon how the [sidenote: in very choice] murtherer gets the loue of _gonzago's_ wife. _ophe_. the king rises.[1] _ham_. what, frighted with false fire.[2] _qu_. how fares my lord? _pol_. giue o're the play. _king_. giue me some light. away.[3] _all_. lights, lights, lights. _exeunt_ [sidenote: _pol. | exeunt all but ham. & horatio._] _manet hamlet & horatio._ _ham_.[4] why let the strucken deere go weepe, the hart vngalled play: for some must watch, while some must sleepe; so runnes the world away. would not this[5] sir, and a forrest of feathers, if the rest of my fortunes turne turke with me; with two prouinciall roses[6] on my rac'd[7] shooes, get me [sidenote: with prouinciall | raz'd] a fellowship[8] in a crie[9] of players sir. [sidenote: players?] _hor_. halfe a share. _ham_. a whole one i,[10] [11] for thou dost know: oh damon deere, this realme dismantled was of loue himselfe, and now reignes heere. a verie verie paiocke.[12] _hora_. you might haue rim'd.[13] _ham_. oh good _horatio_, ile take the ghosts word for a thousand pound. did'st perceiue? _hora_. verie well my lord. _ham_. vpon the talke of the poysoning? _hora_. i did verie well note him. _enter rosincrance and guildensterne_.[14] _ham_. oh, ha? come some musick.[15] come the recorders: [sidenote: ah ha,] [footnote 1: --in ill suppressed agitation.] [footnote 2: _this speech is not in the quarto_.--is the 'false fire' what we now call _stage-fire_?--'what! frighted at a mere play?'] [footnote 3: the stage--the stage-stage, that is--alone is lighted. does the king stagger out blindly, madly, shaking them from him? i think not--but as if he were taken suddenly ill.] [footnote 4: --_singing_--that he may hide his agitation, restrain himself, and be regarded as careless-mad, until all are safely gone.] [footnote 5: --his success with the play.] [footnote 6: 'roses of provins,' we are told--probably artificial.] [footnote 7: the meaning is very doubtful. but for the _raz'd_ of the _quarto_, i should suggest _lac'd_. could it mean _cut low_?] [footnote 8: _a share_, as immediately below.] [footnote 9: a _cry_ of hounds is a pack. so in _king lear_, act v. sc. 3, 'packs and sects of great ones.'] [footnote 10: _i_ for _ay_--that is, _yes_!--he insists on a whole share.] [footnote 11: again he takes refuge in singing.] [footnote 12: the lines are properly measured in the _quarto_: for thou doost know oh damon deere this realme dismantled was of _ioue_ himselfe, and now raignes heere a very very paiock. by _jove_, he of course intends _his father_. 170. what 'paiocke' means, whether _pagan_, or _peacock_, or _bajocco_, matters nothing, since it is intended for nonsense.] [footnote 13: to rime with _was_, horatio naturally expected _ass_ to follow as the end of the last line: in the wanton humour of his excitement, hamlet disappointed him.] [footnote 14: _in q. after next speech_.] [footnote 15: he hears rosincrance and guildensterne coming, and changes his behaviour--calling for music to end the play with. either he wants, under its cover, to finish his talk with horatio in what is for the moment the safest place, or he would mask himself before his two false friends. since the departure of the king--i would suggest--he has borne himself with evident apprehension, every now and then glancing about him, as fearful of what may follow his uncle's recognition of the intent of the play. three times he has burst out singing. or might not his whole carriage, with the call for music, be the outcome of a grimly merry satisfaction at the success of his scheme?] [page 152] for if the king like not the comedie, why then belike he likes it not perdie.[1] come some musicke. _guild._ good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. _ham._ sir, a whole history. _guild._ the king, sir. _ham._ i sir, what of him? _guild._ is in his retyrement, maruellous distemper'd. _ham._ with drinke sir? _guild._ no my lord, rather with choller.[2] [sidenote: lord, with] _ham._ your wisedome should shew it selfe more richer, to signifie this to his doctor: for me to [sidenote: the doctor,] put him to his purgation, would perhaps plundge him into farre more choller.[2] [sidenote: into more] _guild._ good my lord put your discourse into some frame,[3] and start not so wildely from my [sidenote: stare] affayre. _ham._ i am tame sir, pronounce. _guild._ the queene your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you. _ham._ you are welcome.[4] _guild._ nay, good my lord, this courtesie is not of the right breed. if it shall please you to make me a wholsome answer, i will doe your mothers command'ment: if not, your pardon, and my returne shall bee the end of my businesse. [sidenote: of busines.] _ham._ sir, i cannot. _guild._ what, my lord? _ham._ make you a wholsome answere: my wits diseas'd. but sir, such answers as i can make, you [sidenote: answere] shal command: or rather you say, my mother: [sidenote: rather as you] therfore no more but to the matter. my mother you say. [footnote 1: these two lines he may be supposed to sing.] [footnote 2: choler means bile, and thence anger. hamlet in his answer plays on the two meanings:--'to give him the kind of medicine i think fit for him, would perhaps much increase his displeasure.'] [footnote 3: some logical consistency.] [footnote 4: _--with an exaggeration of courtesy_.] [page 154] _rosin._ then thus she sayes: your behauior hath stroke her into amazement, and admiration.[1] _ham._ oh wonderfull sonne, that can so astonish [sidenote: stonish] a mother. but is there no sequell at the heeles of this mothers admiration? [sidenote: admiration, impart.] _rosin._ she desires to speake with you in her closset, ere you go to bed. _ham._ we shall obey, were she ten times our mother. haue you any further trade with vs? _rosin._ my lord, you once did loue me. _ham._ so i do still, by these pickers and [sidenote: and doe still] stealers.[2] _rosin._ good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do freely barre the doore of your [sidenote: surely barre the door vpon your] owne libertie, if you deny your greefes to your your friend. _ham._ sir i lacke aduancement. _rosin._ how can that be, when you haue the [sidenote: 136] voyce of the king himselfe, for your succession in denmarke? [3] _ham._ i, but while the grasse growes,[4] the [sidenote: i sir,] prouerbe is something musty. _enter one with a recorder._[5] o the recorder. let me see, to withdraw with, [sidenote: ã´ the recorders, let mee see one, to] you,[6] why do you go about to recouer the winde of mee,[7] as if you would driue me into a toyle?[8] _guild._ o my lord, if my dutie be too bold, my loue is too vnmannerly.[9] _ham._ i do not well vnderstand that.[10] will you, play vpon this pipe? _guild._ my lord, i cannot. _ham._ i pray you. _guild._ beleeue me, i cannot. _ham._ i do beseech you. [footnote 1: wonder, astonishment.] [footnote 2: he swears an oath that will not hold, being by the hand of a thief. in the catechism: 'keep my hands from picking and stealing.'] [footnote 3: here in quarto, _enter the players with recorders._] [footnote 4: '... the colt starves.'] [footnote 5: _not in q._ the stage-direction of the _folio_ seems doubtful. hamlet has called for the orchestra: we may either suppose one to precede the others, or that the rest are already scattered; but the _quarto_ direction and reading seem better.] [footnote 6: _--taking guildensterne aside_.] [footnote 7: 'to get to windward of me.'] [footnote 8: 'why do you seek to get the advantage of me, as if you would drive me to betray myself?'--hunters, by sending on the wind their scent to the game, drive it into their toils.] [footnote 9: guildensterne tries euphuism, but hardly succeeds. he intends to plead that any fault in his approach must be laid to the charge of his love. _duty_ here means _homage_--so used still by the common people.] [footnote 10: --said with a smile of gentle contempt.] [page 156] _guild_. i know no touch of it, my lord. _ham_. tis as easie as lying: gouerne these [sidenote: it is] ventiges with your finger and thumbe, giue it [sidenote: fingers, & the vmber, giue] breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most [sidenote: most eloquent] excellent musicke. looke you, these are the stoppes. _guild_. but these cannot i command to any vtterance of hermony, i haue not the skill. _ham_. why looke you now, how vnworthy a thing you make of me: you would play vpon mee; you would seeme to know my stops: you would pluck out the heart of my mysterie; you would sound mee from my lowest note, to the top of my [sidenote: note to my compasse] compasse: and there is much musicke, excellent voice, in this little organe, yet cannot you make [sidenote: it speak, s'hloud do you think i] it. why do you thinke, that i am easier to bee plaid on, then a pipe? call me what instrument you will, though you can fret[1] me, you cannot [sidenote: you fret me not,] [sidenote: 184] play vpon me. god blesse you sir.[2] _enter polonius_. _polon_. my lord; the queene would speak with you, and presently. _ham_. do you see that clowd? that's almost in [sidenote: yonder clowd] shape like a camell. [sidenote: shape of a] _polon_. by'th'misse, and it's like a camell [sidenote: masse and tis,] indeed. _ham_. me thinkes it is like a weazell. _polon_. it is back'd like a weazell. _ham_. or like a whale?[3] _polon_. verie like a whale.[4] _ham_. then will i come to my mother, by and by: [sidenote: i will] [sidenote: 60, 136, 178] they foole me to the top of my bent.[5] i will come by and by. [footnote 1: --with allusion to the _frets_ or _stop-marks_ of a stringed instrument.] [footnote 2: --_to polonius_.] [footnote 3: there is nothing insanely arbitrary in these suggestions of likeness; a cloud might very well be like every one of the three; the camel has a hump, the weasel humps himself, and the whale is a hump.] [footnote 4: he humours him in everything, as he would a madman.] [footnote 5: hamlet's cleverness in simulating madness is dwelt upon in the old story. see '_hystorie of hamblet, prince of denmarke_.'] [page 158] _polon_.[1] i will say so. _exit_.[1] _ham_.[1] by and by, is easily said. leaue me friends: 'tis now the verie witching time of night, when churchyards yawne, and hell it selfe breaths out [sidenote: brakes[2]] contagion to this world.[3] now could i drink hot blood, and do such bitter businesse as the day [sidenote: such busines as the bitter day] would quake to looke on.[4] soft now, to my mother: oh heart, loose not thy nature;[5] let not euer the soule of _nero_[6] enter this firme bosome: let me be cruell, not vnnaturall. [sidenote: 172] i will speake daggers[7] to her, but vse none: [sidenote: dagger] my tongue and soule in this be hypocrites.[8] how in my words someuer she be shent,[9] to giue them seales,[10] neuer my soule consent.[4] [sidenote: _exit._] _enter king, rosincrance, and guildensterne_. _king_. i like him not, nor stands it safe with vs, to let his madnesse range.[11] therefore prepare you, [sidenote: 167] i your commission will forthwith dispatch,[12] [sidenote: 180] and he to england shall along with you: the termes of our estate, may not endure[13] hazard so dangerous as doth hourely grow [sidenote: so neer's as] out of his lunacies. [sidenote: his browes.] _guild_. we will our selues prouide: most holie and religious feare it is[14] to keepe those many many bodies safe that liue and feede vpon your maiestie.[15] _rosin_. the single and peculiar[16] life is bound with all the strength and armour of the minde, [footnote 1: the _quarto_, not having _polon., exit, or ham._, and arranging differently, reads thus:- they foole me to the top of my bent, i will come by and by, leaue me friends. i will, say so. by and by is easily said, tis now the very &c.] [footnote 2: _belches_.] [footnote 3: --thinking of what the ghost had told him, perhaps: it was the time when awful secrets wander about the world. compare _macbeth_, act ii. sc. 1; also act iii. sc. 2.] [footnote 4: the assurance of his uncle's guilt, gained through the effect of the play upon him, and the corroboration of his mother's guilt by this partial confirmation of the ghost's assertion, have once more stirred in hamlet the fierceness of vengeance. but here afresh comes out the balanced nature of the man--say rather, the supremacy in him of reason and will. his dear soul, having once become mistress of his choice, remains mistress for ever. he _could_ drink hot blood, he _could_ do bitter business, but he will carry himself as a son, and the son of his father, _ought_ to carry himself towards a guilty mother--_mother_ although guilty.] [footnote 5: thus he girds himself for the harrowing interview. aware of the danger he is in of forgetting his duty to his mother, he strengthens himself in filial righteousness, dreading to what word or deed a burst of indignation might drive him. one of his troubles now is the way he feels towards his mother.] [footnote 6: --who killed his mother.] [footnote 7: his words should be as daggers.] [footnote 8: _pretenders_.] [footnote 9: _reproached_ or _rebuked_--though oftener _scolded_.] [footnote 10: 'to seal them with actions'--actions are the seals to words, and make them irrevocable.] [footnote 11: _walk at liberty_.] [footnote 12: _get ready_.] [footnote 13: he had, it would appear, taken them into his confidence in the business; they knew what was to be in their commission, and were thorough traitors to hamlet.] [footnote 14: --holy and religious precaution for the sake of the many depending on him.] [footnote 15: is there not unconscious irony of their own parasitism here intended?] [footnote 16: _private individual_.] [page 160] to keepe it selfe from noyance:[1] but much more, that spirit, vpon whose spirit depends and rests [sidenote: whose weale depends] the lives of many, the cease of maiestie [sidenote: cesse] dies not alone;[2] but like a gulfe doth draw what's neere it, with it. it is a massie wheele [sidenote: with it, or it is] fixt on the somnet of the highest mount, to whose huge spoakes, ten thousand lesser things [sidenote: hough spokes] are mortiz'd and adioyn'd: which when it falles, each small annexment, pettie consequence attends the boystrous ruine. neuer alone [sidenote: raine,] did the king sighe, but with a generall grone. [sidenote: but a[3]] _king._[4] arme you,[5] i pray you to this speedie voyage; [sidenote: viage,] for we will fetters put vpon this feare,[6] [sidenote: put about this] which now goes too free-footed. _both._ we will haste vs. _exeunt gent_ _enter polonius._ pol. my lord, he's going to his mothers closset: behinde the arras ile conuey my selfe to heare the processe. ile warrant shee'l tax him home, and as you said, and wisely was it said, 'tis meete that some more audience then a mother, since nature makes them partiall, should o're-heare the speech of vantage.[7] fare you well my liege, ile call vpon you ere you go to bed, and tell you what i know. [sidenote: exit.] _king._ thankes deere my lord. oh my offence is ranke, it smels to heauen, it hath the primall eldest curse vpon't, a brothers murther.[8] pray can i not, though inclination be as sharpe as will: my stronger guilt,[9] defeats my strong intent, [footnote 1: the philosophy of which self is the centre. the speeches of both justify the king in proceeding to extremes against hamlet.] [footnote 2: the same as to say: 'the passing, ceasing, or ending of majesty dies not--is not finished or accomplished, without that of others;' 'the dying ends or ceases not,' &c.] [footnote 3: the _but_ of the _quarto_ is better, only the line halts. it is the preposition, meaning _without_.] [footnote 4: _heedless of their flattery_. it is hardly applicable enough to interest him.] [footnote 5: 'provide yourselves.'] [footnote 6: fear active; cause of fear; thing to be afraid of; the noun of the verb _fear_, to _frighten_: or in the night, imagining some fear, how easy is a bush supposed a bear! _a midsummer night's dream_, act v. sc. i.] [footnote 7: schmidt (_sh. lex._) says _of vantage_ means _to boot_. i do not think he is right. perhaps polonius means 'from a position of advantage.' or perhaps 'the speech of vantage' is to be understood as implying that hamlet, finding himself in a position of vantage, that is, alone with his mother, will probably utter himself with little restraint.] [footnote 8: this is the first proof positive of his guilt accorded even to the spectator of the play: here claudius confesses not merely guilt (118), but the very deed. thoughtless critics are so ready to judge another as if he knew all they know, that it is desirable here to remind the student that only he, not hamlet, hears this soliloquy. the falseness of half the judgments in the world comes from our not taking care and pains first to know accurately the actions, and then to understand the mental and moral condition, of those we judge.] [footnote 9: --his present guilty indulgence--stronger than his strong intent to pray.] [page 162] and like a man to double businesse bound,[1] i stand in pause where i shall first begin, and both[2] neglect; what if this cursed hand were thicker then it selfe with brothers blood, is there not raine enough in the sweet heauens to wash it white as snow? whereto serues mercy, but to confront the visage of offence? and what's in prayer, but this two-fold force, to be fore-stalled ere we come to fall, or pardon'd being downe? then ile looke vp, [sidenote: pardon] my fault is past. but oh, what forme of prayer can serue my turne? forgiue me my foule murther: that cannot be, since i am still possest of those effects for which i did the murther.[3] my crowne, mine owne ambition, and my queene: may one be pardon'd, and retaine th'offence? in the corrupted currants of this world, offences gilded hand may shoue by iustice [sidenote: showe] and oft 'tis seene, the wicked prize it selfe buyes out the law; but 'tis not so aboue, there is no shuffling, there the action lyes in his true nature, and we our selues compell'd euen to the teeth and forehead of our faults, to giue in euidence. what then? what rests? try what repentance can. what can it not? yet what can it, when one cannot repent?[4] oh wretched state! oh bosome, blacke as death! oh limed[5] soule, that strugling to be free, art more ingag'd[6]: helpe angels, make assay:[7] bow stubborne knees, and heart with strings of steele, be soft as sinewes of the new-borne babe, all may be well. [footnote 1: referring to his double guilt--the one crime past, the other in continuance. here is the corresponding passage in the _1st q._, with the adultery plainly confessed:- _enter the king._ _king_. o that this wet that falles vpon my face would wash the crime cleere from my conscience! when i looke vp to heauen, i see my trespasse, the earth doth still crie out vpon my fact, pay me the murder of a brother and a king, and the adulterous fault i haue committed: o these are sinnes that are vnpardonable: why say thy sinnes were blacker then is ieat, yet may contrition make them as white as snowe: i but still to perseuer in a sinne, it is an act gainst the vniuersall power, most wretched man, stoope, bend thee to thy prayer, aske grace of heauen to keepe thee from despaire.] [footnote 2: both crimes.] [footnote 3: he could repent of and pray forgiveness for the murder, if he could repent of the adultery and incest, and give up the queen. it is not the sins they have done, but the sins they will not leave, that damn men. 'this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.' the murder deeply troubled him; the adultery not so much; the incest and usurpation mainly as interfering with the forgiveness of the murder.] [footnote 4: even hatred of crime committed is not repentance: repentance is the turning away from wrong doing: 'cease to do evil; learn to do well.'] [footnote 5: --caught and held by crime, as a bird by bird-lime.] [footnote 6: entangled.] [footnote 7: _said to his knees_. point thus:--'helpe angels! make assay--bow, stubborne knees!'] [page 164] _enter hamlet_. _ham_.[1] now might i do it pat, now he is praying, [sidenote: doe it, but now a is a praying,] and now ile doo't, and so he goes to heauen, [sidenote: so a goes] and so am i reueng'd: that would be scann'd, [sidenote: reuendge,] a villaine killes my father, and for that i his foule sonne, do this same villaine send [sidenote: sole sonne] to heauen. oh this is hyre and sallery, not reuenge. [sidenote: to heauen. why, this is base and silly, not] he tooke my father grossely, full of bread, [sidenote: a tooke] [sidenote: 54, 262] with all his crimes broad blowne, as fresh as may, [sidenote: as flush as] and how his audit stands, who knowes, saue heauen:[2] but in our circumstance and course of thought 'tis heauie with him: and am i then reueng'd, to take him in the purging of his soule, when he is fit and season'd for his passage? no. vp sword, and know thou a more horrid hent[3] when he is drunke asleepe: or in his rage, or in th'incestuous pleasure of his bed, at gaming, swearing, or about some acte [sidenote: at game a swearing,] that ha's no rellish of saluation in't, then trip him,[4] that his heeles may kicke at heauen, and that his soule may be as damn'd and blacke as hell, whereto it goes.[5] my mother stayes,[6] this physicke but prolongs thy sickly dayes.[7] _exit_. _king_. my words flye vp, my thoughts remain below, words without thoughts, neuer to heauen go.[8] _exit_. _enter queene and polonius_. [sidenote: _enter gertrard and_] _pol_. he will come straight: [sidenote: a will] looke you lay home to him [footnote 1: in the _1st q._ this speech commences with, 'i so, come forth and worke thy last,' evidently addressed to his sword; afterwards, having changed his purpose, he says, 'no, get thee vp agen.'] [footnote 2: this indicates doubt of the ghost still. he is unwilling to believe in him.] [footnote 3: _grasp_. this is the only instance i know of _hent_ as a noun. the verb _to hent, to lay hold of_, is not so rare. 'wait till thou be aware of a grasp with a more horrid purpose in it.'] [footnote 4: --still addressed to his sword.] [footnote 5: are we to take hamlet's own presentment of his reasons as exhaustive? doubtless to kill him at his prayers, whereupon, after the notions of the time, he would go to heaven, would be anything but justice--the murdered man in hell--the murderer in heaven! but it is easy to suppose hamlet finding it impossible to slay a man on his knees--and that from behind: thus in the unseen presence, he was in sanctuary, and the avenger might well seek reason or excuse for not _then_, not _there_ executing the decree.] [footnote 6: 'waits for me.'] [footnote 7: he seems now to have made up his mind, and to await only fit time and opportunity; but he is yet to receive confirmation strong as holy writ. this is the first chance hamlet has had--within the play--of killing the king, and any imputation of faulty irresolution therein is simply silly. it shows the soundness of hamlet's reason, and the steadiness of his will, that he refuses to be carried away by passion, or the temptation of opportunity. the sight of the man on his knees might well start fresh doubt of his guilt, or even wake the thought of sparing a repentant sinner. he knows also that in taking vengeance on her husband he could not avoid compromising his mother. besides, a man like hamlet could not fail to perceive how the killing of his uncle, and in such an attitude, would look to others. it may be judged, however, that the reason he gives to himself for not slaying the king, was only an excuse, that his soul revolted from the idea of assassination, and was calmed in a measure by the doubt whether a man could thus pray--in supposed privacy, we must remember--and be a murderer. not even yet had he proof _positive_, absolute, conclusive: the king might well take offence at the play, even were he innocent; and in any case hamlet would desire _presentable_ proof: he had positively none to show the people in justification of vengeance. as in excitement a man's moods may be opalescent in their changes, and as the most contrary feelings may coexist in varying degrees, all might be in a mind, which i have suggested as present in that of hamlet. to have been capable of the kind of action most of his critics would demand of a man, hamlet must have been the weakling they imagine him. when at length, after a righteous delay, partly willed, partly inevitable, he holds documents in the king's handwriting as proofs of his treachery--_proofs which can be shown_--giving him both right and power over the life of the traitor, then, and only then, is he in cool blood absolutely satisfied as to his duty--which conviction, working with opportunity, and that opportunity plainly the last, brings the end; the righteous deed is done, and done righteously, the doer blameless in the doing of it. the poet is not careful of what is called poetic justice in his play, though therein is no failure; what he is careful of is personal rightness in the hero of it.] [footnote 8: _1st q_. _king_ my wordes fly vp, my sinnes remaine below. no king on earth is safe, if gods his foe. _exit king_. so he goes to make himself safe by more crime! his repentance is mainly fear.] [page 166] tell him his prankes haue been too broad to beare with, and that your grace hath scree'nd, and stoode betweene much heate, and him. ile silence me e'ene heere: [sidenote: euen heere,] pray you be round[1] with him.[2] [sidenote: _enter hamlet_.] _ham. within_. mother, mother, mother.[3] _qu_. ile warrant you, feare me not. [sidenote: _ger_. ile wait you,] withdraw, i heare him comming. _enter hamlet_.[4] _ham_.[5] now mother, what's the matter? _qu_. _hamlet_, thou hast thy father much offended. [sidenote: _ger_.] _ham_. mother, you haue my father much offended. _qu_. come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. [sidenote: _ger_.] _ham._ go, go, you question with an idle tongue. [sidenote: with a wicked tongue.] _qu_. why how now _hamlet_?[6] [sidenote: _ger_.] _ham_. whats the matter now? _qu_. haue you forgot me?[7] [sidenote: _ger._] _ham_. no by the rood, not so: you are the queene, your husbands brothers wife, but would you were not so. you are my mother.[8] [sidenote: and would it were] _qu_. nay, then ile set those to you that can speake.[9] [sidenote: _ger_.] _ham_. come, come, and sit you downe, you shall not boudge: you go not till i set you vp a glasse, where you may see the inmost part of you? [sidenote: the most part] _qu_. what wilt thou do? thou wilt not murther [sidenote: _ger_.] me?[10] helpe, helpe, hoa. [sidenote: helpe how.] _pol_. what hoa, helpe, helpe, helpe. [sidenote: what how helpe.] _ham_. how now, a rat? dead for a ducate, dead.[11] [footnote 1: _the quarto has not_ 'with him.'] [footnote 2: _he goes behind the arras._] [footnote 3: _the quarto has not this speech._] [footnote 4: _not in quarto._] [footnote 5: _1st q._ _ham_. mother, mother, o are you here? how i'st with you mother? _queene_ how i'st with you? _ham_, i'le tell you, but first weele make all safe. here, evidently, he bolts the doors.] [footnote 6: _1st q._ _queene_ how now boy? _ham_. how now mother! come here, sit downe, for you shall heare me speake.] [footnote 7: --'that you speak to me in such fashion?'] [footnote 8: _point thus_: 'so: you'--'would you were not so, for you are _my_ mother.'--_with emphasis on_ 'my.' the whole is spoken sadly.] [footnote 9: --'speak so that you must mind them.'] [footnote 10: the apprehension comes from the combined action of her conscience and the notion of his madness.] [footnote 11: there is no precipitancy here--only instant resolve and execution. it is another outcome and embodiment of hamlet's rare faculty for action, showing his delay the more admirable. there is here neither time nor call for delay. whoever the man behind the arras might be, he had, by spying upon him in the privacy of his mother's room, forfeited to hamlet his right to live; he had heard what he had said to his mother, and his death was necessary; for, if he left the room, hamlet's last chance of fulfilling his vow to the ghost was gone: if the play had not sealed, what he had now spoken must seal his doom. but the decree had in fact already gone forth against his life. 158.] [page 168] _pol._ oh i am slaine. [1]_killes polonius._[2] _qu._ oh me, what hast thou done? [sidenote: _ger._] _ham._ nay i know not, is it the king?[3] _qu._ oh what a rash, and bloody deed is this? [sidenote: _ger._] _ham._ a bloody deed, almost as bad good mother, [sidenote: 56] as kill a king,[4] and marrie with his brother. _qu._ as kill a king? [sidenote: _ger._] _ham._ i lady, 'twas my word.[5] [sidenote: it was] thou wretched, rash, intruding foole farewell, i tooke thee for thy betters,[3] take thy fortune, [sidenote: better,] thou find'st to be too busie, is some danger, leaue wringing of your hands, peace, sit you downe, and let me wring your heart, for so i shall if it be made of penetrable stuffe; if damned custome haue not braz'd it so, that it is proofe and bulwarke against sense. [sidenote: it be] _qu._ what haue i done, that thou dar'st wag thy tong, [sidenote: _ger._] in noise so rude against me?[6] _ham._ such an act that blurres the grace and blush of modestie,[7] calls vertue hypocrite, takes off the rose from the faire forehead of an innocent loue, and makes a blister there.[8] makes marriage vowes [sidenote: and sets a] as false as dicers oathes. oh such a deed, as from the body of contraction[9] pluckes the very soule, and sweete religion makes a rapsidie of words. heauens face doth glow, [sidenote: dooes] yea this solidity and compound masse, [sidenote: ore this] with tristfull visage as against the doome, [sidenote: with heated visage,] is thought-sicke at the act.[10] [sidenote: thought sick] _qu._ aye me; what act,[11] that roares so lowd,[12] and thunders in the index.[13] [footnote 1: _not in q._] [footnote 2: --_through the arras_.] [footnote 3: hamlet takes him for, hopes it is the king, and thinks here to conclude: he is not praying now! and there is not a moment to be lost, for he has betrayed his presence and called for help. as often as immediate action is demanded of hamlet, he is immediate with his response--never hesitates, never blunders. there is no blunder here: being where he was, the death of polonius was necessary now to the death of the king. hamlet's resolve is instant, and the act simultaneous with the resolve. the weak man is sure to be found wanting when immediate action is necessary; hamlet never is. doubtless those who blame him as dilatory, here blame him as precipitate, for they judge according to appearance and consequence. all his delay after this is plainly compelled, although i grant he was not sorry to have to await such _more presentable_ evidence as at last he procured, so long as he did not lose the final possibility of vengeance.] [footnote 4: this is the sole reference in the interview to the murder. i take it for tentative, and that hamlet is satisfied by his mother's utterance, carriage, and expression, that she is innocent of any knowledge of that crime. neither does he allude to the adultery: there is enough in what she cannot deny, and that only which can be remedied needs be taken up; while to break with the king would open the door of repentance for all that had preceded.] [footnote 5: he says nothing of the ghost to his mother.] [footnote 6: she still holds up and holds out.] [footnote 7: 'makes modesty itself suspected.'] [footnote 8: 'makes innocence ashamed of the love it cherishes.'] [footnote 9: 'plucks the spirit out of all forms of contracting or agreeing.' we have lost the social and kept only the physical meaning of the noun.] [footnote 10: i cannot help thinking the _quarto_ reading of this passage the more intelligible, as well as much the more powerful. we may imagine a red aurora, by no means a very unusual phenomenon, over the expanse of the sky:- heaven's face doth glow (_blush_) o'er this solidity and compound mass, (_the earth, solid, material, composite, a corporeal mass in confrontment with the spirit-like etherial, simple, uncompounded heaven leaning over it_) with tristful (_or_ heated, _as the reader may choose_) visage: as against the doom, (_as in the presence, or in anticipation of the revealing judgment_) is thought sick at the act. (_thought is sick at the act of the queen_) my difficulties as to the _folio_ reading are--why the earth should be so described without immediate contrast with the sky; and--how the earth could be showing a tristful visage, and the sickness of its thought. i think, if the poet indeed made the alterations and they are not mere blunders, he must have made them hurriedly, and without due attention. i would not forget, however, that there may be something present but too good for me to find, which would make the passage plain as it stands. compare _as you like it_, act i. sc. 3. for, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, say what thou canst, i'll go along with thee.] [footnote 11: in q. the rest of this speech is hamlet's; his long speech begins here, taking up the queen's word.] [footnote 12: she still stands out.] [footnote 13: 'thunders in the very indication or mention of it.' but by 'the index' may be intended the influx or table of contents of a book, at the beginning of it.] [page 170] _ham._ looke heere vpon this picture, and on this, the counterfet presentment of two brothers:[1] see what a grace was seated on his brow, [sidenote: on this] [sidenote: 151] _hyperions_ curies, the front of ioue himselfe, an eye like mars, to threaten or command [sidenote: threaten and] a station, like the herald mercurie new lighted on a heauen kissing hill: [sidenote: on a heaue, a kissing] a combination, and a forme indeed, where euery god did seeme to set his seale, to giue the world assurance of a man.[2] this was your husband. looke you now what followes. heere is your husband, like a mildew'd eare blasting his wholsom breath. haue you eyes? [sidenote: wholsome brother,] could you on this faire mountaine leaue to feed, and batten on this moore?[3] ha? haue you eyes? you cannot call it loue: for at your age, the hey-day[4] in the blood is tame, it's humble, and waites vpon the judgement: and what iudgement would step from this, to this? [a] what diuell was't, that thus hath cousend you at hoodman-blinde?[5] [sidenote: hodman] [b] o shame! where is thy blush? rebellious hell, if thou canst mutine in a matrons bones, [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:- sence sure youe haue els could you not haue motion, but sure that sence is appoplext, for madnesse would not erre nor sence to extacie[6] was nere so thral'd but it reseru'd some quantity of choise[7] to serue in such[8] a difference,] [footnote b: _here in the quarto_:-eyes without feeling, feeling without sight. eares without hands, or eyes, smelling sance[9] all, or but a sickly part of one true sence could not so mope:[10]] [footnote 1: he points to the portraits of the two brothers, side by side on the wall.] [footnote 2: see _julius caesar_, act v. sc. 5,--speech of _antony_ at the end.] [footnote 3: --perhaps an allusion as well to the complexion of claudius, both moral and physical.] [footnote 4: --perhaps allied to the german _heida_, and possibly the english _hoyden_ and _hoity-toity_. or is it merely _high-day--noontide_?] [footnote 5: 'played tricks with you while hooded in the game of _blind-man's-bluff_?' the omitted passage of the _quarto_ enlarges the figure. _1st q._ 'hob-man blinde.'] [footnote 6: madness.] [footnote 7: attributing soul to sense, he calls its distinguishment _choice_.] [footnote 8: --emphasis on _such_.] [footnote 9: this spelling seems to show how the english word _sans_ should be pronounced.] [footnote 10: --'be so dull.'] [page 172] to flaming youth, let vertue be as waxe, and melt in her owne fire. proclaime no shame, when the compulsiue ardure giues the charge, since frost it selfe,[1] as actiuely doth burne, as reason panders will. [sidenote: and reason pardons will.] _qu._ o hamlet, speake no more.[2] [sidenote: _ger._] thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soule, [sidenote: my very eyes into my soule,] and there i see such blacke and grained[3] spots, [sidenote: greeued spots] as will not leaue their tinct.[4] [sidenote: will leaue there their] _ham._ nay, but to liue[5] in the ranke sweat of an enseamed bed, [sidenote: inseemed] stew'd in corruption; honying and making loue [sidenote: 34] ouer the nasty stye.[6] _qu._ oh speake to me, no more, [sidenote: _ger._] [sidenote: 158] these words like daggers enter in mine eares. [sidenote: my] no more sweet _hamlet_. _ham._ a murderer, and a villaine: a slaue, that is not twentieth part the tythe [sidenote: part the kyth] of your precedent lord. a vice[7] of kings, a cutpurse of the empire and the rule. that from a shelfe, the precious diadem stole, and put it in his pocket. _qu._ no more.[8] [sidenote: _ger._] _enter ghost._[9] _ham._ a king of shreds and patches. [sidenote: 44] saue me; and houer o're me with your wings[10] you heauenly guards. what would you gracious figure? [sidenote: your gracious] _qu._ alas he's mad.[11] [sidenote: _ger._] _ham._ do you not come your tardy sonne to chide, that laps't in time and passion, lets go by[12] th'important acting of your dread command? oh say.[13] [footnote 1: --his mother's matronly age.] [footnote 2: she gives way at last.] [footnote 3: --spots whose blackness has sunk into the grain, or final particles of the substance.] [footnote 4: --transition form of tint:--'will never give up their colour;' 'will never be cleansed.'] [footnote 5: he persists.] [footnote 6: --claudius himself--his body no 'temple of the holy ghost,' but a pig-sty. 3.] [footnote 7: the clown of the old moral play.] [footnote 8: she seems neither surprised nor indignant at any point in the accusation: her consciousness of her own guiit has overwhelmed her.] [footnote 9: the _1st q._ has _enter the ghost in his night gowne_. it was then from the first intended that he should not at this point appear in armour--in which, indeed, the epithet _gracious figure_ could hardly be applied to him, though it might well enough in one of the costumes in which hamlet was accustomed to see him--as this dressing-gown of the _1st q._ a ghost would appear in the costume in which he naturally imagined himself, and in his wife's room would not show himself clothed as when walking among the fortifications of the castle. but by the words lower down (174)- my father in his habite, as he liued, the poet indicates, not his dressing-gown, but his usual habit, _i.e._ attire.] [footnote 10: --almost the same invocation as when first he saw the apparition.] [footnote 11: the queen cannot see the ghost. her conduct has built such a wall between her and her husband that i doubt whether, were she a ghost also, she could see him. her heart had left him, so they are no more together in the sphere of mutual vision. neither does the ghost wish to show himself to her. as his presence is not corporeal, a ghost may be present to but one of a company.] [footnote 12: 1. 'who, lapsed (_fallen, guilty_), lets action slip in delay and suffering.' 2. 'who, lapsed in (_fallen in, overwhelmed by_) delay and suffering, omits' &c. 3. 'lapsed in respect of time, and because of passion'--the meaning of the preposition _in_, common to both, reacted upon by the word it governs. 4. 'faulty both in delaying, and in yielding to suffering, when action is required.' 5. 'lapsed through having too much time and great suffering.' 6. 'allowing himself to be swept along by time and grief.' surely there is not another writer whose words would so often admit of such multiform and varied interpretation--each form good, and true, and suitable to the context! he seems to see at once all the relations of a thing, and to try to convey them at once, in an utterance single as the thing itself. he would condense the infinite soul of the meaning into the trembling, overtaxed body of the phrase!] [footnote 13: in the renewed presence of the ghost, all its former influence and all the former conviction of its truth, return upon him. he knows also how his behaviour must appear to the ghost, and sees himself as the ghost sees him. confronted with the gracious figure, how should he think of self-justification! so far from being able to explain things, he even forgets the doubt that had held him back--it has vanished from the noble presence! he is now in the world of belief; the world of doubt is nowhere!--note the masterly opposition of moods.] [page 174] _ghost._ do not forget: this visitation is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.[1] but looke, amazement on thy mother sits;[2] [sidenote: 30, 54] o step betweene her, and her fighting soule,[3] [sidenote: 198] conceit[4] in weakest bodies, strongest workes. speake to her _hamlet_.[5] _ham._ how is it with you lady?[6] _qu._ alas, how is't with you? [sidenote: _ger._] that you bend your eye on vacancie, [sidenote: you do bend] and with their corporall ayre do hold discourse. [sidenote: with th'incorporall ayre] forth at your eyes, your spirits wildely peepe, and as the sleeping soldiours in th'alarme, your bedded haire, like life in excrements,[7] start vp, and stand an end.[8] oh gentle sonne, vpon the heate and flame of thy distemper sprinkle coole patience. whereon do you looke?[9] _ham._ on him, on him: look you how pale he glares, his forme and cause conioyn'd, preaching to stones, would make them capeable.[10] do not looke vpon me,[11] least with this pitteous action you conuert my sterne effects: then what i haue to do,[12] [sidenote: 111] will want true colour; teares perchance for blood.[13] _qu._ to who do you speake this? [sidenote: _ger._ to whom] _ham._ do you see nothing there? _qu._ nothing at all, yet all that is i see.[14] [sidenote: _ger._] _ham._ nor did you nothing heare? _qu._ no, nothing but our selues. [sidenote: _ger._] _ham._ why look you there: looke how it steals away: [sidenote: 173] my father in his habite, as he liued, looke where he goes euen now out at the portall. _exit._ [sidenote: _exit ghost._] [sidenote: 114] _qu._ this is the very coynage of your braine, [sidenote: _ger._] [footnote 1: the ghost here judges, as alone is possible to him, from what he knows--from the fact that his brother claudius has not yet made his appearance in the ghost-world. not understanding hamlet's difficulties, he mistakes hamlet himself.] [footnote 2: he mistakes also, through his tenderness, the condition of his wife--imagining, it would seem, that she feels his presence, though she cannot see him, or recognize the source of the influence which he supposes to be moving her conscience: she is only perturbed by hamlet's behaviour.] [footnote 3: --fighting within itself, as the sea in a storm may be said to fight. he is careful as ever over the wife he had loved and loves still; careful no less of the behaviour of the son to his mother. in the _1st q._ we have:- but i perceiue by thy distracted lookes, thy mother's fearefull, and she stands amazde: speake to her hamlet, for her sex is weake, comfort thy mother, hamlet, thinke on me.] [footnote 4: --not used here for bare _imagination_, but imagination with its concomitant feeling:--_conception_. 198.] [footnote 5: his last word ere he vanishes utterly, concerns his queen; he is tender and gracious still to her who sent him to hell. this attitude of the ghost towards his faithless wife, is one of the profoundest things in the play. all the time she is not thinking of him any more than seeing him--for 'is he not dead!'--is looking straight at where he stands, but is all unaware of him.] [footnote 6: i understand him to speak this with a kind of lost, mechanical obedience. the description his mother gives of him makes it seem as if the ghost were drawing his ghost out to himself, and turning his body thereby half dead.] [footnote 7: 'as if there were life in excrements.' the nails and hair were 'excrements'--things _growing out_.] [footnote 8: note the form _an end_--not _on end_. 51, 71.] [footnote 9: --all spoken coaxingly, as to one in a mad fit. she regards his perturbation as a sudden assault of his ever present malady. one who sees what others cannot see they are always ready to count mad.] [footnote 10: able to _take_, that is, to _understand_.] [footnote 11: --_to the ghost_.] [footnote 12: 'what is in my power to do.'] [footnote 13: note antithesis here: '_your piteous action_;' '_my stern effects_'--the things, that is, 'which i have to effect.' 'lest your piteous show convert--change--my stern doing; then what i do will lack true colour; the result may be tears instead of blood; i shall weep instead of striking.'] [footnote 14: it is one of the constantly recurring delusions of humanity that we see all there is.] [page 176] [sidenote: 114] this bodilesse creation extasie[1] is very cunning in.[2] _ham._ extasie?[3] my pulse as yours doth temperately keepe time, and makes as healthfull musicke.[4] it is not madnesse that i haue vttered; bring me to the test and i the matter will re-word: which madnesse [sidenote: and the] would gamboll from. mother, for loue of grace, lay not a flattering vnction to your soule, [sidenote: not that flattering] that not your trespasse, but my madnesse speakes: [sidenote: 182] it will but skin and filme the vlcerous place, whil'st ranke corruption mining all within, [sidenote: whiles] infects vnseene, confesse your selfe to heauen, repent what's past, auoyd what is to come, and do not spred the compost or the weedes, [sidenote: compost on the] to make them ranke. forgiue me this my vertue, [sidenote: ranker,] for in the fatnesse of this pursie[5] times, [sidenote: these] vertue it selfe, of vice must pardon begge, yea courb,[6] and woe, for leaue to do him good. [sidenote: curbe and wooe] _qu._ oh hamlet, [sidenote: _ger._] thou hast cleft my heart in twaine. _ham._ o throw away the worser part of it, and liue the purer with the other halfe. [sidenote: and leaue the] good night, but go not to mine vnkles bed, [sidenote: my] assume a vertue, if you haue it not,[7][a] refraine to night [sidenote: assune | to refraine night,] and that shall lend a kinde of easinesse [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-[8]that monster custome, who all sence doth eate of habits deuill,[9] is angell yet in this that to the vse of actions faire and good, he likewise giues a frock or liuery that aptly is put on] [footnote 1: madness 129.] [footnote 2: here is the correspondent speech in the _1st q._ i give it because of the queen's denial of complicity in the murder. _queene_ alas, it is the weakenesse of thy braine. which makes thy tongue to blazon thy hearts griefe: but as i haue a soule, i sweare by heauen, i neuer knew of this most horride murder: but hamlet, this is onely fantasie, and for my loue forget these idle fits. _ham_. idle, no mother, my pulse doth beate like yours, it is not madnesse that possesseth hamlet.] [footnote 3: _not in q._] [footnote 4: --_time_ being a great part of music. shakspere more than once or twice employs _music_ as a symbol with reference to corporeal condition: see, for instance, _as you like it_, act i. sc. 2, 'but is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking?' where the _broken music_ may be regarded as the antithesis of the _healthful music_ here.] [footnote 5: _swoln, pampered_: an allusion to the _purse_ itself, whether intended or not, is suggested.] [footnote 6: _bend, bow_.] [footnote 7: to _assume_ is to take to one: by _assume a virtue_, hamlet does not mean _pretend_--but the very opposite: _to pretend_ is _to hold forth, to show_; what he means is, 'adopt a virtue'--that of _abstinence_--'and act upon it, order your behaviour by it, although you may not _feel_ it. choose the virtue--take it, make it yours.'] [footnote 8: this omitted passage is obscure with the special shaksperean obscurity that comes of over-condensation. he omitted it, i think, because of its obscurity. its general meaning is plain enough--that custom helps the man who tries to assume a virtue, as well as renders it more and more difficult for him who indulges in vice to leave it. i will paraphrase: 'that monster, custom, who eats away all sense, the devil of habits, is angel yet in this, that, for the exercise of fair and good actions, he also provides a habit, a suitable frock or livery, that is easily put on.' the play with the two senses of the word _habit_ is more easily seen than set forth. to paraphrase more freely: 'that devil of habits, custom, who eats away all sense of wrong-doing, has yet an angel-side to him, in that he gives a man a mental dress, a habit, helpful to the doing of the right thing.' the idea of hypocrisy does not come in at all. the advice of hamlet is: 'be virtuous in your actions, even if you cannot in your feelings; do not do the wrong thing you would like to do, and custom will render the abstinence easy.'] [footnote 9: i suspect it should be '_of habits evil_'--the antithesis to _angel_ being _monster_.] [page 178] to the next abstinence. [a] once more goodnight, and when you are desirous to be blest, ile blessing begge of you.[1] for this same lord, i do repent: but heauen hath pleas'd it so,[2] to punish me with this, and this with me, that i must be their[3] scourge and minister. i will bestow him,[4] and will answer well the death i gaue him:[5] so againe, good night. i must be cruell, onely to be kinde;[6] thus bad begins,[7] and worse remaines behinde.[8] [sidenote: this bad] [b] _qu_. what shall i do? [sidenote: _ger_.] _ham_. not this by no meanes that i bid you do: let the blunt king tempt you againe to bed, [sidenote: the blowt king] pinch wanton on your cheeke, call you his mouse, and let him for a paire of reechie[9] kisses, or padling in your necke with his damn'd fingers, make you to rauell all this matter out, [sidenote: rouell] [sidenote: 60, 136, 156] that i essentially am not in madnesse. but made in craft.[10] 'twere good you let him know, [sidenote: mad] for who that's but a queene, faire, sober, wise, would from a paddocke,[11] from a bat, a gibbe,[12] such deere concernings hide, who would do so, no in despight of sense and secrecie, vnpegge the basket on the houses top: let the birds flye, and like the famous ape to try conclusions[13] in the basket, creepe and breake your owne necke downe.[14] _qu_. be thou assur'd, if words be made of breath, [sidenote: _ger_.] [footnote a: _here in the quarto;_- the next more easie:[15] for vse almost can change the stamp of nature, and either[16] the deuill, or throwe him out with wonderous potency:] [footnote b: _here in the quarto:_-one word more good lady.[17]] [footnote 1: in bidding his mother good night, he would naturally, after the custom of the time, have sought her blessing: it would be a farce now: when she seeks the blessing of god, he will beg hers; now, a plain _good night_ must serve.] [footnote 2: note the curious inverted use of _pleased_. it is here a transitive, not an impersonal verb. the construction of the sentence is, 'pleased it so, _in order to_ punish us, that i must' &c.] [footnote 3: the noun to which _their_ is the pronoun is _heaven_--as if he had written _the gods_.] [footnote 4: 'take him to a place fit for him to lie in.'] [footnote 5: 'hold my face to it, and justify it.'] [footnote 6: --omitting or refusing to embrace her.] [footnote 7: --looking at polonius.] [footnote 8: does this mean for himself to do, or for polonius to endure?] [footnote 9: reeky, smoky, fumy.] [footnote 10: hamlet considers his madness the same that he so deliberately assumed. but his idea of himself goes for nothing where the experts conclude him mad! his absolute clarity where he has no occasion to act madness, goes for as little, for 'all madmen have their sane moments'!] [footnote 11: _a toad_; in scotland, _a frog_.] [footnote 12: an old cat.] [footnote 13: _experiments_, steevens says: is it not rather _results_?] [footnote 14: i fancy the story, which so far as i know has not been traced, goes on to say that the basket was emptied from the house-top to send the pigeons flying, and so the ape got his neck broken. the phrase 'breake your owne necke _downe_' seems strange: it could hardly have been written _neck-bone_!] [footnote 15: this passage would fall in better with the preceding with which it is vitally one--for it would more evenly continue its form--if the preceding _devil_ were, as i propose above, changed to _evil_. but, precious as is every word in them, both passages are well omitted.] [footnote 16: plainly there is a word left out, if not lost here. there is no authority for the supplied _master_. i am inclined to propose a pause and a gesture, with perhaps an _inarticulation_.] [footnote 17: --interrogatively perhaps, hamlet noting her about to speak; but i would prefer it thus: 'one word more:--good lady--' here he pauses so long that she speaks. or we _might_ read it thus: _qu._ one word more. _ham._ good lady? _qu._ what shall i do?] [page 180] and breath of life: i haue no life to breath what thou hast saide to me.[1] [sidenote: 128, 158] _ham._ i must to england, you know that?[2] _qu._ alacke i had forgot: tis so concluded on. [sidenote: _ger._] _ham._ [a] this man shall set me packing:[3] ile lugge the guts into the neighbor roome,[4] mother goodnight. indeede this counsellor [sidenote: night indeed, this] is now most still, most secret, and most graue, [sidenote: 84] who was in life, a foolish prating knaue. [sidenote: a most foolish] come sir, to draw toward an end with you.[5] good night mother. _exit hamlet tugging in polonius._[6] [sidenote: _exit._] [7] _enter king._ [sidenote: enter king, and queene, with rosencraus and guyldensterne.] _king._ there's matters in these sighes. these profound heaues you must translate; tis fit we vnderstand them. where is your sonne?[8] _qu._ [b] ah my good lord, what haue i seene to night? [sidenote: _ger._ | ah mine owne lord,] _king._ what _gertrude_? how do's _hamlet_? _qu._ mad as the seas, and winde, when both contend [sidenote: _ger._ | sea and] which is the mightier, in his lawlesse fit[9] [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-[10]ther's letters seald, and my two schoolefellowes, whom i will trust as i will adders fang'd, they beare the mandat, they must sweep my way and marshall me to knauery[11]: let it worke, for tis the sport to haue the enginer hoist[12] with his owne petar,[13] an't shall goe hard but i will delue one yard belowe their mines, and blowe them at the moone: ã´ tis most sweete when in one line two crafts directly meete,] [footnote b: _here in the quarto_:-bestow this place on vs a little while.[14]] [footnote 1: _1st q._ o mother, if euer you did my deare father loue, forbeare the adulterous bed to night, and win your selfe by little as you may, in time it may be you wil lothe him quite: and mother, but assist mee in reuenge, and in his death your infamy shall die. _queene. hamlet_, i vow by that maiesty, that knowes our thoughts, and lookes into our hearts, i will conceale, consent, and doe my best, what stratagem soe're thou shalt deuise.] [footnote 2: the king had spoken of it both before and after the play: horatio might have heard of it and told hamlet.] [footnote 3: 'my banishment will be laid to this deed of mine.'] [footnote 4: --to rid his mother of it.] [footnote 5: it may cross him, as he says this, dragging the body out by one end of it, and toward the end of its history, that he is himself drawing toward an end along with polonius.] [footnote 6: --_and weeping_. 182. see _note_ 5, 183.] [footnote 7: here, according to the editors, comes 'act iv.' for this there is no authority, and the point of division seems to me very objectionable. the scene remains the same, as noted from capell in _cam. sh._, and the entrance of the king follows immediately on the exit of hamlet. he finds his wife greatly perturbed; she has not had time to compose herself. from the beginning of act ii., on to where i would place the end of act iii., there is continuity.] [footnote 8: i would have this speech uttered with pauses and growing urgency, mingled at length with displeasure.] [footnote 9: she is faithful to her son, declaring him mad, and attributing the death of 'the unseen' polonius to his madness.] [footnote 10: this passage, like the rest, i hold to be omitted by shakspere himself. it represents hamlet as divining the plot with whose execution his false friends were entrusted. the poet had at first intended hamlet to go on board the vessel with a design formed upon this for the out-witting of his companions, and to work out that design. afterwards, however, he alters his plan, and represents his escape as more plainly providential: probably he did not see how to manage it by any scheme of hamlet so well as by the attack of a pirate; possibly he wished to write the passage (246) in which hamlet, so consistently with his character, attributes his return to the divine shaping of the end rough-hewn by himself. he had designs--'dear plots'--but they were other than fell out--a rough-hewing that was shaped to a different end. the discomfiture of his enemies was not such as he had designed: it was brought about by no previous plot, but through a discovery. at the same time his deliverance was not effected by the fingering of the packet, but by the attack of the pirate: even the re-writing of the commission did nothing towards his deliverance, resulted only in the punishment of his traitorous companions. in revising the quarto, the poet sees that the passage before us, in which is expressed the strongest suspicion of his companions, with a determination to outwit and punish them, is inconsistent with the representation hamlet gives afterwards of a restlessness and suspicion newly come upon him, which he attributes to the divinity. neither was it likely he would say so much to his mother while so little sure of her as to warn her, on the ground of danger to herself, against revealing his sanity to the king. as to this, however, the portion omitted might, i grant, be regarded as an _aside_.] [footnote 11: --to be done _to_ him.] [footnote 12: _hoised_, from verb _hoise_--still used in scotland.] [footnote 13: a kind of explosive shell, which was fixed to the object meant to be destroyed. note once more hamlet's delight in action.] [footnote 14: --_said to ros. and guild._: in plain speech, 'leave us a little while.'] [page 182] behinde the arras, hearing something stirre, he whips his rapier out, and cries a rat, a rat, [sidenote: whyps out his rapier, cryes a] and in his brainish apprehension killes [sidenote: in this] the vnseene good old man. _king._ oh heauy deed: it had bin so with vs[1] had we beene there: his liberty is full of threats to all,[2] to you your selfe, to vs, to euery one. alas, how shall this bloody deede be answered? it will be laide to vs, whose prouidence should haue kept short, restrain'd, and out of haunt, this mad yong man.[2] but so much was our loue, we would not vnderstand what was most fit, but like the owner of a foule disease, [sidenote: 176] to keepe it from divulging, let's it feede [sidenote: let it] euen on the pith of life. where is he gone? _qu._ to draw apart the body he hath kild, [sidenote: ger.] o're whom his very madnesse[3] like some oare among a minerall of mettels base [sidenote: 181] shewes it selfe pure.[4] he weepes for what is done.[5] [sidenote: pure, a weeepes] _king:_ oh _gertrude_, come away: the sun no sooner shall the mountaines touch, but we will ship him hence, and this vilde deed, we must with all our maiesty and skill [sidenote: 200] both countenance, and excuse.[6] _enter ros. & guild_.[7] ho _guildenstern_: friends both go ioyne you with some further ayde: _hamlet_ in madnesse hath polonius slaine, and from his mother clossets hath he drag'd him. [sidenote: closet | dreg'd] go seeke him out, speake faire, and bring the body into the chappell. i pray you hast in this. _exit gent_[8] come _gertrude_, wee'l call vp our wisest friends, to let them know both what we meane to do, [sidenote: and let] [footnote 1: the royal plural.] [footnote 2: he knows the thrust was meant for him. but he would not have it so understood; he too lays it to his madness, though he too knows better.] [footnote 3: 'he, although mad'; 'his nature, in spite of his madness.'] [footnote 4: by his weeping, in the midst of much to give a different impression.] [footnote 5: we have no reason to think the queen inventing here: what could she gain by it? the point indeed was rather against hamlet, as showing it was not polonius he had thought to kill. he was more than ever annoyed with the contemptible old man, who had by his meddlesomeness brought his death to his door; but he was very sorry nevertheless over ophelia's father: those rough words in his last speech are spoken with the tears running down his face. we have seen the strange, almost discordant mingling in him of horror and humour, after the first appearance of the ghost, 58, 60: something of the same may be supposed when he finds he has killed polonius: in the highstrung nervous condition that must have followed such a talk with his mother, it would be nowise strange that he should weep heartily even in the midst of contemptuous anger. or perhaps a sudden breakdown from attempted show of indifference, would not be amiss in the representation.] [footnote 6: 'both countenance with all our majesty, and excuse with all our skill.'] [footnote 7: in the _quarto_ a line back.] [footnote 8: _not in q._] [page 184] and what's vntimely[1] done. [a] oh come away, [sidenote: doone,] my soule is full of discord and dismay. _exeunt._ _enter hamlet._ [sidenote: _hamlet, rosencrans, and others._] _ham._ safely stowed.[2] [sidenote: stowed, but soft, what noyse,] _gentlemen within._ _hamlet_. lord _hamlet_? _ham._ what noise? who cals on _hamlet_? oh heere they come. _enter ros. and guildensterne._[4] _ro._ what haue you done my lord with the dead body? _ham._ compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kinne.[5] [sidenote: compound it] _rosin._ tell vs where 'tis, that we may take it thence, and beare it to the chappell. _ham._ do not beleeue it.[6] _rosin._ beleeue what? [sidenote: 156] _ham._ that i can keepe your counsell, and not mine owne. besides, to be demanded of a spundge, what replication should be made by the sonne of a king.[7] _rosin._ take you me for a spundge, my lord? _ham._ i sir, that sokes vp the kings countenance, his rewards, his authorities, but such officers do the king best seruice in the end. he keepes them like an ape in the corner of his iaw,[8] first [sidenote: like an apple in] mouth'd to be last swallowed, when he needes what you haue glean'd, it is but squeezing you, and spundge you shall be dry againe. _rosin._ i vnderstand you not my lord. [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-whose whisper ore the worlds dyameter,[9] [sidenote: 206] as leuell as the cannon to his blanck,[10] transports his poysned shot, may miffe[11] our name, and hit the woundlesse ayre.] [footnote 1: unhappily.] [footnote 2: he has hid the body--to make the whole look the work of a mad fit.] [footnote 3: this line is not in the _quarto_.] [footnote 4: _not in q. see margin above._] [footnote 5: he has put it in a place which, little visited, is very dusty.] [footnote 6: he is mad to them--sane only to his mother and horatio.] [footnote 7: _euphuistic_: 'asked a question by a sponge, what answer should a prince make?'] [footnote 8: _1st q._: for hee doth keep you as an ape doth nuttes, in the corner of his iaw, first mouthes you, then swallowes you:] [footnote 9: here most modern editors insert, '_so, haply, slander_'. but, although i think the poet left out this obscure passage merely from dissatisfaction with it, i believe it renders a worthy sense as it stands. the antecedent to _whose_ is _friends_: _cannon_ is nominative to _transports_; and the only difficulty is the epithet _poysned_ applied to _shot_, which seems transposed from the idea of an _unfriendly_ whisper. perhaps shakspere wrote _poysed shot_. but taking this as it stands, the passage might be paraphrased thus: 'whose (favourable) whisper over the world's diameter (_from one side of the world to the other_), as level (_as truly aimed_) as the cannon (of an evil whisper) transports its poisoned shot to his blank (_the white centre of the target_), may shoot past our name (so keeping us clear), and hit only the invulnerable air.' ('_the intrenchant air_': _macbeth_, act v. sc. 8). this interpretation rests on the idea of over-condensation with its tendency to seeming confusion--the only fault i know in the poet--a grand fault, peculiarly his own, born of the beating of his wings against the impossible. it is much as if, able to think two thoughts at once, he would compel his phrase to utter them at once.] [footnote 10: for the harlot king is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank and level of my brain, plot-proof; _the winter's tale_, act ii. sc. 3. my life stands in the level of your dreams, _ibid_, act iii. sc. 2.] [footnote 11: two _ff_ for two long _ss_.] [page 186] _ham._ i am glad of it: a knavish speech sleepes in a foolish eare. _rosin._ my lord, you must tell us where the body is, and go with us to the king. _ham._ the body is with the king, but the king is not with the body.[1] the king, is a thing---_guild._ a thing my lord? _ham._ of nothing[2]: bring me to him, hide fox, and all after.[3] _exeunt_[4] _enter king._ [sidenote: _king, and two or three._] _king._ i have sent to seeke him, and to find the bodie: how dangerous is it that this man goes loose:[5] yet must not we put the strong law on him: [sidenote: 212] hee's loved of the distracted multitude,[6] who like not in their iudgement, but their eyes: and where 'tis so, th'offenders scourge is weigh'd but neerer the offence: to beare all smooth, and euen, [sidenote: neuer the] this sodaine sending him away, must seeme [sidenote: 120] deliberate pause,[7] diseases desperate growne, by desperate appliance are releeved, or not at all. _enter rosincrane._ [sidenote: _rosencraus and all the rest._] how now? what hath befalne? _rosin._ where the dead body is bestow'd my lord, we cannot get from him. _king._ but where is he?[8] _rosin._ without my lord, guarded[9] to know your pleasure. _king._ bring him before us. _rosin._ hoa, guildensterne? bring in my lord. [sidenote: _ros._ how, bring in the lord. _they enter._] _enter hamlet and guildensterne_[10] _king._ now _hamlet_, where's _polonius?_ [footnote 1: 'the body is in the king's house, therefore with the king; but the king knows not where, therefore the king is not with the body.'] [footnote 2: 'a thing of nothing' seems to have been a common phrase.] [footnote 3: the _quarto_ has not 'hide fox, and all after.'] [footnote 4: hamlet darts out, with the others after him, as in a hunt. possibly there was a game called _hide fox, and all after_.] [footnote 5: he is a hypocrite even to himself.] [footnote 6: this had all along helped to hamlet's safety.] [footnote 7: 'must be made to look the result of deliberate reflection.' claudius fears the people may imagine hamlet treacherously used, driven to self-defence, and hurried out of sight to be disposed of.] [footnote 8: emphasis on _he_; the point of importance with the king, is _where he is_, not where the body is.] [footnote 9: henceforward he is guarded, or at least closely watched, according to the _folio_--left much to himself according to the _quarto_. 192.] [footnote 10: _not in quarto._] [page 188] _ham._ at supper. _king._ at supper? where? _ham._ not where he eats, but where he is eaten, [sidenote: where a is] a certaine conuocation of wormes are e'ne at him. [sidenote: of politique wormes[1]] your worm is your onely emperor for diet. we fat all creatures else to fat vs, and we fat our selfe [sidenote: ourselves] for magots. your fat king, and your leane begger is but variable seruice to dishes, but to one [sidenote: two dishes] table that's the end. [a] _king._ what dost thou meane by this?[2] _ham._ nothing but to shew you how a king may go a progresse[3] through the guts of a begger.[4] _king._ where is _polonius_. _ham._ in heauen, send thither to see. if your messenger finde him not there, seeke him i'th other place your selfe: but indeed, if you finde him not [sidenote: but if indeed you find him not within this] this moneth, you shall nose him as you go vp the staires into the lobby. _king._ go seeke him there. _ham._ he will stay till ye come. [sidenote: a will stay till you] _k._ _hamlet_, this deed of thine, for thine especial safety [sidenote: this deede for thine especiall] which we do tender, as we deerely greeue for that which thou hast done,[5] must send thee hence with fierie quicknesse.[6] therefore prepare thy selfe, the barke is readie, and the winde at helpe,[7] th'associates tend,[8] and euery thing at bent [sidenote: is bent] for england. [footnote a: _here in the quarto:_-_king_ alas, alas.[9] _ham._ a man may fish with the worme that hath eate of a king, and eate of the fish that hath fedde of that worme.] [footnote 1: --such as rosincrance and guildensterne!] [footnote 2: i suspect this and the following speech ought by the printers to have been omitted also: without the preceding two speeches of the quarto they are not accounted for.] [footnote 3: a royal progress.] [footnote 4: hamlet's philosophy deals much now with the worthlessness of all human distinctions and affairs.] [footnote 5: 'and we care for your safety as much as we grieve for the death of polonius.'] [footnote 6: 'with fierie quicknesse.' _not in quarto._] [footnote 7: fair--ready to help.] [footnote 8: attend, wait.] [footnote 9: pretending despair over his madness.] [page 190] _ham._ for england? _king._ i _hamlet_. _ham._ good. _king._ so is it, if thou knew'st our purposes. _ham._ i see a cherube that see's him: but [sidenote: sees them,] come, for england. farewell deere mother. _king._ thy louing father _hamlet_. _hamlet._ my mother: father and mother is man and wife: man and wife is one flesh, and so [sidenote: flesh, so my] my mother.[1] come, for england. _exit_ [sidenote: 195] _king._ follow him at foote,[2] tempt him with speed aboord: delay it not, he haue him hence to night. away, for euery thing is seal'd and done that else leanes on[3] th'affaire pray you make hast. and england, if my loue thou holdst at ought, as my great power thereof may giue thee sense, since yet thy cicatrice lookes raw and red[4] after the danish sword, and thy free awe payes homage to vs[5]; thou maist not coldly set[6] our soueraigne processe,[7] which imports at full by letters conjuring to that effect [sidenote: congruing] the present death of _hamlet_. do it england, for like the hecticke[8] in my blood he rages, and thou must cure me: till i know 'tis done, how ere my happes,[9] my ioyes were ne're begun.[10] [sidenote: ioyes will nere begin.] _exit_[11] [sidenote: 274] [12]_enter fortinbras with an armie._ [sidenote: with his army ouer the stage.] _for._ go captaine, from me greet the danish king, tell him that by his license, _fortinbras_ [sidenote: 78] claimes the conueyance[13] of a promis'd march [sidenote: craues the] ouer his kingdome. you know the rendeuous:[14] [footnote 1: he will not touch the hand of his father's murderer.] [footnote 2: 'at his heels.'] [footnote 3: 'belongs to.'] [footnote 4: 'as my great power may give thee feeling of its value, seeing the scar of my vengeance has hardly yet had time to heal.'] [footnote 5: 'and thy fear uncompelled by our presence, pays homage to us.'] [footnote 6: 'set down to cool'; 'set in the cold.'] [footnote 7: _mandate_: 'where's fulvia's process?' _ant. and cl._, act i. sc. 1. _shakespeare lexicon_.] [footnote 8: _hectic fever--habitual_ or constant fever.] [footnote 9: 'whatever my fortunes.'] [footnote 10: the original, the _quarto_ reading--'_my ioyes will nere begin_' seems to me in itself better, and the cause of the change to be as follows. in the _quarto_ the next scene stands as in our modern editions, ending with the rime, ã´ from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth. _exit_. this was the act-pause, the natural end of act iii. but when the author struck out all but the commencement of the scene, leaving only the three little speeches of fortinbras and his captain, then plainly the act-pause must fall at the end of the preceding scene. he therefore altered the end of the last verse to make it rime with the foregoing, in accordance with his frequent way of using a rime before an important pause. it perplexes us to think how on his way to the vessel, hamlet could fall in with the norwegian captain. this may have been one of shakspere's reasons for striking the whole scene out--but he had other and more pregnant reasons.] [footnote 11: here is now the proper close of the _third act_.] [footnote 12: _commencement of the fourth act._ between the third and the fourth passes the time hamlet is away; for the latter, in which he returns, and whose scenes are _contiguous_, needs no more than one day.] [footnote 13: 'claims a convoy in fulfilment of the king's promise to allow him to march over his kingdom.' the meaning is made plainer by the correspondent passage in the _1st quarto_: tell him that _fortenbrasse_ nephew to old _norway_, craues a free passe and conduct ouer his land, according to the articles agreed on:] [footnote 14: 'where to rejoin us.'] [page 192] if that his maiesty would ought with vs, we shall expresse our dutie in his eye,[1] and let[2] him know so. _cap._ i will doo't, my lord. _for._ go safely[3] on. _exit._ [sidenote: softly] [a] [4] _enter queene and horatio_. [sidenote: _enter horatio, gertrard, and a gentleman_.] _qu._ i will not speake with her. _hor._[5] she is importunate, indeed distract, her [sidenote: _gent_.] moode will needs be pittied. _qu_. what would she haue? _hor_. she speakes much of her father; saies she heares [sidenote: _gent_.] [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-_enter hamlet, rosencraus, &c._ _ham_. good sir whose powers are these? _cap_. they are of _norway_ sir. _ham_. how purposd sir i pray you? _cap_. against some part of _poland_. _ham_. who commaunds them sir? _cap_. the nephew to old _norway, fortenbrasse_. _ham_. goes it against the maine of _poland_ sir, or for some frontire? _cap_. truly to speake, and with no addition,[6] we goe to gaine a little patch of ground[7] that hath in it no profit but the name to pay fiue duckets, fiue i would not farme it; nor will it yeeld to _norway_ or the _pole_ a rancker rate, should it be sold in fee. _ham_. why then the pollacke neuer will defend it. _cap_. yes, it is already garisond. _ham_. two thousand soules, and twenty thousand duckets will not debate the question of this straw this is th'impostume of much wealth and peace, that inward breakes, and showes no cause without why the man dies.[8] i humbly thanke you sir. _cap_. god buy you sir. _ros_. wil't please you goe my lord? [sidenote: 187, 195] _ham_. ile be with you straight, goe a little before.[9] [10]how all occasions[11] doe informe against me, [continued on next text page.]] [footnote 1: 'we shall pay our respects, waiting upon his person.'] [footnote 2: 'let,' _imperative mood_.] [footnote 3: 'with proper precaution,' _said to his attendant officers._] [footnote 4: this was originally intended, i repeat, for the commencement of the act. but when the greater part of the foregoing scene was omitted, and the third act made to end with the scene before that, then the small part left of the all-but-cancelled scene must open the fourth act.] [footnote 5: hamlet absent, we find his friend looking after ophelia. gertrude seems less friendly towards her.] [footnote 6: exaggeration.] [footnote 7: --probably a small outlying island or coast-fortress, _not far off_, else why should norway care about it at all? if the word _frontier_ has the meaning, as the _shakespeare lexicon_ says, of 'an outwork in fortification,' its use two lines back would, taken figuratively, tend to support this.] [footnote 8: the meaning may be as in the following paraphrase: 'this quarrelling about nothing is (the breaking of) the abscess caused by wealth and peace--which breaking inward (in general corruption), would show no outward sore in sign of why death came.' or it might be _forced_ thus:- this is the imposthume of much wealth and peace. that (which) inward breaks, and shows no cause without- why, the man dies! but it may mean:--'the war is an imposthume, which will break within, and cause much affliction to the people that make the war.' on the other hand, hamlet seems to regard it as a process for, almost a sign of health.] [footnote 9: note his freedom.] [footnote 10: _see_ 'examples grosse as earth' _below_.] [footnote 11: while every word that shakspere wrote we may well take pains to grasp thoroughly, my endeavour to cast light on this passage is made with the distinct understanding in my own mind that the author himself disapproved of and omitted it, and that good reason is not wanting why he should have done so. at the same time, if my student, for this book is for those who would have help and will take pains to the true understanding of the play, would yet retain the passage, i protest against the acceptance of hamlet's judgment of himself, except as revealing the simplicity and humility of his nature and character. that as often as a vivid memory of either interview with the ghost came back upon him, he should feel rebuked and ashamed, and vexed with himself, is, in the morally, intellectually, and emotionally troubled state of his mind, nowise the less natural that he had the best of reasons for the delay because of which he _here_ so unmercifully abuses himself. a man of self-satisfied temperament would never in similar circumstances have done so. but hamlet was, by nature and education, far from such self-satisfaction; and there is in him besides such a strife and turmoil of opposing passions and feelings and apparent duties, as can but rarely rise in a human soul. with which he ought to side, his conscience is not sure--sides therefore now with one, now with another. at the same time it is by no means the long delay the critics imagine of which he is accusing himself--it is only that the thing _is not done_. in certain moods the action a man dislikes will _therefore_ look to him the more like a duty; and this helps to prevent hamlet from knowing always how great a part conscience bears in the omission because of which he condemns and even contemns himself. the conscience does not naturally examine itself--is not necessarily self-conscious. in any soliloquy, a man must speak from his present mood: we who are not suffering, and who have many of his moods before us, ought to understand hamlet better than he understands himself. to himself, sitting in judgment on himself, it would hardly appear a decent cause of, not to say reason for, a moment's delay in punishing his uncle, that he was so weighed down with misery because of his mother and ophelia, that it seemed of no use to kill one villain out of the villainous world; it would seem but 'bestial oblivion'; and, although his reputation as a prince was deeply concerned, _any_ reflection on the consequences to himself would at times appear but a 'craven scruple'; while at times even the whispers of conscience might seem a 'thinking too precisely on the event.' a conscientious man of changeful mood wilt be very ready in either mood to condemn the other. the best and rightest men will sometimes accuse themselves in a manner that seems to those who know them best, unfounded, unreasonable, almost absurd. we must not, i say, take the hero's judgment of himself as the author's judgment of him. the two judgments, that of a man upon himself from within, and that of his beholder upon him from without, are not congeneric. they are different in origin and in kind, and cannot be adopted either of them into the source of the other without most serious and dangerous mistake. so adopted, each becomes another thing altogether. it is to me probable that, although it involves other unfitnesses, the poet omitted the passage chiefly from coming to see the danger of its giving occasion, or at least support, to an altogether mistaken and unjust idea of his hamlet.] [page 194] there's trickes i'th'world, and hems, and beats her heart, spurnes enuiously at strawes,[1] speakes things in doubt,[2] that carry but halfe sense: her speech is nothing,[3] yet the vnshaped vse of it[4] doth moue the hearers to collection[5]; they ayme[6] at it, [sidenote: they yawne at] and botch the words[7] vp fit to their owne thoughts [_continuation of quote from quarto from previous text page_:-and spur my dull reuenge. [8]what is a man if his chiefe good and market of his time be but to sleepe and feede, a beast, no more; sure he that made vs with such large discourse[9] looking before and after, gaue vs not that capabilitie and god-like reason to fust in vs vnvsd,[8] now whether it be [sidenote: 52, 120] bestiall obliuion,[10] or some crauen scruple of thinking too precisely on th'euent,[11] a thought which quarterd hath but one part wisedom, and euer three parts coward, i doe not know why yet i liue to say this thing's to doe, sith i haue cause, and will, and strength, and meanes to doo't;[12] examples grosse as earth exhort me, witnes this army of such masse and charge, [sidenote: 235] led by a delicate and tender prince, whose spirit with diuine ambition puft, makes mouthes at the invisible euent, [sidenote: 120] exposing what is mortall, and vnsure, to all that fortune, death, and danger dare,[13] euen for an egge-shell. rightly to be great, is not to stirre without great argument, but greatly to find quarrell in a straw when honour's at the stake, how stand i then that haue a father kild, a mother staind, excytements of my reason, and my blood, and let all sleepe,[14] while to my shame i see the iminent death of twenty thousand men, that for a fantasie and tricke[15] of fame goe to their graues like beds, fight for a plot whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,[16] which is not tombe enough and continent[17] to hide the slaine,[18] ã´ from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.[19] _exit._] [footnote 1: trifles.] [footnote 2: doubtfully.] [footnote 3: 'there is nothing in her speech.'] [footnote 4: 'the formless mode of it.'] [footnote 5: 'to gathering things and putting them together.'] [footnote 6: guess.] [footnote 7: ophelia's words.] [footnote 8: i am in doubt whether this passage from 'what is a man' down to 'unused,' does not refer to the king, and whether hamlet is not persuading himself that it can be no such objectionable thing to kill one hardly above a beast. at all events it is far more applicable to the king: it was not one of hamlet's faults, in any case, to fail of using his reason. but he may just as well accuse himself of that too! at the same time the worst neglect of reason lies in not carrying out its conclusions, and if we cannot justify hamlet in his delay, the passage is of good application to him. 'bestiall oblivion' does seem to connect himself with the reflection; but how thoroughly is the thing intended by such a phrase alien from the character of hamlet!] [footnote 9: --the mental faculty of running hither and thither: 'we look before and after.' _shelley: to a skylark_.] [footnote 10: --the forgetfulness of such a beast as he has just mentioned.] [footnote 11: --the _consequences_. the scruples that come of thinking of the event, hamlet certainly had: that they were _craven_ scruples, that his thinking was too precise, i deny to the face of the noble self-accuser. is that a craven scruple which, seeing no good to result from the horrid deed, shrinks from its irretrievableness, and demands at least absolute assurance of guilt? or that 'a thinking too precisely on the event,' to desire, as the prince of his people, to leave an un wounded name behind him?] [footnote 12: this passage is the strongest there is on the side of the ordinary misconception of the character of hamlet. it comes from himself; and it is as ungenerous as it is common and unfair to use such a weapon against a man. does any but st. paul himself say he was the chief of sinners? consider hamlet's condition, tormented on all sides, within and without, and think whether this outbreak against himself be not as unfair as it is natural. lest it should be accepted against him, shakspere did well to leave it out. in bitter disappointment, both because of what is and what is not, both because of what he has done and what he has failed to do, having for the time lost all chance, with the last vision of the ghost still haunting his eyes, his last reproachful words yet ringing in his ears, are we bound to take his judgment of himself because it is against himself? are we _bound_ to take any man's judgment because it is against himself? i answer, 'no more than if it were for himself.' a good man's judgment, where he is at all perplexed, especially if his motive comes within his own question, is ready to be against himself, as a bad man's is sure to be for himself. or because he is a philosopher, does it follow that throughout he understands himself? were such a man in cool, untroubled conditions, we might feel compelled to take his judgment, but surely not here! a philosopher in such state as hamlet's would understand the quality of his spiritual operations with no more certainty than another man. in his present mood, hamlet forgets the cogency of the reasons that swayed him in the other; forgets that his uppermost feeling then was doubt, as horror, indignation, and conviction are uppermost now. things were never so clear to hamlet as to us. but how can he say he has strength and means--in the position in which he now finds himself? i am glad to be able to believe, let my defence of hamlet against himself be right or wrong, that shakspere intended the omission of the passage. i lay nothing on the great lack of logic throughout the speech, for that would not make it unfit for hamlet in such mood, while it makes its omission from the play of less consequence to my general argument.] [footnote 13: _threaten_. this supports my argument as to the great soliloquy--that it was death as the result of his slaying the king, or attempting to do so, not death by suicide, he was thinking of: he expected to die himself in the punishing of his uncle.] [footnote 14: he had had no chance but that when the king was on his knees.] [footnote 15: 'a fancy and illusion.'] [footnote 16: 'which is too small for those engaged to find room to fight on it.'] [footnote 17: 'continent,' _containing space_.] [footnote 18: this soliloquy is antithetic to the other. here is no thought of the 'something after death.'] [footnote 19: if, with this speech in his mouth, hamlet goes coolly on board the vessel, _not being compelled thereto_ (190, 192, 216), and possessing means to his vengeance, as here he says, and goes merely in order to hoist rosincrance and guildensterne with their own petard--that is, if we must keep the omitted passages, then the author exposes his hero to a more depreciatory judgment than any from which i would justify him, and a conception of his character entirely inconsistent with the rest of the play. he did not observe the risk at the time he wrote the passage, but discovering it afterwards, rectified the oversight--to the dissatisfaction of his critics, who have agreed in restoring what he cancelled.] [page 196] which as her winkes, and nods, and gestures yeeld[1] them, indeed would make one thinke there would[2] be thought, [sidenote: there might[2] be] though nothing sure, yet much vnhappily. _qu_. 'twere good she were spoken with,[3] [sidenote: _hora_.] for she may strew dangerous coniectures in ill breeding minds.[4] let her come in. [sidenote: _enter ophelia_.] to my sicke soule (as sinnes true nature is) [sidenote: _quee_. 'to my[5]] each toy seemes prologue, to some great amisse, [sidenote: 'each] so full of artlesse iealousie is guilt, [sidenote: 'so] it spill's it selfe, in fearing to be spilt.[6] [sidenote: 'it] _enter ophelia distracted_.[7] _ophe_. where is the beauteous maiesty of denmark. _qu_. how now _ophelia_? [sidenote: _shee sings_.] _ophe. how should i your true loue know from another one? by his cockle hat and staffe, and his sandal shoone._ _qu_. alas sweet lady: what imports this song? _ophe_. say you? nay pray you marke. _he is dead and gone lady, he is dead and gone, at his head a grasse-greene turfe, at his heeles a stone._ [sidenote: o ho.] _enter king_. _qu_. nay but _ophelia_. _ophe_. pray you marke. _white his shrow'd as the mountaine snow._ [sidenote: _enter king_.] _qu_. alas looke heere my lord, [sidenote: 246] _ophe. larded[8] with sweet flowers_: [sidenote: larded all with] _which bewept to the graue did not go_, [sidenote: ground | _song_.] _with true-loue showres_, [footnote 1: 'present them,'--her words, that is--giving significance or interpretation to them.] [footnote 2: if this _would_, and not the _might_ of the _quarto_, be the correct reading, it means that ophelia would have something thought so and so.] [footnote 3: --changing her mind on horatio's representation. at first she would not speak with her.] [footnote 4: 'minds that breed evil.'] [footnote 5: --as a quotation.] [footnote 6: instance, the history of macbeth.] [footnote 7: _1st q. enter ofelia playing on a lute, and her haire downe singing._ hamlet's apparent madness would seem to pass into real madness in ophelia. king lear's growing perturbation becomes insanity the moment he sees the pretended madman edgar. the forms of ophelia's madness show it was not her father's death that drove her mad, but his death by the hand of hamlet, which, with hamlet's banishment, destroyed all the hope the queen had been fostering in her of marrying him some day.] [footnote 8: this expression is, as dr. johnson says, taken from cookery; but it is so used elsewhere by shakspere that we cannot regard it here as a scintillation of ophelia's insanity.] [page 198] _king_. how do ye, pretty lady? [sidenote: you] _ophe_. well, god dil'd you.[1] they say the [sidenote: good dild you,[1]] owle was a bakers daughter.[2] lord, wee know what we are, but know not what we may be. god be at your table. [sidenote: 174] _king_. conceit[3] vpon her father. _ophe_. pray you let's haue no words of this: [sidenote: pray lets] but when they aske you what it meanes, say you this: [4] _to morrow is s. valentines day, all in the morning betime, and i a maid at your window to be your valentine. then vp he rose, and don'd[5] his clothes, and dupt[5] the chamber dore, let in the maid, that out a maid, neuer departed more._ _king_. pretty _ophelia._ _ophe_. indeed la? without an oath ile make an [sidenote: indeede without] end ont.[6] _by gis, and by s. charity, alacke, and fie for shame: yong men wil doo't, if they come too't, by cocke they are too blame. quoth she before you tumbled me, you promis'd me to wed: so would i ha done by yonder sunne_, [sidenote: (he answers,) so would] _and thou hadst not come to my bed._ _king_. how long hath she bin this? [sidenote: beene thus?] _ophe_. i hope all will be well. we must bee patient, but i cannot choose but weepe, to thinke they should lay him i'th'cold ground: my brother [sidenote: they wouid lay] shall knowe of it, and so i thanke you for your good counsell. come, my coach: goodnight ladies: goodnight sweet ladies: goodnight, goodnight. _exit_[7] [footnote 1: _1st q_. 'god yeeld you,' that is, _reward you_. here we have a blunder for the contraction, 'god 'ild you'--perhaps a common blunder.] [footnote 2: for the silly legend, see douce's note in _johnson and steevens_.] [footnote 3: imaginative brooding.] [footnote 4: we dare no judgment on madness in life: we need not in art.] [footnote 5: preterites of _don_ and _dup_, contracted from _do on_ and _do up_.] [footnote 6: --disclaiming false modesty.] [footnote 7: _not in q_.] [page 200] _king_. follow her close, giue her good watch i pray you: oh this is the poyson of deepe greefe, it springs all from her fathers death. oh _gertrude, gertrude_, [sidenote: death, and now behold, ã´ _gertrard, gertrard_,] when sorrowes comes, they come not single spies,[1] [sidenote: sorrowes come] but in battaliaes. first, her father slaine, [sidenote: battalians:] next your sonne gone, and he most violent author of his owne iust remoue: the people muddied,[2] thicke and vnwholsome in their thoughts, and whispers [sidenote: in thoughts] for[3] good _polonius_ death; and we haue done but greenly [sidenote: 182] in hugger mugger[4] to interre him. poore _ophelia_ diuided from her selfe,[5] and her faire iudgement, without the which we are pictures, or meere beasts. last, and as much containing as all these, her brother is in secret come from france, keepes on his wonder,[6] keepes himselfe in clouds, [sidenote: feeds on this[6]] and wants not buzzers to infect his eare [sidenote: care] with pestilent speeches of his fathers death, where in necessitie of matter beggard, [sidenote: wherein necessity] will nothing sticke our persons to arraigne [sidenote: person] in eare and eare.[7] o my deere _gertrude_, this, like to a murdering peece[8] in many places, giues me superfluous death. _a noise within_. _enter a messenger_. _qu_. alacke, what noyse is this?[9] _king_. where are my _switzers_?[10] [sidenote: _king_. attend, where is my swissers,] let them guard the doore. what is the matter? _mes_. saue your selfe, my lord. [sidenote: 120] the ocean (ouer-peering of his list[11]) eates not the flats with more impittious[12] haste [footnote 1: --each alone, like scouts.] [footnote 2: stirred up like pools--with similar result.] [footnote 3: because of.] [footnote 4: the king wished to avoid giving the people any pretext or cause for interfering: he dreaded whatever might lead to enquiry--to the queen of course pretending it was to avoid exposing hamlet to the popular indignation. _hugger mugger--secretly: steevens and malone._] [footnote 5: the phrase has the same _visual_ root as _beside herself_--both signifying '_not at one_ with herself.'] [footnote 6: if the _quarto_ reading is right, 'this wonder' means the hurried and suspicious funeral of his father. but the _folio_ reading is quite shaksperean: 'he keeps on (as a garment) the wonder of the people at him'; _keeps his behaviour such that the people go on wondering about him_: the phrase is explained by the next clause. compare: by being seldom seen, i could not stir but, like a comet, i was wondered at. _k. henry iv. p. i_. act iii. sc. 1.] [footnote 7: 'wherein necessity, beggared of material, will not scruple to whisper invented accusations against us.'] [footnote 8: --the name given to a certain small cannon--perhaps charged with various missiles, hence the better figuring the number and variety of 'sorrows' he has just recounted.] [footnote 9: _this line not in q._] [footnote 10: note that the king is well guarded, and hamlet had to lay his account with great risk in the act of killing him.] [footnote 11: _border, as of cloth_: the mounds thrown up to keep the sea out. the figure here specially fits a dane.] [footnote 12: i do not know whether this word means _pitiless_, or stands for _impetuous_. the _quarto_ has one _t_.] [page 202] then young _laertes_, in a riotous head,[1] ore-beares your officers, the rabble call him lord, and as the world were now but to begin, antiquity forgot, custome not knowne, the ratifiers and props of euery word,[2] [sidenote: 62] they cry choose we? _laertes_ shall be king,[3] [sidenote: the cry] caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds, _laertes_ shall be king, _laertes_ king. _qu_. how cheerefully on the false traile they cry, [sidenote: _a noise within_.] oh this is counter you false danish dogges.[4] _noise within. enter laertes_[5]. [sidenote: _laertes with others_.] _king_. the doores are broke. _laer_. where is the king, sirs? stand you all without. [sidenote: this king? sirs stand] _all_. no, let's come in. _laer_. i pray you giue me leaue.[6] _all_. we will, we will. _laer_. i thanke you: keepe the doore. oh thou vilde king, giue me my father. _qu_. calmely good _laertes_. _laer_. that drop of blood, that calmes[7] [sidenote: thats calme] proclaimes me bastard: cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot euen heere betweene the chaste vnsmirched brow of my true mother.[8] _kin_. what is the cause _laertes_, that thy rebellion lookes so gyant-like? let him go _gertrude_: do not feare[9] our person: there's such diuinity doth hedge a king,[10] that treason can but peepe to what it would, acts little of his will.[11] tell me _laertes_, [footnote 1: _head_ is a rising or gathering of people--generally rebellious, i think.] [footnote 2: antiquity and custom.] [footnote 3: this refers to the election of claudius--evidently not a popular election, but effected by intrigue with the aristocracy and the army: 'they cry, let us choose: laertes shall be king!' we may suppose the attempt of claudius to have been favoured by the lingering influence of the old norse custom of succession, by which not the son but the brother inherited. 16, _bis._] [footnote 4: to hunt counter is to 'hunt the game by the heel or track.' the queen therefore accuses them of not using their scent or judgment, but following appearances.] [footnote 5: now at length re-appears laertes, who has during the interim been ripening in paris for villainy. he is wanted for the catastrophe, and requires but the last process of a few hours in the hell-oven of a king's instigation.] [footnote 6: the customary and polite way of saying _leave me_: 'grant me your absence.' 85, 89.] [footnote 7: grows calm.] [footnote 8: in taking vengeance hamlet must acknowledge his mother such as laertes says inaction on his part would proclaim his mother. the actress should here let a shadow cross the queen's face: though too weak to break with the king, she has begun to repent.] [footnote 9: fear _for_.] [footnote 10: the consummate hypocrite claims the protection of the sacred hedge through which he had himself broken--or crept rather, like a snake, to kill. he can act innocence the better that his conscience is clear as to polonius.] [footnote 11: 'can only peep through the hedge to its desire--acts little of its will.'] [page 204] why thou art thus incenst? let him go _gertrude_. speake man. _laer_. where's my father? [sidenote: is my] _king_. dead. _qu_. but not by him. _king_. let him demand his fill. _laer_. how came he dead? ile not be iuggel'd with. to hell allegeance: vowes, to the blackest diuell. conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit i dare damnation: to this point i stand, that both the worlds i giue to negligence, let come what comes: onely ile be reueng'd most throughly for my father. _king_. who shall stay you?[1] _laer_. my will, not all the world,[1] [sidenote: worlds:] and for my meanes, ile husband them so well, they shall go farre with little. _king_. good _laertes_: if you desire to know the certaintie of your deere fathers death, if writ in your reuenge, [sidenote: father, i'st writ] that soop-stake[2] you will draw both friend and foe, winner and looser.[3] _laer_. none but his enemies. _king_. will you know them then. _la_. to his good friends, thus wide ile ope my armes: and like the kinde life-rend'ring politician,[4] [sidenote: life-rendring pelican,] repast them with my blood.[5] _king_. why now you speake like a good childe,[6] and a true gentleman. that i am guiltlesse of your fathers death, and am most sensible in greefe for it,[7] [sidenote: sencibly] [footnote 1: 'who shall _prevent_ you?' 'my own will only--not all the world,' or, 'who will _support_ you?' 'my will. not all the world shall prevent me,'-so playing on the two meanings of the word _stay._ or it _might_ mean: 'not all the world shall stay my will.'] [footnote 2: swoop-stake--_sweepstakes_.] [footnote 3: 'and be loser as well as winner--' if the _folio's_ is the right reading, then the sentence is unfinished, and should have a dash, not a period.] [footnote 4: a curious misprint: may we not suspect a somewhat dull joker among the compositors?] [footnote 6: 'a true son to your father.'] [footnote 7: 'feel much grief for it.'] [footnote 5: laertes is a ranter--false everywhere. plainly he is introduced as the foil from which hamlet 'shall stick fiery off.' in this speech he shows his moral condition directly the opposite of hamlet's: he has no principle but revenge. his conduct ought to be quite satisfactory to hamlet's critics; there is action enough in it of the very kind they would have of hamlet; and doubtless it would be satisfactory to them but for the treachery that follows. the one, dearly loving a father who deserves immeasurably better of him than polonius of laertes, will not for the sake of revenge disregard either conscience, justice, or grace; the other will not delay even to inquire into the facts of his father's fate, but will act at once on hearsay, rushing to a blind satisfaction that cannot even be called retaliation, caring for neither right nor wrong, cursing conscience and the will of god, and daring damnation. he slights assurance as to the hand by which his father fell, dismisses all reflection that might interfere with a stupid revenge. to make up one's mind at once, and act without ground, is weakness, not strength: this laertes does--and is therefore just the man to be the villainous, not the innocent, tool of villainy. he who has sufficing ground and refuses to act is weak; but the ground that will satisfy the populace, of which the commonplace critic is the fair type, will not satisfy either the man of conscience or of wisdom. the mass of world-bepraised action owes its existence to the pressure of circumstance, not to the will and conscience of the man. hamlet waits for light, even with his heart accusing him; laertes rushes into the dark, dagger in hand, like a mad malay: so he kill, he cares not whom. such a man is easily tempted to the vilest treachery, for the light that is in him is darkness; he is not a true man; he is false in himself. this is what comes of his father's maxim: to thine own self be true; and it must follow, _as the night the day_ (!) thou canst not then be false to any man. like the aphorism 'honesty is the best policy,' it reveals the difference between a fact and a truth. both sayings are correct as facts, but as guides of conduct devilishly false, leading to dishonesty and treachery. to be true to the divine self in us, is indeed to be true to all; but it is only by being true to all, against the ever present and urging false self, that at length we shall see the divine self rise above the chaotic waters of our selfishness, and know it so as to be true to it. of laertes we must note also that it is not all for love of his father that he is ready to cast allegiance to hell, and kill the king: he has the voice of the people to succeed him.] [page 206] [sidenote: 184] it shall as leuell to your iudgement pierce [sidenote: peare'] as day do's to your eye.[1] _a noise within. [2]let her come in._ _enter ophelia[3]_ _laer_. how now? what noise is that?[4] [sidenote: _laer_. let her come in. how now,] oh heate drie vp my braines, teares seuen times salt, burne out the sence and vertue of mine eye. by heauen, thy madnesse shall be payed by waight, [sidenote: with weight] till our scale turnes the beame. oh rose of may, [sidenote: turne] deere maid, kinde sister, sweet _ophelia_: oh heauens, is't possible, a yong maids wits, should be as mortall as an old mans life?[5] [sidenote: a poore mans] nature is fine[6] in loue, and where 'tis fine, it sends some precious instance of it selfe after the thing it loues.[7] _ophe. they bore him bare fac'd on the beer._ [sidenote: _song_.] [sidenote: bare-faste] _hey non nony, nony, hey nony:[8] and on his graue raines many a teare_, [sidenote: and in his graue rain'd] _fare you well my doue._ _laer_. had'st thou thy wits, and did'st perswade reuenge, it could not moue thus. _ophe_. you must sing downe a-downe, and [sidenote: sing a downe a downe, and] you call him[9] a-downe-a. oh, how the wheele[10] becomes it? it is the false steward that stole his masters daughter.[11] _laer_. this nothings more then matter.[12] _ophe_. there's rosemary,[13] that's for remembraunce. pray loue remember: and there is [sidenote: , pray you loue] paconcies, that's for thoughts. [sidenote: pancies[14]] _laer_. a document[15] in madnesse, thoughts and remembrance fitted. _ophe_. there's fennell[16] for you, and columbines[16]: ther's rew[17] for you, and heere's some for [footnote 1: 'pierce as _directly_ to your judgment.' but the simile of the _day_ seems to favour the reading of the _q._--'peare,' for _appear_. in the word _level_ would then be indicated the _rising_ sun.] [footnote 2: _not in q._] [footnote 3: _1st q. 'enter ofelia as before_.'] [footnote 4: to render it credible that laertes could entertain the vile proposal the king is about to make, it is needful that all possible influences should be represented as combining to swell the commotion of his spirit, and overwhelm what poor judgment and yet poorer conscience he had. altogether unprepared, he learns ophelia's pitiful condition by the sudden sight of the harrowing change in her--and not till after that hears who killed his father and brought madness on his sister.] [footnote 5: _1st q._ i'st possible a yong maides life, should be as mortall as an olde mans sawe?] [footnote 6: delicate, exquisite.] [footnote 7: 'where 'tis fine': i suggest that the _it_ here may be impersonal: 'where _things_, where _all_ is fine,' that is, 'in a fine soul'; then the meaning would be, 'nature is fine always in love, and where the soul also is fine, she sends from it' &c. but the _where_ may be equal, perhaps, to _whereas_. i can hardly think the phrase means merely '_and where it is in love_.' it might intend--'and where love is fine, it sends' &c. the 'precious instance of itself,' that is, 'something that is a part and specimen of itself,' is here the 'young maid's wits': they are sent after the 'old man's life.'--these three lines are not in the quarto. it is not disputed that they are from shakspere's hand: if the insertion of these be his, why should the omission of others not be his also?] [footnote 8: _this line is not in q._] [footnote 9: '_if_ you call him': i think this is not a part of the song, but is spoken of her father.] [footnote 10: _the burden of the song_: steevens.] [footnote 11: the subject of the ballad.] [footnote 12: 'more than sense'--in incitation to revenge.] [footnote 13: --an evergreen, and carried at funerals: _johnson_. for you there's rosemary and rue; these keep seeming and savour ail the winter long: grace and remembrance be to you both. _the winter's tale_, act iv. sc. 3.] [footnote 14: _penseã©s_.] [footnote 15: _a teaching, a lesson_--the fitting of thoughts and remembrance, namely--which he applies to his intent of revenge. or may it not rather be meant that the putting of these two flowers together was a happy hit of her madness, presenting the fantastic emblem of a document or writing--the very idea of which is the keeping of thoughts in remembrance?] [footnote 16: --said to mean _flattery_ and _thanklessness_--perhaps given to the king.] [footnote 17: _repentance_--given to the queen. another name of the plant was _herb-grace_, as below, in allusion, doubtless, to its common name--_rue_ or _repentance_ being both the gift of god, and an act of grace.] [page 208] me. wee may call it herbe-grace a sundaies: [sidenote: herbe of grace a sondaies, you may weare] oh you must weare your rew with a difference.[1] there's a daysie,[2] i would giue you some violets,[3] but they wither'd all when my father dyed: they say, he made a good end; [sidenote: say a made] _for bonny sweet robin is all my ioy._ _laer_. thought, and affliction, passion, hell it selfe: [sidenote: afflictions,] she turnes to fauour, and to prettinesse. [sidenote:_song._] _ophe. and will he not come againe_, [sidenote: will a not] _and will he not come againe_: [sidenote: will a not] _no, no, he is dead, go to thy death-bed, he neuer wil come againe. his beard as white as snow_, [sidenote: beard was as] _all[4] flaxen was his pole: he is gone, he is gone, and we cast away mone, gramercy[5] on his soule._ [sidenote: god a mercy on] and of all christian soules, i pray god.[6] [sidenote: christians soules,] god buy ye.[7] _exeunt ophelia_[8] [sidenote: you.] _laer_. do you see this, you gods? [sidenote: doe you this ã´ god.] _king. laertes_, i must common[9] with your greefe, [sidenote: commune] or you deny me right: go but apart, make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, and they shall heare and iudge 'twixt you and me; if by direct or by colaterall hand they finde vs touch'd,[10] we will our kingdome giue, our crowne, our life, and all that we call ours to you in satisfaction. but if not, be you content to lend your patience to vs,[11] and we shall ioyntly labour with your soule to giue it due content. _laer_. let this be so:[12] his meanes of death,[13] his obscure buriall; [sidenote: funerall,] no trophee, sword, nor hatchment o're his bones,[14] [footnote 1: --perhaps the heraldic term. the poet, not ophelia, intends the special fitness of the speech. ophelia means only that the rue of the matron must differ from the rue of the girl.] [footnote 2: 'the dissembling daisy': _greene_--quoted by _henley_.] [footnote 3: --standing for _faithfulness: malone_, from an old song.] [footnote 4: '_all' not in q._] [footnote 5: wherever else shakspere uses the word, it is in the sense of _grand merci--great thanks (skeat's etym. dict.)_; here it is surely a corruption, whether ophelia's or the printer's, of the _quarto_ reading, '_god a mercy_' which, spoken quickly, sounds very near _gramercy_. the _1st quarto_ also has 'god a mercy.'] [footnote 6: 'i pray god.' _not in q._] [footnote 7: 'god b' wi' ye': _good bye._] [footnote 8: _not in q._] [footnote 9: 'i must have a share in your grief.' the word does mean _commune_, but here is more pregnant, as evidenced in the next phrase, 'or you deny me right:'--'do not give me justice.'] [footnote 10: 'touched with the guilt of the deed, either as having done it with our own hand, or caused it to be done by the hand of one at our side.'] [footnote 11: we may paraphrase thus: 'be pleased to grant us a loan of your patience,' that is, _be patient for a while at our request_, 'and we will work along with your soul to gain for it (your soul) just satisfaction.'] [footnote 12: he consents--but immediately _re-sums_ the grounds of his wrathful suspicion.] [footnote 13: --the way in which he met his death.] [footnote 14: --customary honours to the noble dead. _a trophy_ was an arrangement of the armour and arms of the dead in a set decoration. the origin of the word _hatchment_ shows its intent: it is a corruption of _achievement_.] [page 210] no noble rite, nor formall ostentation,[1] cry to be heard, as 'twere from heauen to earth, that i must call in question.[2] [sidenote: call't in] _king_. so you shall: and where th'offence is, let the great axe fall. i pray you go with me.[3] _exeunt_ _enter horatio, with an attendant_. [sidenote: _horatio and others_.] _hora_. what are they that would speake with me? _ser_. saylors sir, they say they haue letters [_gent_. sea-faring men sir,] for you. _hor_. let them come in,[4] i do not know from what part of the world i should be greeted, if not from lord _hamlet_. _enter saylor_. [sidenote: _saylers_.] _say_. god blesse you sir. _hor_. let him blesse thee too. _say_. hee shall sir, and't[5] please him. there's [sidenote: a shall sir and please] a letter for you sir: it comes from th'ambassadours [sidenote: it came frãµ th' embassador] that was bound for england, if your name be _horatio_, as i am let to know[6] it is. _reads the letter_[7] horatio, _when thou shalt haue ouerlook'd this_, [sidenote: _hor. horatio_ when] _giue these fellowes some meanes to the king: they haue letters for him. ere we were two dayes[8] old at sea, a pyrate of very warlicke appointment gaue vs chace. finding our selues too slow of saile, we put on a compelled valour. in the grapple, i boarded_ [sidenote: valour, and in the] _them: on the instant they got cleare of our shippe, so i alone became their prisoner.[9] they haue dealt with mee, like theeues of mercy, but they knew what they did. i am to doe a good turne for them. let_ [sidenote: a turne] _the king have the letters i haue sent, and repaire thou to me with as much hast as thou wouldest flye_ [sidenote: much speede as] _death[10] i haue words to speake in your eare, will_ [sidenote: in thine eare] [footnote 1: 'formal ostentation'--show or publication of honour according to form or rule.] [footnote 2: 'so that i must call in question'--institute inquiry; or '--_that_ (these things) i must call in question.'] [footnote 3: note such a half line frequently after the not uncommon closing couplet--as if to take off the formality of the couplet, and lead back, through the more speech-like, to greater verisimilitude.] [footnote 4: here the servant goes, and the rest of the speech horatio speaks _solus_. he had expected to hear from hamlet.] [footnote 5: 'and it please'--_if it please_. _an_ for _if_ is merely _and_.] [footnote 6: 'i am told.'] [footnote 7: _not in q_.] [footnote 8: this gives an approximate clue to the time between the second and third acts: it needs not have been a week.] [footnote 9: note once more the unfailing readiness of hamlet where there was no question as to the fitness of the action seemingly required. this is the man who by too much thinking, forsooth, has rendered himself incapable of action!--so far ahead of the foremost behind him, that, when the pirate, not liking such close quarters, 'on the instant got clear,' he is the only one on her deck! there was no question here as to what ought to be done: the pirate grappled them; he boarded her. thereafter, with his prompt faculty for dealing with men, he soon comes to an understanding with his captors, and they agree, upon some certain condition, to put him on shore. he writes in unusual spirits; for he has now gained full, presentable, and indisputable proof of the treachery which before he scarcely doubted, but could not demonstrate. the present instance of it has to do with himself, not his father, but in itself would justify the slaying of his uncle, whose plausible way had possibly perplexed him so that he could not thoroughly believe him the villain he was: bad as he must be, could he actually have killed his own brother, and _such_ a brother? a better man than laertes might have acted more promptly than hamlet, and so happened to _do_ right; but he would not have _been_ right, for the proof was _not_ sufficient.] [footnote 10: the value hamlet sets on his discovery, evident in his joyous urgency to share it with his friend, is explicable only on the ground of the relief it is to his mind to be now at length quite certain of his duty.] [page 212] _make thee dumbe, yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter.[1] these good fellowes will bring_ [sidenote: the bord of] _thee where i am. rosincrance and guildensterne, hold their course for england. of them i haue much to tell thee, farewell. he that thou knowest thine._ [sidenote: _so that thou knowest thine hamlet._] hamlet. come, i will giue you way for these your letters, [sidenote: _hor_. come i will you way] and do't the speedier, that you may direct me to him from whom you brought them. _exit_. [sidenote: _exeunt._] _enter king and laertes._[2] _king_. now must your conscience my acquittance seal, and you must put me in your heart for friend, sith you haue heard, and with a knowing eare,[3] that he which hath your noble father slaine, pursued my life.[4] _laer_. it well appeares. but tell me, why you proceeded not against these feates,[5] [sidenote: proceede] so crimefull, and so capitall in nature,[6] [sidenote: criminall] as by your safety, wisedome, all things else, [sidenote: safetie, greatnes, wisdome,] you mainly[7] were stirr'd vp? _king_. o for two speciall reasons, which may to you (perhaps) seeme much vnsinnowed,[8] and yet to me they are strong. the queen his mother, [sidenote: but yet | tha'r strong] liues almost by his lookes: and for my selfe, my vertue or my plague, be it either which,[9] she's so coniunctiue to my life and soule; [sidenote: she is so concliue] that as the starre moues not but in his sphere,[10] i could not but by her. the other motiue, why to a publike count i might not go, [sidenote: 186] is the great loue the generall gender[11] beare him, who dipping all his faults in their affection, [footnote 1: note here also hamlet's feeling of the importance of what has passed since he parted with his friend. 'the bullet of my words, though it will strike thee dumb, is much too small for the bore of the reality (the facts) whence it will issue.'] [footnote 2: while we have been present at the interview between horatio and the sailors, the king has been persuading laertes.] [footnote 3: an ear of judgment.] [footnote 4: 'thought then to have killed me.'] [footnote 5: _faits_, deeds.] [footnote 6: 'deeds so deserving of death, not merely in the eye of the law, but in their own nature.'] [footnote 7: powerfully.] [footnote 8: 'unsinewed.'] [footnote 9: 'either-which.'] [footnote 10: 'moves not but in the moving of his sphere,'--the stars were popularly supposed to be fixed in a solid crystalline sphere, and moved in its motion only. the queen, claudius implies, is his sphere; he could not move but by her.] [footnote 11: here used in the sense of the fr. _'genre'--sort_. it is not the only instance of the word so used by shakspere. the king would rouse in laertes jealousy of hamlet.] [page 214] would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, [sidenote: worke like] conuert his gyues to graces.[1] so that my arrowes too slightly timbred for so loud a winde, [sidenote: for so loued arm'd[2]] would haue reuerted to my bow againe, and not where i had arm'd them.[2] [sidenote: but not | have aym'd them.] _laer_. and so haue i a noble father lost, a sister driuen into desperate tearmes,[3] who was (if praises may go backe againe) [sidenote: whose worth, if] stood challenger on mount of all the age for her perfections. but my reuenge will come. _king_. breake not your sleepes for that, you must not thinke that we are made of stuffe, so flat, and dull, that we can let our beard be shooke with danger,[4] and thinke it pastime. you shortly shall heare more,[5] i lou'd your father, and we loue our selfe, and that i hope will teach you to imagine----[6] _enter a messenger_. [sidenote: _with letters._] how now? what newes? _mes._ letters my lord from _hamlet_.[7] this to [sidenote: _messen_. these to] your maiesty: this to the queene. _king_. from _hamlet_? who brought them? _mes_. saylors my lord they say, i saw them not: they were giuen me by _claudio_, he recciu'd them.[8] [sidenote: them of him that brought them.] _king. laertes_ you shall heare them:[9] leaue vs. _exit messenger_[10] _high and mighty, you shall know i am set naked on your kingdome. to morrow shall i begge leaue to see your kingly eyes[11] when i shall (first asking your pardon thereunto) recount th'occasions_ [sidenote: the occasion of my suddaine returne.] _of my sodaine, and more strange returne._[12] hamlet.[13] what should this meane? are all the rest come backe? [sidenote: _king_. what] [footnote 1: 'would convert his fetters--if i imprisoned him--to graces, commending him yet more to their regard.'] [footnote 2: _arm'd_ is certainly the right, and a true shaksperean word:--it was no fault in the aim, but in the force of the flight--no matter of the eye, but of the arm, which could not give momentum enough to such slightly timbered arrows. the fault in the construction of the last line, i need not remark upon. i think there is a hint of this the genuine meaning even in the blundered and partly unintelligible reading of the _quarto_. if we leave out 'for so loued,' we have this: 'so that my arrows, too slightly timbered, would have reverted armed to my bow again, but not (_would not have gone_) where i have aimed them,'--implying that his arrows would have turned their armed heads against himself. what the king says here is true, but far from _the_ truth: he feared driving hamlet, and giving him at the same time opportunity, to speak in his own defence and render his reasons.] [footnote 3: _extremes_? or _conditions_?] [footnote 4: 'with many a tempest hadde his berd ben schake.'--_chaucer_, of the schipman, in _the prologue_ to _the canterbury tales_.] [footnote 5: --hear of hamlet's death in england, he means. at this point in the _1st q._ comes a scene between horatio and the queen, in which he informs her of a letter he had just received from hamlet, whereas he writes how he escap't the danger, and subtle treason that the king had plotted, being crossed by the contention of the windes, he found the packet &c. horatio does not mention the pirates, but speaks of hamlet 'being set ashore,' and of _gilderstone_ and _rossencraft_ going on to their fate. the queen assures horatio that she is but temporizing with the king, and shows herself anxious for the success of her son's design against his life. the poet's intent was not yet clear to himself.] [footnote 6: here his crow cracks.] [footnote 7: _from_ 'how now' _to_ 'hamlet' is _not in q._] [footnote 8: horatio has given the sailors' letters to claudio, he to another.] [footnote 9: he wants to show him that he has nothing behind--that he is open with him: he will read without having pre-read.] [footnote 10: _not in q._] [footnote 11: he makes this request for an interview with the intent of killing him. the king takes care he does not have it.] [footnote 12: '_more strange than sudden_.'] [footnote 13: _not in q._] [page 216] or is it some abuse?[1] or no such thing?[2] [sidenote: abuse, and no[2]] _laer_. know you the hand?[3] _kin_. 'tis _hamlets_ character, naked and in a postscript here he sayes alone:[4] can you aduise [sidenote: deuise me?] me?[5] _laer_. i'm lost in it my lord; but let him come, [sidenote: i am] it warmes the very sicknesse in my heart, that i shall liue and tell him to his teeth; [sidenote: that i liue and] thus diddest thou. [sidenote: didst] _kin_. if it be so _laertes_, as how should it be so:[6] how otherwise will you be rul'd by me? _laer_. if so[7] you'l not o'rerule me to a peace. [sidenote: i my lord, so you will not] _kin_. to thine owne peace: if he be now return'd, [sidenote: 195] as checking[8] at his voyage, and that he meanes [sidenote: as the king[8] at his] no more to vndertake it; i will worke him to an exployt now ripe in my deuice, [sidenote: deuise,] vnder the which he shall not choose but fall; and for his death no winde of blame shall breath, [sidenote: 221] but euen his mother shall vncharge the practice,[9] and call it accident: [a] some two monthes hence[10] [sidenote: two months since] here was a gentleman of _normandy_, i'ue seene my selfe, and seru'd against the french, [sidenote: i haue] [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-_laer_. my lord i will be rul'd, the rather if you could deuise it so that i might be the organ. _king_. it falls right, you haue beene talkt of since your trauaile[11] much, and that in _hamlets_ hearing, for a qualitie wherein they say you shine, your summe of parts[12] did not together plucke such enuie from him as did that one, and that in my regard of the vnworthiest siedge.[13] _laer_. what part is that my lord? _king_. a very ribaud[14] in the cap of youth, yet needfull to, for youth no lesse becomes[15] the light and carelesse liuery that it weares then setled age, his sables, and his weedes[16] importing health[17] and grauenes;] [footnote 1: 'some trick played on me?' compare _k. lear_, act v. sc. 7: 'i am mightily abused.'] [footnote 2: i incline to the _q._ reading here: 'or is it some trick, and no reality in it?'] [footnote 3: --following the king's suggestion.] [footnote 4: _point thus_: 'tis _hamlets_ character. 'naked'!--and, in a postscript here, he sayes 'alone'! can &c. '_alone_'--to allay suspicion of his having brought assistance with him.] [footnote 5: fine flattery--preparing the way for the instigation he is about to commence.] [footnote 6: _point thus_: '--as how should it be so? how otherwise?--will' &c. the king cannot tell what to think--either how it can be, or how it might be otherwise--for here is hamlet's own hand!] [footnote 7: provided.] [footnote 8: a hawk was said _to check_ when it forsook its proper game for some other bird that crossed its flight. the blunder in the _quarto_ is odd, plainly from manuscript copy, and is not likely to have been set right by any but the author.] [footnote 9: 'shall not give the _practice'--artifice, cunning attempt, chicane_, or _trick_--but a word not necessarily offensive--'the name it deserves, but call it _accident_:' 221.] [footnote 10: 'some' _not in q.--hence_ may be either _backwards_ or _forwards_; now it is used only _forwards_.] [footnote 11: travels.] [footnote 12: 'all your excellencies together.'] [footnote 13: seat, place, grade, position, merit.] [footnote 14: 'a very riband'--a mere trifling accomplishment: the _u_ of the text can but be a misprint for _n_.] [footnote 15: _youth_ obj., _livery_ nom. to _becomes_.] [footnote 16: 'than his furs and his robes become settled age.'] [footnote 17: warburton thinks the word ought to be _wealth_, but i doubt it; _health_, in its sense of wholeness, general soundness, in affairs as well as person, i should prefer.] [page 218] and they ran[1] well on horsebacke; but this gallant [sidenote: they can well[1]] had witchcraft in't[2]; he grew into his seat, [sidenote: vnto his] and to such wondrous doing brought his horse, as had he beene encorps't and demy-natur'd with the braue beast,[3] so farre he past my thought, [sidenote: he topt me thought,[4]] that i in forgery[5] of shapes and trickes, come short of what he did.[6] _laer_. a norman was't? _kin_. a norman. _laer_. vpon my life _lamound_. [sidenote: _lamord_.] _kin_. the very same. _laer_. i know him well, he is the brooch indeed, and iemme of all our nation, [sidenote: all the nation.] _kin_. hee mad confession of you, and gaue you such a masterly report, for art and exercise in your defence; and for your rapier most especially, [sidenote: especiall,] that he cryed out, t'would be a sight indeed,[7] if one could match you [a] sir. this report of his [sidenote: ; sir this] [sidenote: 120, 264] did _hamlet_ so envenom with his enuy,[8] that he could nothing doe but wish and begge, your sodaine comming ore to play with him;[9] [sidenote: with you] now out of this.[10] _laer_. why out of this, my lord? [sidenote: what out] _kin. laertes_ was your father deare to you? or are you like the painting[11] of a sorrow, a face without a heart? _laer_. why aske you this? _kin_. not that i thinke you did not loue your father, but that i know loue is begun by time[12]: [footnote a: _here in the quarto:--_ ; the scrimures[13] of their nation he swore had neither motion, guard nor eye, if you opposd them;] [footnote 1: i think the _can_ of the _quarto_ is the true word.] [footnote 2: --in his horsemanship.] [footnote 3: there is no mistake in the order 'had he beene'; the transposition is equivalent to _if_: 'as if he had been unbodied with, and shared half the nature of the brave beast.' these two lines, from _as_ to _thought_, must be taken parenthetically; or else there must be supposed a dash after _beast_, and a fresh start made. 'but he (as if centaur-like he had been one piece with the horse) was no more moved than one with the going of his own legs:' 'it seemed, as he borrowed the horse's body, so he lent the horse his mind:'--sir philip sidney. _arcadia_, b. ii. p. 115.] [footnote 4: '--surpassed, i thought.'] [footnote 5: 'in invention of.'] [footnote 6: emphasis on _did_, as antithetic to _forgery_: 'my inventing came short of his doing.'] [footnote 7: 'it would be a sight indeed to see you matched with an equal.' the king would strengthen laertes' confidence in his proficiency.] [footnote 8: 'made him so spiteful by stirring up his habitual envy.'] [footnote 9: all invention.] [footnote 10: here should be a dash: the king pauses. he is approaching dangerous ground--is about to propose a thing abominable, and therefore to the influence of flattered vanity and roused emulation, would add the fiercest heat of stimulated love and hatred--to which end he proceeds to cast doubt on the quality of laertes' love for his father.] [footnote 11: the picture.] [footnote 12: 'through habit.'] [footnote 13: french _escrimeurs_: fencers.] [page 220] and that i see in passages of proofe,[1] time qualifies the sparke and fire of it:[2] [a] _hamlet_ comes backe: what would you vndertake, to show your selfe your fathers sonne indeed, [sidenote: selfe indeede your fathers sonne] more then in words? _laer_. to cut his throat i'th'church.[3] _kin_. no place indeed should murder sancturize; reuenge should haue no bounds: but good _laertes_ will you doe this, keepe close within your chamber, _hamlet_ return'd, shall know you are come home: wee'l put on those shall praise your excellence, and set a double varnish on the fame the frenchman gaue you, bring you in fine together, and wager on your heads, he being remisse,[4] [sidenote: ore your] [sidenote: 218] most generous, and free from all contriuing, will not peruse[5] the foiles? so that with ease, or with a little shuffling, you may choose a sword vnbaited,[6] and in a passe of practice,[7] [sidenote: pace of] requit him for your father. _laer_. i will doo't, and for that purpose ile annoint my sword:[8] [sidenote: for purpose,] i bought an vnction of a mountebanke so mortall, i but dipt a knife in it,[9] [sidenote: mortall, that but dippe a] where it drawes blood, no cataplasme so rare, collected from all simples that haue vertue [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-there liues within the very flame of loue a kind of weeke or snufe that will abate it,[10] and nothing is at a like goodnes still,[11] for goodnes growing to a plurisie,[12] dies in his owne too much, that we would doe we should doe when we would: for this would change,[13] and hath abatements and delayes as many, as there are tongues, are hands, are accedents, and then this should is like a spend thrifts sigh, that hurts by easing;[14] but to the quick of th'vlcer,] [footnote 1: 'passages of proofe,'--_trials_. 'i see when it is put to the test.'] [footnote 2: 'time modifies it.'] [footnote 3: contrast him here with hamlet.] [footnote 4: careless.] [footnote 5: _examine_--the word being of general application then.] [footnote 6: _unblunted_. some foils seem to have been made with a button that could be taken--probably _screwed_ off.] [footnote 7: whether _practice_ here means exercise or cunning, i cannot determine. possibly the king uses the word as once before 216--to be taken as laertes may please.] [footnote 8: in the _1st q._ this proposal also is made by the king.] [footnote 9: 'so mortal, yes, a knife being but dipt in it,' or, 'so mortal, did i but dip a knife in it.'] [footnote 10: to understand this figure, one must be familiar with the behaviour of the wick of a common lamp or tallow candle.] [footnote 11: 'nothing keeps always at the same degree of goodness.'] [footnote 12: a _plurisie_ is just a _too-muchness_, from _plus, pluris--a plethora_, not our word _pleurisy_, from [greek: pleura]. see notes in _johnson and steevens_.] [footnote 13: the sense here requires an _s_, and the space in the _quarto_ between the _e_ and the comma gives the probability that a letter has dropt out.] [footnote 14: modern editors seem agreed to substitute the adjective _spendthrift_: our sole authority has _spendthrifts_, and by it i hold. the meaning seems this: 'the _would_ changes, the thing is not done, and then the _should_, the mere acknowledgment of duty, is like the sigh of a spendthrift, who regrets consequences but does not change his way: it eases his conscience for a moment, and so injures him.' there would at the same time be allusion to what was believed concerning sighs: dr. johnson says, 'it is a notion very prevalent, that _sighs_ impair the strength, and wear out the animal powers.'] [page 222] vnder the moone, can saue the thing from death, that is but scratcht withall: ile touch my point, with this contagion, that if i gall him slightly,[1] it may be death. _kin_. let's further thinke of this, weigh what conuenience[2] both of time and meanes may fit vs to our shape,[3] if this should faile; and that our drift looke through our bad performance, 'twere better not assaid; therefore this proiect should haue a backe or second, that might hold, if this should blast in proofe:[4] soft, let me see[5] [sidenote: did blast] wee'l make a solemne wager on your commings,[6] [sidenote: cunnings[6]] i ha't: when in your motion you are hot and dry, [sidenote: hate, when] as[7] make your bowts more violent to the end,[8] [sidenote: to that end,] and that he cals for drinke; ile haue prepar'd him [sidenote: prefard him] [sidenote: 268] a challice for the nonce[9]; whereon but sipping, if he by chance escape your venom'd stuck,[10] our purpose may[11] hold there: how sweet queene. [sidenote: there: but stay, what noyse?] _enter queene_. _queen_. one woe doth tread vpon anothers heele, so fast they'l follow[12]: your sister's drown'd _laertes_. [sidenote: they follow;] _laer_. drown'd! o where?[13] _queen_. there is a willow[14] growes aslant a brooke, [sidenote: ascaunt the brooke] that shewes his hore leaues in the glassie streame: [sidenote: horry leaues] there with fantasticke garlands did she come,[15] [sidenote: therewith | she make] of crow-flowers,[16] nettles, daysies, and long purples, that liberall shepheards giue a grosser name; but our cold maids doe dead mens fingers call them: [sidenote: our cull-cold] there on the pendant[17] boughes, her coronet weeds[18] clambring to hang;[19] an enuious sliuer broke,[20] when downe the weedy trophies,[19] and her selfe, [sidenote: her weedy] [footnote 1: 'that though i should gall him but slightly,' or, 'that if i gall him ever so slightly.'] [footnote 2: proper arrangement.] [footnote 3: 'fit us exactly, like a garment cut to our shape,' or perhaps 'shape' is used for _intent, purpose. point thus_: 'shape. if this should faile, and' &c.] [footnote 4: this seems to allude to the assay of a firearm, and to mean '_burst on the trial_.' note 'assaid' two lines back.] [footnote 5: there should be a pause here, and a longer pause after _commings_: the king is contriving. 'i ha't' should have a line to itself, with again a pause, but a shorter one.] [footnote 6: _veney, venue_, is a term of fencing: a bout, a thrust--from _venir, to come_--whence 'commings.' (259) but _cunnings_, meaning _skills_, may be the word.] [footnote 7: 'as' is here equivalent to 'and so.'] [footnote 8: --to the end of making hamlet hot and dry.] [footnote 9: for the special occasion.] [footnote 10: thrust. _twelfth night_, act iii. sc. 4. 'he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal motion.' _stocco_ in italian is a long rapier; and _stoccata_ a thrust. _rom. and jul_., act iii. sc. 1. see _shakespeare-lexicon_.] [footnote 11: 'may' does not here express _doubt_, but _intention_.] [footnote 12: if this be the right reading, it means, 'so fast they insist on following.'] [footnote 13: he speaks it as about to rush to her.] [footnote 14: --the choice of ophelia's fantastic madness, as being the tree of lamenting lovers.] [footnote 15: --always busy with flowers.] [footnote 16: ranunculus: _sh. lex._] [footnote 17: --specially descriptive of the willow.] [footnote 18: her wild flowers made into a garland.] [footnote 19: the intention would seem, that she imagined herself decorating a monument to her father. hence her _coronet weeds_ and the poet's _weedy trophies_.] [footnote 20: _sliver_, i suspect, called so after the fact, because _slivered_ or torn off. in _macbeth_ we have: slips of yew slivered in the moon's eclipse. but it may be that _sliver_ was used for a _twig_, such as could be torn off. _slip_ and _sliver_ must be of the same root.] [page 224] fell in the weeping brooke, her cloathes spred wide, and mermaid-like, a while they bore her vp, which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,[1] [sidenote: old laudes,[1]] as one incapable of[2] her owne distresse, or like a creature natiue, and indued[3] vnto that element: but long it could not be, till that her garments, heauy with her drinke, [sidenote: theyr drinke] pul'd the poore wretch from her melodious buy,[4] [sidenote: melodious lay] to muddy death.[5] _laer_. alas then, is she drown'd? [sidenote: she is] _queen_. drown'd, drown'd. _laer_. too much of water hast thou poore _ophelia_, and therefore i forbid my teares: but yet it is our tricke,[6] nature her custome holds, let shame say what it will; when these are gone the woman will be out:[7] adue my lord, i haue a speech of fire, that faine would blaze, [sidenote: speech a fire] but that this folly doubts[8] it. _exit._ [sidenote: drownes it.[8]] _kin_. let's follow, _gertrude_: how much i had to doe to calme his rage? now feare i this will giue it start againe; therefore let's follow. _exeunt_.[9] [10]_enter two clownes._ _clown_. is she to bee buried in christian buriall, [sidenote: buriall, when she wilfully] that wilfully seekes her owne saluation?[11] _other_. i tell thee she is, and therefore make her [sidenote: is, therefore] graue straight,[12] the crowner hath sate on her, and finds it christian buriall. _clo_. how can that be, vnlesse she drowned her selfe in her owne defence? _other_. why 'tis found so.[13] _clo_. it must be _se offendendo_,[14] it cannot bee else: [sidenote: be so offended, it] [footnote 1: they were not lauds she was in the habit of singing, to judge by the snatches given.] [footnote 2: not able to take in, not understanding, not conscious of.] [footnote 3: clothed, endowed, fitted for. see _sh. lex._] [footnote 4: _could_ the word be for _buoy_--'her clothes spread wide,' on which she floated singing--therefore her melodious buoy or float?] [footnote 5: how could the queen know all this, when there was no one near enough to rescue her? does not the poet intend the mode of her death given here for an invention of the queen, to hide the girl's suicide, and by circumstance beguile the sorrow-rage of laertes?] [footnote 6: 'i cannot help it.'] [footnote 7: 'when these few tears are spent, all the woman will be out of me: i shall be a man again.'] [footnote 8: _douts_: 'this foolish water of tears puts it out.' _see q. reading._] [footnote 9: here ends the fourth act, between which and the fifth may intervene a day or two.] [footnote 10: act v. this act _requires_ only part of a day; the funeral and the catastrophe might be on the same.] [footnote 11: has this a confused connection with the fancy that salvation is getting to heaven?] [footnote 12: whether this means _straightway_, or _not crooked_, i cannot tell.] [footnote 13: 'the coroner has settled it.'] [footnote 14: the clown's blunder for _defendendo_.] [page 226] for heere lies the point; if i drowne my selfe wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches. it is an act to doe and to performe; [sidenote: it is to act, to doe, to performe, or all: she] argall[1] she drown'd her selfe wittingly. _other_. nay but heare you goodman deluer. [sidenote: good man deluer.] _clown_. giue me leaue; heere lies the water; good: heere stands the man; good: if the man goe to this water and drowne himsele; it is will he nill he, he goes; marke you that? but if the water come to him and drowne him; hee drownes not himselfe. argall, hee that is not guilty of his owne death, shortens not his owne life. _other_. but is this law? _clo_. i marry is't, crowners quest law. _other_. will you ha the truth on't: if this had [sidenote: truth an't] not beene a gentlewoman, shee should haue beene buried out of[2] christian buriall. [sidenote: out a] _clo_. why there thou say'st. and the more pitty that great folke should haue countenance in this world to drowne or hang themselues, more then their euen[3] christian. come, my spade; there is no ancient gentlemen, but gardiners, ditchers and graue-makers; they hold vp _adams_ profession. _other_. was he a gentleman? _clo_. he was the first that euer bore armes. [sidenote: a was] [4]_other_. why he had none. _clo_. what, ar't a heathen? how dost thou vnderstand the scripture? the scripture sayes _adam_ dig'd; could hee digge without armes?[4] ile put another question to thee; if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confesse thy selfe---_other_. go too. _clo_. what is he that builds stronger then either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter? _other_. the gallowes-maker; for that frame outliues a thousand tenants. [sidenote: that outliues] [footnote 1: _ergo_, therefore.] [footnote 2: _without_. the pleasure the speeches of the clown give us, lies partly in the undercurrent of sense, so disguised by stupidity in the utterance; and partly in the wit which mainly succeeds in its end by the failure of its means.] [footnote 3: _equal_, that is _fellow_ christian.] [footnote 4: _from 'other' to_ 'armes' _not in quarto._] [page 228] _clo_. i like thy wit well in good faith, the gallowes does well; but how does it well? it does well to those that doe ill: now, thou dost ill to say the gallowes is built stronger then the church: argall, the gallowes may doe well to thee. too't againe, come. _other_. who builds stronger then a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter? _clo_. i, tell me that, and vnyoake.[1] _other_. marry, now i can tell. _clo_. too't. _other_. masse, i cannot tell. _enter hamlet and horatio a farre off._[2] _clo_. cudgell thy braines no more about it; for your dull asse will not mend his pace with beating, and when you are ask't this question next, say a graue-maker: the houses that he makes, lasts [sidenote: houses hee makes] till doomesday: go, get thee to _yaughan_,[3] fetch [sidenote: thee in, and fetch mee a soope of] me a stoupe of liquor. _sings._[4] _in youth when i did loue, did loue_, [sidenote: _song._] _me thought it was very sweete: to contract o the time for a my behoue, o me thought there was nothing meete[5]_ [sidenote: there a was nothing a meet.] [sidenote: _enter hamlet & horatio_] _ham_. ha's this fellow no feeling of his businesse, [sidenote: busines? a sings in graue-making.] that he sings at graue-making?[6] _hor_. custome hath made it in him a property[7] of easinesse. _ham_. 'tis ee'n so; the hand of little imployment hath the daintier sense. _clowne sings._[8] _but age with his stealing steps_ [sidenote _clow. song._] _hath caught me in his clutch_: [sidenote: hath clawed me] [footnote 1: 'unyoke your team'--as having earned his rest.] [footnote 2: _not in quarto._] [footnote 3: whether this is the name of a place, or the name of an innkeeper, or is merely an inexplicable corruption--some take it for a stage-direction to yawn--i cannot tell. see _q._ reading. it is said to have been discovered that a foreigner named johan sold ale next door to the globe.] [footnote 4: _not in quarto._] [footnote 5: a song ascribed to lord vaux is in this and the following stanzas made nonsense of.] [footnote 6: note hamlet's mood throughout what follows. he has entered the shadow of death.] [footnote 7: _property_ is what specially belongs to the individual; here it is his _peculiar work_, or _personal calling_: 'custom has made it with him an easy duty.'] [footnote 8: _not in quarto._] [page 230] _and hath shipped me intill the land_, [sidenote: into] _as if i had neuer beene such_. _ham_. that scull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knaue iowles it to th' grownd, [sidenote: the] as if it were _caines_ iaw-bone, that did the first [sidenote: twere] murther: it might be the pate of a polititian which [sidenote: murder, this might] this asse o're offices: one that could circumuent [sidenote: asse now ore-reaches; one that would] god, might it not? _hor_. it might, my lord. _ham_. or of a courtier, which could say, good morrow sweet lord: how dost thou, good lord? [sidenote: thou sweet lord?] this might be my lord such a one, that prais'd my lord such a ones horse, when he meant to begge [sidenote: when a went to] it; might it not?[1] _hor_. i, my lord. _ham_. why ee'n so: and now my lady wormes,[2] chaplesse,[3] and knockt about the mazard[4] [sidenote: choples | the massene with] with a sextons spade; heere's fine reuolution, if [sidenote: and we had] wee had the tricke to see't. did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggets[5] with 'em? mine ake to thinke on't. [sidenote: them] _clowne sings._[6] _a pickhaxe and a spade, a spade_, [sidenote: _clow. song._] _for and a shrowding-sheete: o a pit of clay for to be made, for such a guest is meete_. _ham_. there's another: why might not that bee the scull of of a lawyer? where be his [sidenote: skull of a] quiddits[7] now? his quillets[7]? his cases? his [sidenote: quiddities] tenures, and his tricks? why doe's he suffer this rude knaue now to knocke him about the sconce[8] [sidenote: this madde knaue] with a dirty shouell, and will not tell him of his action of battery? hum. this fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double [footnote 1: to feel the full force of this, we must call up the expression on the face of 'such a one' as he begged the horse--probably imitated by hamlet--and contrast it with the look on the face of the skull.] [footnote 2: 'now the property of my lady worm.'] [footnote 3: the lower jaw gone.] [footnote 4: _the upper jaw_, i think--not _the head_.] [footnote 5: a game in which pins of wood, called loggats, nearly two feet long, were half thrown, half slid, towards a bowl. _blount_: johnson and steevens.] [footnote 6: _not in quarto._] [footnote 7: a lawyer's quirks and quibbles. see _johnson and steevens_. _1st q._ now where is your quirkes and quillets now,] [footnote 8: humorous, or slang word for _the head_. 'a fort--a head-piece--the head': _webster's dict_.] [page 232] vouchers, his recoueries: [1] is this the fine[2] of his fines, and the recouery[3] of his recoueries,[1] to haue his fine[4] pate full of fine[4] dirt? will his vouchers [sidenote: will vouchers] vouch him no more of his purchases, and double [sidenote: purchases & doubles then] ones too, then the length and breadth of a paire of indentures? the very conueyances of his lands will hardly lye in this boxe[5]; and must the inheritor [sidenote: scarcely iye; | th'] himselfe haue no more?[6] ha? _hor_. not a iot more, my lord. _ham_. is not parchment made of sheep-skinnes? _hor_. i my lord, and of calue-skinnes too. [sidenote: calues-skinnes to] _ham_. they are sheepe and calues that seek [sidenote: which seek] out assurance in that. i will speake to this fellow: whose graue's this sir? [sidenote: this sirra?] _clo_. mine sir: [sidenote: _clow_. mine sir, or a pit] _o a pit of clay for to be made, for such a guest is meete._[7] _ham_. i thinke it be thine indeed: for thou liest in't. _clo_. you lye out on't sir, and therefore it is not [sidenote: tis] yours: for my part, i doe not lye in't; and yet it [sidenote: in't, yet] is mine. _ham_. thou dost lye in't, to be in't and say 'tis [sidenote: it is] thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quicke, therefore thou lyest. _clo_. tis a quicke lye sir, 'twill away againe from me to you.[8] _ham_. what man dost thou digge it for? _clo_. for no man sir. _ham_. what woman then? _clo_. for none neither. _ham_. who is to be buried in't? _clo_. one that was a woman sir; but rest her soule, shee's dead. [footnote 1: _from_ 'is' _to_ 'recoueries' _not in q._] [footnote 2: the end.] [footnote 3: the property regained by his recoveries.] [footnote 4: third and fourth meanings of the word _fine_.] [footnote 5: the skull.] [footnote 6: 'must the heir have no more either?' _1st q_. and must the honor (_owner?_) lie there?] [footnote 7: _this line not in q._] [footnote 8: he _gives_ the lie.] [page 234] _ham_. how absolute[1] the knaue is? wee must [sidenote: 256] speake by the carde,[2] or equiuocation will vndoe vs: by the lord _horatio_, these three yeares[3] i haue [sidenote: this three] taken note of it, the age is growne so picked,[4] [sidenote: tooke] that the toe of the pesant comes so neere the heeles of our courtier, hee galls his kibe.[5] how [sidenote: the heele of the] long hast thou been a graue-maker? [sidenote: been graue-maker?] _clo_. of all the dayes i'th'yeare, i came too't [sidenote: of the dayes] that day[6] that our last king _hamlet_ o'recame [sidenote: ouercame] _fortinbras_. _ham_. how long is that since? _clo_. cannot you tell that? euery foole can tell [sidenote: 143] that: it was the very day,[6] that young _hamlet_ was [sidenote: was that very] borne,[8] hee that was mad, and sent into england, [sidenote: that is mad] _ham_. i marry, why was he sent into england? _clo_. why, because he was mad; hee shall recouer [sidenote: a was mad: a shall] his wits there; or if he do not, it's no great [sidenote: if a do | tis] matter there. _ham_. why? _clo_. 'twill not be scene in him, there the men [sidenote: him there, there] are as mad as he. _ham_. how came he mad? _clo_. very strangely they say. _ham_. how strangely?[7] _clo_. faith e'ene with loosing his wits. _ham_. vpon what ground? _clo_. why heere in denmarke[8]: i haue bin sixeteene [sidenote: sexten] [sidenote: 142-3] heere, man and boy thirty yeares.[9] _ham_. how long will a man lie 'ith' earth ere he rot? _clo_. ifaith, if he be not rotten before he die (as [sidenote: fayth if a be not | a die] we haue many pocky coarses now adaies, that will [sidenote: corses, that will] scarce hold the laying in) he will last you some [sidenote: a will] eight yeare, or nine yeare. a tanner will last you nine yeare. [footnote 1: 'how the knave insists on precision!'] [footnote 2: chart: _skeat's etym. dict._] [footnote 3: can this indicate any point in the history of english society?] [footnote 4: so fastidious; so given to _picking_ and choosing; so choice.] [footnote 5: the word is to be found in any dictionary, but is not generally understood. lord byron, a very inaccurate writer, takes it to mean _heel_: devices quaint, and frolics ever new, tread on each others' kibes: _childe harold, canto 1. st. 67._ it means a _chilblain_.] [footnote 6: then fortinbras _could_ have been but a few months younger than hamlet, and may have been older. hamlet then, in the quarto passage, could not by _tender_ mean _young_.] [footnote 7: 'in what way strangely?'--_in what strange way_? or the _how_ may be _how much_, in retort to the _very_; but the intent would be the same--a request for further information.] [footnote 8: hamlet has asked on what ground or provocation, that is, from what cause, hamlet lost his wits; the sexton chooses to take the word _ground_ materially.] [footnote 9: the poet makes him say how long he had been sexton--but how naturally and informally--by a stupid joke!--in order a second time, and more certainly, to tell us hamlet's age: he must have held it a point necessary to the understanding of hamlet. note hamlet's question immediately following. it looks as if he had first said to himself: 'yes--i have been thirty years above ground!' and _then_ said to the sexton, 'how long will a man lie i' th' earth ere he rot?' we might enquire even too curiously as to the connecting links.] [page 236] _ham_. why he, more then another? _clo_. why sir, his hide is so tan'd with his trade, that he will keepe out water a great while. and [sidenote: a will] your water, is a sore decayer of your horson dead body. heres a scull now: this scul, has laine in [sidenote: now hath iyen you i'th earth 23. yeeres.] the earth three and twenty years. _ham_. whose was it? _clo_. a whoreson mad fellowes it was; whose doe you thinke it was? _ham_. nay, i know not. _clo_. a pestlence on him for a mad rogue, a pou'rd a flaggon of renish on my head once. this same scull sir, this same scull sir, was _yoricks_ [sidenote: once; this same skull sir, was sir _yoricks_] scull, the kings iester. _ham_. this? _clo_. e'ene that. _ham_. let me see. alas poore _yorick_, i knew [sidenote: _ham_. alas poore] him _horatio_, a fellow of infinite iest; of most excellent fancy, he hath borne me on his backe a [sidenote: bore] thousand times: and how abhorred[1] my imagination [sidenote: and now how | in my] is, my gorge rises at it. heere hung those [sidenote: it is:] lipps, that i haue kist i know not how oft. where be your iibes now? your gambals? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a rore? no one[2] now to mock your [sidenote: not one] own ieering? quite chopfalne[3]? now get you to [sidenote: owne grinning,] my ladies chamber, and tell her, let her paint an [sidenote: ladies table,] inch thicke, to this fauour[4] she must come. make her laugh at that: prythee _horatio_ tell me one thing. _hor_. what's that my lord? _ham_. dost thou thinke _alexander_ lookt o'this [sidenote: a this] fashion i'th' earth? _hor_. e'ene so. _ham_. and smelt so? puh. [footnote 1: if this be the true reading, _abhorred_ must mean _horrified_; but i incline to the _quarto_.] [footnote 2: 'not one jibe, not one flash of merriment now?'] [footnote 3: --chop indeed quite fallen off!] [footnote 4: _to this look_--that of the skull.] [page 238] _hor_. e'ene so, my lord. _ham_. to what base vses we may returne _horatio_. why may not imagination trace the noble dust of _alexander_, till he[1] find it stopping a [sidenote: a find] bunghole. _hor_. 'twere to consider: to curiously to consider [sidenote: consider too curiously] so. _ham_. no faith, not a iot. but to follow him thether with modestie[2] enough, and likeliehood to lead it; as thus. _alexander_ died: _alexander_ was [sidenote: lead it. _alexander_] buried: _alexander_ returneth into dust; the dust is [sidenote: to] earth; of earth we make lome, and why of that lome (whereto he was conuerted) might they not stopp a beere-barrell?[3] imperiall _caesar_, dead and turn'd to clay, [sidenote: imperious] might stop a hole to keepe the winde away. oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, should patch a wall, t'expell the winters flaw.[4] [sidenote: waters flaw.] but soft, but soft, aside; heere comes the king. [sidenote: , but soft awhile, here] _enter king, queene, laertes, and a coffin_, [sidenote: _enter k. q. laertes and the corse._] _with lords attendant._ the queene, the courtiers. who is that they follow, [sidenote: this they] and with such maimed rites? this doth betoken, the coarse they follow, did with disperate hand, fore do it owne life; 'twas some estate.[5] [sidenote: twas of some[5]] couch[6] we a while, and mark. _laer_. what cerimony else? _ham_. that is _laertes_, a very noble youth:[7] marke. _laer_. what cerimony else?[8] _priest_. her obsequies haue bin as farre inlarg'd, [sidenote: _doct_.] as we haue warrantis,[9] her death was doubtfull,[10] [sidenote: warrantie,] and but that great command, o're-swaies the order,[11] [footnote 1: imagination personified.] [footnote 2: moderation.] [footnote 3: 'loam, lome--grafting clay. mortar made of clay and straw; also a sort of plaister used by chymists to stop up their vessels.'--_bailey's dict._] [footnote 4: a sudden puff or blast of wind. hamlet here makes a solemn epigram. for the right understanding of the whole scene, the student must remember that hamlet is philosophizing--following things out, curiously or otherwise--on the brink of a grave, concerning the tenant for which he has enquired--'what woman then?'--but received no answer.] [footnote 5: 'the corpse was of some position.'] [footnote 6: 'let us lie down'--behind a grave or stone.] [footnote 7: hamlet was quite in the dark as to laertes' character; he had seen next to nothing of him.] [footnote 8: the priest making no answer, laertes repeats the question.] [footnote 9: _warrantise_.] [footnote 10: this casts discredit on the queen's story, 222. the priest believes she died by suicide, only calls her death doubtful to excuse their granting her so many of the rites of burial.] [footnote 11: 'settled mode of proceeding.'--_schmidt's sh. lex._--but is it not rather _the order_ of the church?] [page 240] she should in ground vnsanctified haue lodg'd, [sidenote: vnsanctified been lodged] till the last trumpet. for charitable praier, [sidenote: prayers,] shardes,[1] flints, and peebles, should be throwne on her: yet heere she is allowed her virgin rites, [sidenote: virgin crants,[2]] her maiden strewments,[3] and the bringing home of bell and buriall.[4] _laer_. must there no more be done? _priest_. no more be done:[5] [sidenote: _doct._] we should prophane the seruice of the dead, to sing sage[6] _requiem_, and such rest to her [sidenote: sing a requiem] as to peace-parted soules. _laer_. lay her i'th' earth, and from her faire and vnpolluted flesh, may violets spring. i tell thee (churlish priest) a ministring angell shall my sister be, when thou liest howling? _ham_. what, the faire _ophelia_?[7] _queene_. sweets, to the sweet farewell.[8] [sidenote: 118] i hop'd thou should'st haue bin my _hamlets_ wife: i thought thy bride-bed to haue deckt (sweet maid) and not t'haue strew'd thy graue. [sidenote: not haue] _laer_. oh terrible woer,[9] [sidenote: o treble woe] fall ten times trebble, on that cursed head [sidenote: times double on] whose wicked deed, thy most ingenioussence depriu'd thee of. hold off the earth a while, till i haue caught her once more in mine armes: _leaps in the graue._[10] now pile your dust, vpon the quicke, and dead, till of this flat a mountaine you haue made, to o're top old _pelion_, or the skyish head [sidenote: to'retop] of blew _olympus_.[11] _ham_.[12] what is he, whose griefes [sidenote: griefe] beares such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow [footnote 1: 'shardes' _not in quarto._ it means _potsherds_.] [footnote 2: chaplet--_german_ krantz, used even for virginity itself.] [footnote 3: strewments with _white_ flowers. (?)] [footnote 4: the burial service.] [footnote 5: as an exclamation, i think.] [footnote 6: is the word _sage_ used as representing the unfitness of a requiem to her state of mind? or is it only from its kindred with _solemn_? it was because she was not 'peace-parted' that they could not sing _rest_ to her.] [footnote 7: _everything_ here depends on the actor.] [footnote 8: i am not sure the queen is not _apostrophizing_ the flowers she is throwing into or upon the coffin: 'sweets, be my farewell to the sweet.'] [footnote 9: the folio _may_ be right here:--'oh terrible wooer!--may ten times treble thy misfortunes fall' &c.] [footnote 10: this stage-direction is not in the _quarto_. here the _1st quarto_ has:- _lear_. forbeare the earth a while: sister farewell: _leartes leapes into the graue._ now powre your earth on _olympus_ hie, and make a hill to o're top olde _pellon_: _hamlet leapes in after leartes_ whats he that coniures so? _ham_. beholde tis i, _hamlet_ the dane.] [footnote 11: the whole speech is bravado--the frothy grief of a weak, excitable effusive nature.] [footnote 12: he can remain apart no longer, and approaches the company.] [page 242] coniure the wandring starres, and makes them stand [sidenote: coniues] like wonder-wounded hearers? this is i, _hamlet_ the dane.[1] _laer_. the deuill take thy soule.[2] _ham_. thou prai'st not well, i prythee take thy fingers from my throat;[3] sir though i am not spleenatiue, and rash, [sidenote: for though | spleenatiue rash,] yet haue i something in me dangerous, [sidenote: in me something] which let thy wisenesse feare. away thy hand. [sidenote: wisedome feare; hold off they] _king_. pluck them asunder. _qu. hamlet, hamlet_. [sidenote: _all_. gentlemen.] _gen_. good my lord be quiet. [sidenote: _hora_. good] _ham_. why i will fight with him vppon this theme, vntill my eielids will no longer wag.[4] _qu_. oh my sonne, what theame? _ham_. i lou'd _ophelia_[5]; fortie thousand brothers could not (with all there quantitie of loue) make vp my summe. what wilt thou do for her?[6] _king_. oh he is mad _laertes_.[7] _qu_. for loue of god forbeare him. _ham_. come show me what thou'lt doe. [sidenote: _ham_ s'wounds shew | th'owt fight, woo't fast, woo't teare] woo't weepe? woo't fight? woo't teare thy selfe? woo't drinke vp _esile_, eate a crocodile?[6] ile doo't. dost thou come heere to whine; [sidenote: doost come] to outface me with leaping in her graue? be[8] buried quicke with her, and so will i. and if thou prate of mountaines; let them throw millions of akers on vs; till our ground sindging his pate against the burning zone, [sidenote: 262] make _ossa_ like a wart. nay, and thoul't mouth, ile rant as well as thou.[9] [footnote 1: this fine speech is yet spoken in the character of madman, which hamlet puts on once more the moment he has to appear before the king. its poetry and dignity belong to hamlet's feeling; its extravagance to his assumed insanity. it must be remembered that death is a small affair to hamlet beside his mother's life, and that the death of ophelia may even be some consolation to him. in the _folio_, a few lines back, laertes leaps into the grave. there is no such direction in the _q_. in neither is hamlet said to leap into the grave; only the _1st q._ so directs. it is a stage-business that must please the _common_ actor of hamlet; but there is nothing in the text any more than in the margin of _folio_ or _quarto_ to justify it, and it would but for the horror of it be ludicrous. the coffin is supposed to be in the grave: must laertes jump down upon it, followed by hamlet, and the two fight and trample over the body? yet i take the '_leaps in the grave_' to be an action intended for laertes by the poet. his 'hold off the earth a while,' does not necessarily imply that the body is already in the grave. he has before said, 'lay her i'th' earth': then it was not in the grave. it is just about to be lowered, when, with that cry of 'hold off the earth a while,' he jumps into the grave, and taking the corpse, on a bier at the side of it, in his arms, calls to the spectators to pile a mountain on them--in the wild speech that brings out hamlet. the quiet dignity of hamlet's speech does not comport with his jumping into the grave: laertes comes out of the grave, and flies at hamlet's throat. so, at least, i would have the thing acted. there is, however, nothing in the text to show that laertes comes out of the grave, and if the manager insist on the traditional mode, i would suggest that the grave be represented much larger. in mr. jewitt's book on grave-mounds, i read of a 'female skeleton in a grave six feet deep, ten feet long, and eight feet wide.' such a grave would give room for both beside the body, and dismiss the hideousness of the common representation.] [footnote 2: --_springing out of the grave and flying at hamlet_.] [footnote 3: note the temper, self-knowledge, self-government, and self-distrust of hamlet.] [footnote 4: the eyelids last of all become incapable of motion.] [footnote 5: that he loved her is the only thing to explain the harshness of his behaviour to her. had he not loved her and not been miserable about her, he would have been as polite to her as well bred people would have him.] [footnote 6: the gallants of shakspere's day would challenge each other to do more disagreeable things than any of these in honour of their mistresses. '_ã�sil._ s.m. ancien nom du vinaigre.' _supplement to academy dict._, 1847.--'eisile, _vinegar_': bosworth's _anglo-saxon dict_., from somner's _saxon dict._, 1659.--'eisel (_saxon), vinegar; verjuice; any acid_': johnson's _dict_. _1st q_. 'wilt drinke vp vessels.' the word _up_ very likely implies the steady emptying of a vessel specified--at a draught, and not by degrees.] [footnote 7: --pretending care over hamlet.] [footnote 8: emphasis on _be_, which i take for the _imperative mood_.] [footnote 9: the moment it is uttered, he recognizes and confesses to the rant, ashamed of it even under the cover of his madness. it did not belong _altogether_ to the madness. later he expresses to horatio his regret in regard to this passage between him and laertes, and afterwards apologizes to laertes. 252, 262. perhaps this is the speech in all the play of which it is most difficult to get into a sympathetic comprehension. the student must call to mind the elements at war in hamlet's soul, and generating discords in his behaviour: to those comes now the shock of ophelia's death; the last tie that bound him to life is gone--the one glimmer of hope left him for this world! the grave upon whose brink he has been bandying words with the sexton, is for _her_! into such a consciousness comes the rant of laertes. only the forms of madness are free to him, while no form is too strong in which to repudiate indifference to ophelia: for her sake, as well as to relieve his own heart, he casts the clear confession of his love into her grave. he is even jealous, over her dead body, of her brother's profession of love to her--as if any brother could love as he loved! this is foolish, no doubt, but human, and natural to a certain childishness in grief. 252. add to this, that hamlet--see later in his speeches to osricke--had a lively inclination to answer a fool according to his folly (256), to outherod herod if herod would rave, out-euphuize euphues himself if he would be ridiculous:--the digestion of all these things in the retort of meditation will result, i would fain think, in an understanding and artistic justification of even this speech of hamlet: the more i consider it the truer it seems. if proof be necessary that real feeling is mingled in the madness of the utterance, it may be found in the fact that he is immediately ashamed of its extravagance.] [page 244] _kin_.[1] this is meere madnesse: [sidenote: _quee_.[1]] and thus awhile the fit will worke on him: [sidenote: and this] anon as patient as the female doue, when that her golden[2] cuplet[3] are disclos'd[4]; [sidenote: cuplets[3]] his silence will sit drooping.[5] _ham_. heare you sir:[6] what is the reason that you vse me thus? i loud' you euer;[7] but it is no matter:[8] let _hercules_ himselfe doe what he may, the cat will mew, and dogge will haue his day.[9] _exit._ [sidenote: _exit hamlet and horatio._] _kin_. i pray you good horatio wait vpon him, [sidenote: pray thee good] strengthen you patience in our last nights speech, [sidenote: your] [sidenote: 254] wee'l put the matter to the present push:[10] good _gertrude_ set some watch ouer your sonne, this graue shall haue a liuing[11] monument:[12] an houre of quiet shortly shall we see;[13] [sidenote: quiet thirtie shall] till then, in patience our proceeding be. _exeunt._ [footnote 1: i hardly know which to choose as the speaker of this speech. it would be a fine specimen of the king's hypocrisy; and perhaps indeed its poetry, lovely in itself, but at such a time sentimental, is fitter for him than the less guilty queen.] [footnote 2: 'covered with a yellow down' _heath_.] [footnote 3: the singular is better: 'the pigeon lays no more than _two_ eggs.' _steevens_. only, _couplets_ might be used like _twins_.] [footnote 4: --_hatched_, the sporting term of the time.] [footnote 5: 'the pigeon never quits her nest for three days after her two young ones are hatched, except for a few moments to get food.' _steevens_.] [footnote 6: laertes stands eyeing him with evil looks.] [footnote 7: i suppose here a pause: he waits in vain some response from laertes.] [footnote 8: here he retreats into his madness.] [footnote 9: '--but i cannot compel you to hear reason. do what he will, hercules himself cannot keep the cat from mewing, or the dog from following his inclination!'--said in a half humorous, half contemptuous despair.] [footnote 10: 'into immediate train'--_to laertes_.] [footnote 11: _life-like_, or _lasting_?] [footnote 12: --_again to laertes_.] [footnote 13: --when hamlet is dead.] [page 246] _enter hamlet and horatio._ _ham._ so much for this sir; now let me see the other,[1] [sidenote: now shall you see] you doe remember all the circumstance.[2] _hor._ remember it my lord?[3] _ham._ sir, in my heart there was a kinde of fighting, that would not let me sleepe;[4] me thought i lay [sidenote: my thought] worse then the mutines in the bilboes,[5] rashly, [sidenote: bilbo] (and praise be rashnesse for it)[6] let vs know, [sidenote: prayed] our indiscretion sometimes serues vs well, [sidenote: sometime] when our deare plots do paule,[7] and that should teach vs, [sidenote: deepe | should learne us] [sidenote: 146, 181] there's a diuinity that shapes our ends,[8] rough-hew them how we will.[9] _hor._ that is most certaine. _ham._ vp from my cabin my sea-gowne scarft about me in the darke, grop'd i to finde out them;[10] had my desire, finger'd their packet[11], and in fine, withdrew to mine owne roome againe, making so bold, (my feares forgetting manners) to vnseale [sidenote: to vnfold] their grand commission, where i found _horatio_, oh royall[12] knauery: an exact command, [sidenote: a royall] [sidenote: 196] larded with many seuerall sorts of reason; [sidenote: reasons,] importing denmarks health, and englands too, with hoo, such bugges[13] and goblins in my life, [sidenote: hoe] that on the superuize[14] no leasure bated,[15] no not to stay the grinding of the axe, my head shoud be struck off. _hor._ ist possible? _ham._ here's the commission, read it at more leysure: [footnote 1: i would suggest that the one paper, which he has just shown, is a commission the king gave to himself; the other, which he is about to show, that given to rosincrance and guildensterne. he is setting forth his proof of the king's treachery.] [footnote 2: --of the king's words and behaviour, possibly, in giving him his papers, horatio having been present; or it might mean, 'have you got the things i have just told you clear in your mind?'] [footnote 3: '--as if i could forget a single particular of it!'] [footnote 4: the _shaping divinity_ was moving him.] [footnote 5: the fetters called _bilboes_ fasten a couple of mutinous sailors together by the legs.] [footnote 6: does he not here check himself and begin afresh--remembering that the praise belongs to the divinity?] [footnote 7: _pall_--from the root of _pale_--'come to nothing.' he had had his plots from which he hoped much; the king's commission had rendered them futile. but he seems to have grown doubtful of his plans before, probably through the doubt of his companions which led him to seek acquaintance with their commission, and he may mean that his 'dear plots' had begun to pall _upon him_. anyhow the sudden 'indiscretion' of searching for and unsealing the ambassadors' commission served him as nothing else could have served him.] [footnote 8: --even by our indiscretion. emphasis on _shapes_.] [footnote 9: here is another sign of hamlet's religion. 24, 125, 260. we start to work out an idea, but the result does not correspond with the idea: another has been at work along with us. we rough-hew--block out our marble, say for a mercury; the result is an apollo. hamlet had rough-hewn his ends--he had begun plans to certain ends, but had he been allowed to go on shaping them alone, the result, even had he carried out his plans and shaped his ends to his mind, would have been failure. another mallet and chisel were busy shaping them otherwise from the first, and carrying them out to a true success. for _success_ is not the success of plans, but the success of ends.] [footnote 10: emphasize _i_ and _them_, as the rhythm requires, and the phrase becomes picturesque.] [footnote 11: 'got my fingers on their papers.'] [footnote 12: emphasize _royal_.] [footnote 13: a _bug_ is any object causing terror.] [footnote 14: immediately on the reading.] [footnote 15: --no interval abated, taken off the immediacy of the order respite granted.] [page 248] but wilt thou heare me how i did proceed? [sidenote: heare now how] _hor_. i beseech you. _ham_. being thus benetted round with villaines,[1] ere i could make a prologue to my braines, [sidenote: or i could] they had begun the play.[2] i sate me downe, deuis'd a new commission,[3] wrote it faire, i once did hold it as our statists[4] doe, a basenesse to write faire; and laboured much how to forget that learning: but sir now, it did me yeomans[5] seruice: wilt thou know [sidenote: yemans] the effects[6] of what i wrote? [sidenote: th'effect[6]] _hor_. i, good my lord. _ham_. an earnest coniuration from the king, as england was his faithfull tributary, as loue betweene them, as the palme should flourish, [sidenote: them like the | might florish,] as peace should still her wheaten garland weare, and stand a comma 'tweene their amities,[7] and many such like assis[8] of great charge, [sidenote: like, as sir of] that on the view and know of these contents, [sidenote: knowing] without debatement further, more or lesse, he should the bearers put to sodaine death, [sidenote: those bearers] not shriuing time allowed. _hor_. how was this seal'd? _ham_. why, euen in that was heauen ordinate; [sidenote: ordinant,] i had my fathers signet in my purse, which was the modell of that danish seale: folded the writ vp in forme of the other, [sidenote: in the forme of th'] subscrib'd it, gau't th'impression, plac't it safely, [sidenote: subscribe it,] the changeling neuer knowne: now, the next day was our sea fight, and what to this was sement, [sidenote: was sequent] thou know'st already.[9] _hor_. so _guildensterne_ and _rosincrance_, go too't. [footnote 1: --the nearest, rosincrance and guildensterne: hamlet was quite satisfied of their villainy.] [footnote 2: 'i had no need to think: the thing came to me at once.'] [footnote 3: note hamlet's rapid practicality--not merely in devising, but in carrying out.] [footnote 4: statesmen.] [footnote 5: '_yeomen of the guard of the king's body_ were anciently two hundred and fifty men, of the best rank under gentry, and of larger stature than ordinary; every one being required to be six feet high.'--_e. chambers' cyclopaedia_. hence '_yeoman's_ service' must mean the very best of service.] [footnote 6: note our common phrase: 'i wrote to this effect.'] [footnote 7: 'as he would have peace stand between their friendships like a comma between two words.' every point has in it a conjunctive, as well as a disjunctive element: the former seems the one regarded here--only that some amities require more than a comma to separate them. the _comma_ does not make much of a figure--is good enough for its position, however; if indeed the fact be not, that, instead of standing for _peace_, it does not even stand for itself, but for some other word. i do not for my part think so.] [footnote 8: dr. johnson says there is a quibble here with _asses_ as beasts of _charge_ or burden. it is probable enough, seeing, as malone tells us, that in warwickshire, as did dr. johnson himself, they pronounce _as_ hard. in aberdeenshire the sound of the _s_ varies with the intent of the word: '_az_ he said'; '_ass_ strong _az_ a horse.'] [footnote 9: to what purpose is this half-voyage to england made part of the play? the action--except, as not a few would have it, the very action be delay--is nowise furthered by it; hamlet merely goes and returns. to answer this question, let us find the real ground for hamlet's reflection, 'there's a divinity that shapes our ends.' observe, he is set at liberty without being in the least indebted to the finding of the commission--by the attack, namely, of the pirate; and this was not the shaping of his ends of which he was thinking when he made the reflection, for it had reference to the finding of the commission. what then was the ground of the reflection? and what justifies the whole passage in relation to the poet's object, the character of hamlet? this, it seems to me:-although hamlet could not have had much doubt left with regard to his uncle's guilt, yet a man with a fine, delicate--what most men would think, because so much more exacting than theirs--fastidious conscience, might well desire some proof more positive yet, before he did a deed so repugnant to his nature, and carrying in it such a loud condemnation of his mother. and more: he might well wish to have something to _show_: a man's conviction is no proof, though it may work in others inclination to receive proof. hamlet is sent to sea just to get such proof as will not only thoroughly satisfy himself, but be capable of being shown to others. he holds now in his hand--to lay before the people--the two contradictory commissions. by his voyage then he has gained both assurance of his duty, and provision against the consequence he mainly dreaded, that of leaving a wounded name behind him. 272. this is the shaping of his ends--so exactly to his needs, so different from his rough-hewn plans--which is the work of the divinity. the man who desires to know his duty that he may _do_ it, who will not shirk it when he does know it, will have time allowed him and the thing made plain to him; his perplexity will even strengthen and purify his will. the weak man is he who, certain of what is required of him, fails to meet it: so never once fails hamlet. note, in all that follows, that a load seems taken off him: after a gracious tardiness to believe up to the point of action, he is at length satisfied. hesitation belongs to the noble nature, to hamlet; precipitation to the poor nature, to laertes, the son of polonius. compare brutus in _julius caesar_--a hamlet in favourable circumstances, with hamlet--a brutus in the most unfavourable circumstances conceivable.] [page 250] _ham_. why man, they did make loue to this imployment[1] they are not neere my conscience; their debate [sidenote: their defeat[2]] doth by their owne insinuation[3] grow:[4] [sidenote: dooes] 'tis dangerous, when the baser nature comes betweene the passe, and fell incensed points of mighty opposites.[5] _hor_. why, what a king is this?[6] _ham_. does it not, thinkst thee,[7] stand me now vpon[8] [sidenote: not thinke thee[7] stand] [sidenote: 120] he that hath kil'd my king,[9] and whor'd my mother, [sidenote: 62] popt in betweene th'election and my hopes, [footnote 1: _this verse not in q._] [footnote 2: destruction.] [footnote 3: 'their destruction they have enticed on themselves by their own behaviour;' or, 'they have _crept into_ their fate by their underhand dealings.' the _sh. lex._ explains _insinuation_ as _meddling_.] [footnote 4: with the concern of horatio for the fate of rosincrance and guildensterne, hamlet shows no sympathy. it has been objected to his character that there is nothing in the play to show them privy to the contents of their commission; to this it would be answer enough, that hamlet is satisfied of their worthlessness, and that their whole behaviour in the play shows them merest parasites; but, at the same time, we must note that, in changing the commission, he had no intention, could have had no thought, of letting them go to england without him: that was a pure shaping of their ends by the divinity. possibly his own 'dear plots' had in them the notion of getting help against his uncle from the king of england, in which case he would willingly of course have continued his journey; but whatever they may be supposed to have been, they were laid in connection with the voyage, not founded on the chance of its interruption. it is easy to imagine a man like him, averse to the shedding of blood, intending interference for their lives: as heir apparent, he would certainly have been listened to. the tone of his reply to horatio is that of one who has been made the unintending cause of a deserved fate: the thing having fallen out so, the divinity having so shaped their ends, there was nothing in their character, any more than in that of polonius, to make him regret their death, or the part he had had in it.] [footnote 5: the 'mighty opposites' here are the king and hamlet.] [footnote 6: perhaps, as hamlet talked, he has been parenthetically glancing at the real commission. anyhow conviction is growing stronger in horatio, whom, for the occasion, we may regard as a type of the public.] [footnote 7: 'thinkst thee,' in the fashion of the friends, or 'thinke thee' in the sense of 'bethink thee.'] [footnote 8: 'does it not rest now on me?--is it not now my duty?--is it not _incumbent on me_ (with _lie_ for _stand_)--"is't not perfect conscience"?'] [footnote 9: note '_my king_' not _my father_: he had to avenge a crime against the state, the country, himself as a subject--not merely a private wrong.] [page 252] throwne out his angle for my proper life,[1] and with such coozenage;[2] is't not perfect conscience,[3] [sidenote: conscience?] [sidenote: 120] to quit him with this arme?[4] and is't not to be damn'd[5] to let this canker of our nature come in further euill.[6] _hor._ it must be shortly knowne to him from england what is the issue of the businesse there.[7] _ham._ it will be short, [sidenote: 262] the _interim's_ mine,[8] and a mans life's no more[9] then to say one:[10] but i am very sorry good _horatio_, [sidenote: 245] that to _laertes_ i forgot my selfe; for by the image of my cause, i see [sidenote: 262] the portraiture of his;[11] ile count his fauours:[12] [footnote 1: here is the charge at length in full against the king--of quality and proof sufficient now, not merely to justify, but to compel action against him.] [footnote 2: he was such a _fine_ hypocrite that hamlet, although he hated and distrusted him, was perplexed as to the possibility of his guilt. his good acting was almost too much for hamlet himself. this is his 'coozenage.' after 'coozenage' should come a dash, bringing '--is't not perfect conscience' (_is it not absolutely righteous_) into closest sequence, almost apposition, with 'does it not stand me now upon--'.] [footnote 3: here comes in the _quarto, 'enter a courtier_.' all from this point to 'peace, who comes heere?' included, is in addition to the _quarto_ text--not in the _q._, that is.] [footnote 4: i would here refer my student to the soliloquy--with its _sea of troubles_, and _the taking of arms against it_. 123, n. 4.] [footnote 5: these three questions: 'does it not stand me now upon?'--'is't not perfect conscience?'--'is't not to be damned?' reveal the whole relation between the inner and outer, the unseen and the seen, the thinking and the acting hamlet. 'is not the thing right?--is it not my duty?--would not the neglect of it deserve damnation?' he is satisfied.] [footnote 6: 'is it not a thing to be damned--to let &c.?' or, 'would it not be to be damned, (to be in a state of damnation, or, to bring damnation on oneself) to let this human cancer, the king, go on to further evil?'] [footnote 7: '--so you have not much time.'] [footnote 8: 'true, it will be short, but till then is mine, and will be long enough for me.' he is resolved.] [footnote 9: now that he is assured of what is right, the shadow that waits him on the path to it, has no terror for him. he ceases to be anxious as to 'what dreams may come,' as to the 'something after death,' as to 'the undiscovered country,' the moment his conscience is satisfied. 120. it cannot now make a coward of him. it was never in regard to the past that hamlet dreaded death, but in regard to the righteousness of the action which was about to occasion his death. note that he expects death; at least he has long made up his mind to the great risk of it--the death referred to in the soliloquy--which, after all, was not that which did overtake him. there is nothing about suicide here, nor was there there.] [footnote 10: 'a man's life must soon be over anyhow.'] [footnote 11: the approach of death causes him to think of and regret even the small wrongs he has done; he laments his late behaviour to laertes, and makes excuse for him: the similarity of their condition, each having lost a father by violence, ought, he says, to have taught him gentleness with him. the _1st quarto_ is worth comparing here:- _enter hamlet and horatio_ _ham_. beleeue mee, it greeues mee much _horatio_, that to _leartes_ i forgot my selfe: for by my selfe me thinkes i feele his griefe, though there's a difference in each others wrong.] [footnote 12: 'i will not forget,' or, 'i will call to mind, what merits he has,' or 'what favours he has shown me.' but i suspect the word '_count_' ought to be _court_.--he does court his favour when next they meet--in lovely fashion. he has no suspicion of his enmity.] [page 254] [sidenote: 242, 262] but sure the brauery[1] of his griefe did put me into a towring passion.[2] _hor._ peace, who comes heere? _enter young osricke._[3] [sidenote: _enter a courtier._] _osr._ your lordship is right welcome back to [sidenote: _cour._] denmarke. _ham._ i humbly thank you sir, dost know this [sidenote: humble thank] waterflie?[4] _hor._ no my good lord. _ham._ thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him[5]: he hath much land, and fertile; let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the kings messe;[6] 'tis a chowgh[7]; but as i saw spacious in the possession of dirt.[8] [sidenote: as i say,] _osr._ sweet lord, if your friendship[9] were at [sidenote: _cour._ | lordshippe[?]] leysure, i should impart a thing to you from his maiesty. _ham._ i will receiue it with all diligence of [sidenote: it sir with] spirit; put your bonet to his right vse, 'tis for the [sidenote: spirit, your] head. osr. i thanke your lordship, 'tis very hot[10] [sidenote: cour. | it is] _ham._ no, beleeue mee 'tis very cold, the winde is northerly. _osr._ it is indifferent cold[11] my lord indeed. [sidenote: _cour._] _ham._ mee thinkes it is very soultry, and hot [sidenote: but yet me | sully and hot, or my] for my complexion.[12] _osr._ exceedingly, my lord, it is very soultry, [sidenote: _cour._] as 'twere i cannot tell how: but my lord,[13] his [sidenote: how: my lord] maiesty bad me signifie to you, that he ha's laid a [sidenote: that a had] [sidenote: 244] great wager on your head: sir, this is the matter.[14] _ham._ i beseech you remember.[15] _osr._ nay, in good faith, for mine ease in good [sidenote: cour. nay good my lord for my ease] [footnote 1: the great show; bravado.] [footnote 2: --with which fell in well the forms of his pretended madness. but that the passion was real, this reaction of repentance shows. it was not the first time his pretence had given him liberty to ease his heart with wild words. jealous of the boastfulness of laertes' affection, he began at once--in keeping with his assumed character of madman, but not the less in harmony with his feelings--to outrave him.] [footnote 3: one of the sort that would gather to such a king--of the same kind as rosincrance and guildensterne. in the _1st q. 'enter a bragart gentleman_.'] [footnote 4: --_to horatio_.] [footnote 5: 'thou art the more in a state of grace, for it is a vice to know him.'] [footnote 6: 'his manger shall stand where the king is served.' wealth is always received by rank--mammon nowhere better worshipped than in kings' courts.] [footnote 7: '_a bird of the crow-family_'--as a figure, '_always applied to rich and avaricious people_.' a _chuff_ is a surly _clown_. in scotch a _coof_ is 'a silly, dastardly fellow.'] [footnote 8: land.] [footnote 9: 'friendship' is better than 'lordshippe,' as euphuistic.] [footnote 10: 'i thanke your lordship; (_puts on his hat_) 'tis very hot.'] [footnote 11: 'rather cold.'] [footnote 12: 'and hot--for _my_ temperament.'] [footnote 13: not able to go on, he plunges into his message.] [footnote 14: --_takes off his hat_.] [footnote 15: --making a sign to him again to put on his hat.] [page 256] faith[1]: sir, [a] you are not ignorant of what excellence _laertes_ [b] is at his weapon.[2] [sidenote: _laertes_ is.[2]] _ham_. what's his weapon?[3] _osr_. rapier and dagger. [sidenote: _cour._] _ham_. that's two of his weapons: but well. _osr_. the sir king ha's wag'd with him six [sidenote: _cour_. the king sir hath wagerd] barbary horses, against the which he impon'd[4] as i [sidenote: hee has impaund] take it, sixe french rapiers and poniards, with [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-[5] here is newly com to court _laertes_, belieue me an absolute gentlemen, ful of most excellent differences,[6] of very soft society,[7] and great [sidenote: 234] showing[8]: indeede to speake sellingly[9] of him, hee is the card or kalender[10] of gentry: for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.[11] [sidenote: 245] _ham_.[12] sir, his definement suffers no perdition[13] in you, though i know to deuide him inuentorially,[14] would dosie[15] th'arithmaticke of memory, and yet but yaw[16] neither in respect of his quick saile, but in the veritie of extolment, i take him to be a soule of great article,[17] & his infusion[18] of such dearth[19] and rarenesse, as to make true dixion of him, his semblable is his mirrour,[20] & who els would trace him, his vmbrage, nothing more.[21] _cour_. your lordship speakes most infallibly of him.[22] _ham_. the concernancy[23] sir, why doe we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath?[24] _cour_. sir.[25] _hora_. ist not possible to vnderstand in another tongue,[26] you will too't sir really.[27] _ham_. what imports the nomination of this gentleman. _cour_. of _laertes_.[28] _hora_. his purse is empty already, all's golden words are spent. _ham_. of him sir.[29] _cour_. i know you are not ignorant.[30] _ham_. i would you did sir, yet in faith if you did, it would not much approoue me,[31] well sir. _cour_.] [footnote b: _here in the quarto_:-_ham_. i dare not confesse that, least i should compare with him in excellence, but to know a man wel, were to knowe himselfe.[32] _cour_. i meane sir for this weapon, but in the imputation laide on him,[33] by them in his meed, hee's vnfellowed.[34]] [footnote 1: 'in good faith, it is not for manners, but for my comfort i take it off.' perhaps the hat was intended only to be carried, and would not really go on his head.] [footnote 2: the _quarto_ has not 'at his weapon,' which is inserted to take the place of the passage omitted, and connect the edges of the gap.] [footnote 3: so far from having envied laertes' reputation for fencing, as the king asserts, hamlet seems not even to have known which was laertes' weapon.] [footnote 4: laid down--staked.] [footnote 5: this and the following passages seem omitted for curtailment, and perhaps in part because they were less amusing when the fashion of euphuism had passed. the good of holding up the mirror to folly was gone when it was no more the 'form and pressure' of 'the very age and body of the time.'] [footnote 6: of great variety of excellence.] [footnote 7: gentle manners.] [footnote 8: fine presence.] [footnote 9: is this a stupid attempt at wit on the part of osricke--'to praise him as if you wanted to sell him'--stupid because it acknowledges exaggeration?] [footnote 10: 'the chart or book of reference.' 234.] [footnote 11: i think _part_ here should be plural; then the passage would paraphrase thus:--'you shall find in him the sum of what parts (_endowments_) a gentleman would wish to see.'] [footnote 12: hamlet answers the fool according to his folly, but outdoes him, to his discomfiture.] [footnote 13: 'his description suffers no loss in your mouth.'] [footnote 14: 'to analyze him into all and each of his qualities.'] [footnote 15: dizzy.] [footnote 16: 'and yet _would_ but yaw neither' _yaw_, 'the movement by which a ship deviates from the line of her course towards the right or left in steering.' falconer's _marine dictionary_. the meaning seems to be that the inventorial description could not overtake his merits, because it would _yaw_--keep turning out of the direct line of their quick sail. but hamlet is set on using far-fetched and absurd forms and phrases to the non-plussing of osricke, nor cares much to be _correct_.] [footnote 17: i take this use of the word _article_ to be merely for the occasion; it uas never surely in _use_ for _substance_.] [footnote 18: '--the infusion of his soul into his body,' 'his soul's embodiment.' the _sh. lex._ explains _infusion_ as 'endowments, qualities,' and it may be right.] [footnote 19: scarcity.] [footnote 20: '--it alone can show his likeness.'] [footnote 21: 'whoever would follow in his footsteps--copy him--is only his shadow.'] [footnote 22: here a pause, i think.] [footnote 23: 'to the matter in hand!'--recalling the attention of osricke to the purport of his visit.] [footnote 24: 'why do we presume to talk about him with our less refined breath?'] [footnote 25: the courtier is now thoroughly bewildered.] [footnote 26: 'can you only _speak_ in another tongue? is it not possible to _understand_ in it as well?'] [footnote 27: 'it is your own fault; you _will_ court your fate! you _will_ go and be made a fool of!'] [footnote 28: he catches at the word he understands. the actor must here supply the meaning, with the baffled, disconcerted look of a fool who has failed in the attempt to seem knowing.] [footnote 29:--answering the courtier.] [footnote 30: he pauses, looking for some out-of-the-way mode wherein to continue. hamlet takes him up.] [footnote 31: 'your witness to my knowledge would not be of much avail.'] [footnote 32: paraphrase: 'for merely to know a man well, implies that you yourself _know_.' to know a man well, you must know his knowledge: a man, to judge his neighbour, must be at least his equal.] [footnote 33: faculty attributed to him.] [footnote 34: _point thus_: 'laide on him by them, in his meed hee's unfellowed.' 'in his merit he is peerless.'] [page 258] their assignes,[1] as girdle, hangers or so[2]: three of [sidenote: hanger and so.] the carriages infaith are very deare to fancy,[3] very responsiue[4] to the hilts, most delicate carriages and of very liberall conceit.[5] _ham_. what call you the carriages?[6] [a] _osr_. the carriages sir, are the hangers. [sidenote: _cour_. the carriage] _ham_. the phrase would bee more germaine[7] to the matter: if we could carry cannon by our sides; [sidenote: carry a cannon] i would it might be hangers till then; but on sixe [sidenote: it be | then, but on, six] barbary horses against sixe french swords: their assignes, and three liberall conceited carriages,[8] that's the french but against the danish; why is [sidenote: french bet] this impon'd as you call it[9]? [sidenote: this all you[9]] _osr_. the king sir, hath laid that in a dozen [sidenote: _cour_. | layd sir, that] passes betweene you and him, hee shall not exceed [sidenote: your selfe and him,] you three hits;[10] he hath one twelue for mine,[11] [sidenote: hath layd on twelue for nine,] and that would come to imediate tryall, if your [sidenote: and it would] lordship would vouchsafe the answere.[12] _ham_. how if i answere no?[13] _osr_. i meane my lord,[14] the opposition of your [sidenote: _cour_.] person in tryall. _ham_. sir, i will walke heere in the hall; if it please his maiestie, 'tis the breathing time of day [sidenote: it is] with me[15]; let the foyles bee brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his purpose; i will win for him if i can: if not, ile gaine nothing but [sidenote: him and i | i will] my shame, and the odde hits.[16] _osr_. shall i redeliuer you ee'n so?[17] [sidenote: _cour_. shall i deliuer you so?] _ham_. to this effect sir, after what flourish your nature will. _osr_. i commend my duty to your lordship. [sidenote: _cour_.] _ham_. yours, yours [18]: hee does well to commend [sidenote: _ham_. yours doo's well[18]] it himselfe, there are no tongues else for's tongue, [sidenote: turne.] [footnote a: _here in the quarto_:-_hora_. i knew you must be edified by the margent[19] ere you had done.] [footnote 1: accompaniments or belongings; things _assigned_ to them.] [footnote 2: the thongs or chains attaching the sheath of a weapon to the girdle; what the weapon _hangs_ by. the '_or so_' seems to indicate that osricke regrets having used the old-fashioned word, which he immediately changes for _carriages_.] [footnote 3: imagination, taste, the artistic faculty.] [footnote 4: 'corresponding to--going well with the hilts,'--in shape, ornament, and colour.] [footnote 5: bold invention.] [footnote 6: a new word, unknown to hamlet;--court-slang, to which he prefers the old-fashioned, homely word.] [footnote 7: related; 'akin to the matter.'] [footnote 8: he uses osricke's words--with a touch of derision, i should say.] [footnote 9: i do not take the _quarto_ reading for incorrect. hamlet says: 'why is this all----you call it --? --?' as if he wanted to use the word (_imponed_) which osricke had used, but did not remember it: he asks for it, saying '_you call it_' interrogatively.] [footnote 10: _1st q_ that yong leartes in twelue venies 223 at rapier and dagger do not get three oddes of you,] [footnote 11: in all printer's work errors are apt to come in clusters.] [footnote 12: the response, or acceptance of the challenge.] [footnote 13: hamlet plays with the word, pretending to take it in its common meaning.] [footnote 14: 'by _answer_, i mean, my lord, the opposition &c.'] [footnote 15: 'my time for exercise:' he treats the proposal as the trifle it seems--a casual affair to be settled at once--hoping perhaps that the king will come with like carelessness.] [footnote 16: the _three_.] [footnote 17: to osricke the answer seems too direct and unadorned for ears royal.] [footnote 18: i cannot help here preferring the _q_. if we take the _folio_ reading, we must take it thus: 'yours! yours!' spoken with contempt;--'as if _you_ knew anything of duty!'--for we see from what follows that he is playing with the word _duty_. or we might read it, 'yours commends yours,' with the same sense as the reading of the _q._, which is, 'yours,' that is, '_your_ lordship--does well to commend his duty himself--there is no one else to do it.' this former shape is simpler; that of the _folio_ is burdened with ellipsis--loaded with lack. and surely _turne_ is the true reading!--though we may take the other to mean, 'there are no tongues else on the side of his tongue.'] [footnote 19: --as of the bible, for a second interpretative word or phrase.] [page 260] _hor_. this lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.[1] [sidenote: 98] _ham_. he did compile[2] with his dugge before [sidenote: _ham_. a did sir[2] with] hee suck't it: thus had he and mine more of the [sidenote: a suckt has he | many more] same beauy[3] that i know the drossie age dotes [sidenote: same breede] on; only got the tune[4] of the time, and outward [sidenote: and out of an habit of[5]] habite of encounter,[5] a kinde of yesty collection, [sidenote: histy] which carries them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions; and doe but blow [sidenote: prophane and trennowed opinions] them to their tryalls: the bubbles are out.[6] [sidenote: their triall, the] [a] _hor_. you will lose this wager, my lord. [sidenote: loose my lord.] _ham_. i doe not thinke so, since he went into france, i haue beene in continuall practice; i shall [sidenote: 265] winne at the oddes:[7] but thou wouldest not thinke [sidenote: ods; thou] how all heere about my heart:[8] but it is no matter[9] [sidenote: how ill all's heere] _hor_. nay, good my lord. _ham_. it is but foolery; but it is such a kinde of gain-giuing[10] as would perhaps trouble a woman, [sidenote: gamgiuing.] _hor_. if your minde dislike any thing, obey.[11] [sidenote: obay it.] i will forestall[12] their repaire hither, and say you are not fit. _ham_. not a whit, we defie augury[13]; there's a [sidenote: there is speciall] [sidenote: 24, 125, 247] speciall prouidence in the fall of a sparrow.[14] if [footnote a: _here in the quarto:--_ _enter a lord_.[15] _lord_. my lord, his maiestie commended him to you by young ostricke,[16] who brings backe to him that you attend him in the hall, he sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with _laertes_, or that you will take longer time?[17] _ham_. i am constant to my purposes, they followe the kings pleasure, if his fitnes speakes, mine is ready[18]: now or whensoeuer, prouided i be so able as now. _lord_. the king, and queene, and all are comming downe. _ham_. in happy time.[19] _lord_. the queene desires you to vse some gentle entertainment[20] _laertes_, before you fall to play. _ham_. shee well instructs me.] [footnote 1: 'well, he _is_ a young one!'] [footnote 2: '_com'ply_,' with accent on first syllable: _comply with_ means _pay compliments to, compliment_. see _q._ reading: 'a did sir with':--_sir_ here is a verb--_sir with_ means _say sir to_: 'he _sirred, complied_ with his nurse's breast before &c.' hamlet speaks in mockery of the affected court-modes of speech and address, the fashion of euphuism--a mechanical attempt at the poetic.] [footnote 3: _a flock of birds_--suggested by '_this lapwing_.'] [footnote 4: 'the mere mode.'] [footnote 5: 'and external custom of intercourse.' but here too i rather take the _q._ to be right: 'they have only got the fashion of the time; and, out of a habit of wordy conflict, (they have got) a collection of tricks of speech,--a yesty, frothy mass, with nothing in it, which carries them in triumph through the most foolish and fastidious (nice, choice, punctilious, whimsical) judgments.' _yesty_ i take to be right, and _prophane_ (vulgar) to have been altered by the poet to _fond_ (foolish); of _trennowed_ i can make nothing beyond a misprint.] [footnote 6: hamlet had just blown osricke to his trial in his chosen kind, and the bubble had burst. the braggart gentleman had no faculty to generate after the dominant fashion, no invention to support his ambition--had but a yesty collection, which failing him the moment something unconventional was wanted, the fool had to look a discovered fool.] [footnote 7: 'i shall win by the odds allowed me; he will not exceed me three hits.'] [footnote 8: he has a presentiment of what is coming.] [footnote 9: nothing in this world is of much consequence to him now. also, he believes in 'a special providence.'] [footnote 10: 'a yielding, a sinking' at the heart? the _sh. lex._ says _misgiving_.] [footnote 11: 'obey the warning.'] [footnote 12: 'go to them before they come here'--'_prevent_ their coming.'] [footnote 13: the knowledge, even, of what is to come could never, any more than ordinary expediency, be the _law_ of a man's conduct. st. paul, informed by the prophet agabus of the troubles that awaited him at jerusalem, and entreated by his friends not to go thither, believed the prophet, and went on to jerusalem to be delivered into the hands of the gentiles.] [footnote 14: one of shakspere's many allusions to sayings of the lord.] [footnote 15: osricke does not come back: he has begged off but ventures later, under the wing of the king.] [footnote 16: may not this form of the name suggest that in it is intended the 'foolish' ostrich?] [footnote 17: the king is making delay: he has to have his 'union' ready.] [footnote 18: 'if he feels ready, i am.'] [footnote 19: 'they are _well-come_.'] [footnote 20: 'to be polite to laertes.' the print shows where _to_ has slipped out. the queen is anxious; she distrusts laertes, and the king's influence over him.] [page 262] it[1] be now, 'tis not to come: if it bee not to come, [sidenote: be, tis] it will bee now: if it be not now; yet it will come; [sidenote: it well come,] [sidenote: 54, 164] the readinesse is all,[2] since no man ha's ought of [sidenote: man of ought he leaues, knowes what ist to leaue betimes, let be.] [sidenote: 252] what he leaues. what is't to leaue betimes?[3] _enter king, queene, laertes and lords, with other attendants with foyles, and gauntlets, a table and flagons of wine on it._ [sidenote: _a table prepard, trumpets, drums and officers with cushion, king, queene, and all the state, foiles, daggers, and laertes._] _kin_. come _hamlet_ come, and take this hand from me. [sidenote: 245] _ham_.[4] giue me your pardon sir, i'ue done you wrong,[5] [sidenote: i haue] but pardon't as you are a gentleman. this presence[6] knowes, and you must needs haue heard how i am punisht with sore distraction?[7] what i haue done [sidenote: with a sore] that might your nature honour, and exception [sidenote: 242, 252] roughly awake,[8] heere proclaime was madnesse:[9] was't _hamlet_ wrong'd _laertes_? neuer _hamlet_. if _hamlet_ from himselfe be tane away: [sidenote: fane away,] and when he's not himselfe, do's wrong _laertes_, then _hamlet_ does it not, _hamlet_ denies it:[10] who does it then? his madnesse? if't be so, _hamlet_ is of the faction that is wrong'd, his madnesse is poore _hamlets_ enemy.[11] sir, in this audience,[12] let my disclaiming from a purpos'd euill,[13] free me so farre[14] in your most generous thoughts, that i haue shot mine arrow o're the house, [sidenote: my] and hurt my mother.[15] [sidenote: brother.[15]] [footnote 1: 'it'--death, the end.] [footnote 2: his father had been taken unready. 54.] [footnote 3: _point_: 'all. since'; 'leaves, what'--'since no man has anything of what he has left, those who left it late are in the same position as those who left it early.' compare the common saying, 'it will be all the same in a hundred years.' the _q._ reading comes much to the same thing--'knows of ought he leaves'--'has any knowledge of it, anything to do with it, in any sense possesses it.' we may find a deeper meaning in the passage, however--surely not too deep for shakspere:--'since nothing can be truly said to be possessed as his own which a man must at one time or another yield; since that which is _own_ can never be taken from the owner, but solely that which is lent him; since the nature of a thing that has to be left is not such that it _could_ be possessed, why should a man mind parting with it early?'--there is far more in this than merely that at the end of the day it will be all the same. the thing that ever was really a man's own, god has given, and god will not, and man cannot, take away. note the unity of religion and philosophy in hamlet: he takes the one true position. note also his courage: he has a strong presentiment of death, but will not turn a step from his way. if death be coming, he will confront him. he does not believe in chance. he is ready--that is willing. all that is needful is, that he should not go as one who cannot help it, but as one who is for god's will, who chooses that will as his own. there is so much behind in shakspere's characters--so much that can only be hinted at! the dramatist has not the _word_-scope of the novelist; his art gives him little _room_; he must effect in a phrase what the other may take pages to. he needs good seconding by his actors as sorely as the composer needs good rendering of his music by the orchestra. it is a lesson in unity that the greatest art can least work alone; that the greatest _finder_ most needs the help of others to show his _findings_. the dramatist has live men and women for the very instruments of his art--who must not be mere instruments, but fellow-workers; and upon them he is greatly dependent for final outcome. here the actor should show a marked calmness and elevation in hamlet. he should have around him as it were a luminous cloud, the cloud of his coming end. a smile not all of this world should close the speech. he has given himself up, and is at peace.] [footnote 4: note in this apology the sweetness of hamlet's nature. how few are alive enough, that is unselfish and true enough, to be capable of genuine apology! the low nature always feels, not the wrong, but the confession of it, degrading.] [footnote 5: --the wrong of his rudeness at the funeral.] [footnote 6: all present.] [footnote 7: --true in a deeper sense than they would understand.] [footnote 8: 'that might roughly awake your nature, honour, and exception,':--consider the phrase--_to take exception at a thing_.] [footnote 9: it was by cause of madness, not by cause of evil intent. for all purpose of excuse it was madness, if only pretended madness; it was there of another necessity, and excused offence like real madness. what he said was true, not merely expedient, to the end he meant it to serve. but all passion may be called madness, because therein the mind is absorbed with one idea; 'anger is a brief madness,' and he was in a 'towering passion': he proclaims it madness and so abjures it.] [footnote 10: 'refuses the wrong altogether--will in his true self have nothing to do with it.' no evil thing comes of our true selves, and confession is the casting of it from us, the only true denial. he who will not confess a wrong, holds to the wrong.] [footnote 11: all here depends on the expression in the utterance.] [footnote 12: _this line not in q._] [footnote 13: this is hamlet's summing up of the whole--his explanation of the speech.] [footnote 14: 'so far as this in your generous judgment--that you regard me as having shot &c.'] [footnote 15: _brother_ is much easier to accept, though _mother_ might be in the simile. to do justice to the speech we must remember that hamlet has no quarrel whatever with laertes, that he has expressed admiration of him, and that he is inclined to love him for ophelia's sake. his apology has no reference to the fate of his father or his sister; hamlet is not aware that laertes associates him with either, and plainly the public did not know hamlet killed polonius; while laertes could have no intention of alluding to the fact, seeing it would frustrate his scheme of treachery.] [page 264] _laer_. i am satisfied in nature,[1] whose motiue in this case should stirre me most to my reuenge. but in my termes of honor i stand aloofe, and will no reconcilement, till by some elder masters of knowne honor, i haue a voyce, and president of peace to keepe my name vngorg'd.[2] but till that time, [sidenote: to my name vngord: but all that] i do receiue your offer'd loue like loue, and wil not wrong it. _ham_. i do embrace it freely, [sidenote: i embrace] and will this brothers wager frankely play. giue vs the foyles: come on.[3] _laer_. come one for me.[4] _ham_. ile be your foile[5] _laertes_, in mine ignorance, [sidenote: 218] your skill shall like a starre i'th'darkest night,[6] sticke fiery off indeede. _laer_. you mocke me sir. _ham_. no by this hand.[7] _king_. giue them the foyles yong _osricke_,[8] [sidenote: _ostricke_,[8]] cousen _hamlet_, you know the wager. _ham_. verie well my lord, your grace hath laide the oddes a'th'weaker side, [sidenote: has] _king._ i do not feare it, i haue seene you both:[9] but since he is better'd, we haue therefore oddes.[10] [sidenote: better, we] [footnote 1: 'in my own feelings and person.' laertes does not refer to his father or sister. he professes to be satisfied in his heart with hamlet's apology for his behaviour at the funeral, but not to be sure whether in the opinion of others, and by the laws of honour, he can accept it as amends, and forbear to challenge him. but the words 'whose motiue in this case should stirre me most to my reuenge' may refer to his father and sister, and, if so taken, should be spoken aside. to accept apology for them and not for his honour would surely be too barefaced! the point concerning them has not been started. but why not receive the apology as quite satisfactory? that he would not seems to show a lingering regard to _real_ honour. a downright villain, like the king, would have pretended its _thorough_ acceptance--especially as they were just going to fence like friends; but he, as regards his honour, will not accept it until justified in doing so by the opinion of 'some elder masters,' receiving from them 'a voice and precedent of peace'--counsel to, and justification, or example of peace. he keeps the door of quarrel open--will not profess to be _altogether_ friends with him, though he does not hint at his real ground of offence: that mooted, the match of skill, with its immense advantages for villainy, would have been impossible. he means treachery all the time; careful of his honour, he can, like most apes of fashion, let his honesty go; still, so complex is human nature, he holds his speech declining thorough reconciliation as a shield to shelter his treachery from his own contempt: he has taken care not to profess absolute friendship, and so left room for absolute villainy! he has had regard to his word! relieved perhaps by the demoniacal quibble, he follows it immediately with an utterance of full-blown perfidy.] [footnote 2: perhaps _ungorg'd_ might mean _unthrottled_.] [footnote 3: 'come on' _is not in the q._--i suspect this _come on_ but a misplaced shadow from the '_come one_' immediately below, and better omitted. hamlet could not say '_come on_' before laertes was ready, and '_come one_' after 'give us the foils,' would be very awkward. but it may be said to the attendant courtiers.] [footnote 4: he says this while hamlet is still choosing, in order that a second bundle of foils, in which is the unbated and poisoned one, may be brought him. so 'generous and free from all contriving' is hamlet, (220) that, even with the presentiment in his heart, he has no fear of treachery.] [footnote 5: as persons of the drama, the poet means laertes to be foil to hamlet.--with the play upon the word before us, we can hardly help thinking of the _third_ signification of the word _foil_.] [footnote 6: 'my ignorance will be the foil of darkest night to the burning star of your skill.' this is no flattery; hamlet believes laertes, to whose praises he has listened (218)--though not with the envy his uncle attributes to him--the better fencer: he expects to win only 'at the odds.' 260.] [footnote 7: --not '_by these pickers and stealers_,' his oath to his false friends. 154.] [footnote 8: plainly a favourite with the king.--he is _ostricke_ always in the _q_.] [footnote 9: 'seen you both play'--though not together.] [footnote 10: _point thus_: i do not fear it--i have seen you both! but since, he is bettered: we have therefore odds. 'since'--'_since the time i saw him_.'] [page 266] _laer_. this is too heauy, let me see another.[1] _ham_. this likes me well, these foyles haue all a length.[2] _prepare to play._[3] _osricke_. i my good lord. [sidenote: _ostr._] _king_. set me the stopes of wine vpon that table: if _hamlet_ giue the first, or second hit, or quit in answer of the third exchange,[4] let all the battlements their ordinance fire, [sidenote: 268] the king shal drinke to _hamlets_ better breath, and in the cup an vnion[5] shal he throw [sidenote: an vince] richer then that,[6] which foure successiue kings in denmarkes crowne haue worne. giue me the cups, and let the kettle to the trumpets speake, [sidenote: trumpet] the trumpet to the cannoneer without, the cannons to the heauens, the heauen to earth, now the king drinkes to _hamlet_. come, begin, [sidenote: _trumpets the while._] and you the iudges[7] beare a wary eye. _ham_. come on sir. _laer_. come on sir. _they play._[8] [sidenote: come my lord.] _ham_. one. _laer_. no. _ham_. iudgement.[9] _osr_. a hit, a very palpable hit. [sidenote: _ostrick._] _laer_. well: againe. [sidenote: _drum, trumpets and a shot. florish, a peece goes off._] _king_. stay, giue me drinke. _hamlet_, this pearle is thine, here's to thy health. giue him the cup,[10] _trumpets sound, and shot goes off._[11] _ham_. ile play this bout first, set by a-while.[12] [sidenote: set it by] come: another hit; what say you? _laer_. a touch, a touch, i do confesse.[13] [sidenote: _laer_. | doe confest.] _king_. our sonne shall win. [footnote 1: --to make it look as if he were choosing.] [footnote 2: --asked in an offhand way. the fencers must not measure weapons, because how then could the unbated point escape discovery? it is quite like hamlet to take even osricke's word for their equal length.] [footnote 3: _not in q._] [footnote 4: 'or be quits with laertes the third bout':--in any case, whatever the probabilities, even if hamlet be wounded, the king, who has not perfect confidence in the 'unction,' will fall back on his second line of ambush--in which he has more trust: he will drink to hamlet, when hamlet will be bound to drink also.] [footnote 5: the latin _unio_ was a large pearl. the king's _union_ i take to be poison made up like a pearl.] [footnote 6: --a well-known one in the crown.] [footnote 7: --of whom osricke was one.] [footnote 8: _not in q._] [footnote 9: --appealing to the judges.] [footnote 10: he throws in the _pearl_, and drinks--for it will take some moments to dissolve and make the wine poisonous--then sends the cup to hamlet.] [footnote 11: _not in q._] [footnote 12: he does not refuse to drink, but puts it by, neither showing nor entertaining suspicion, fearing only the effect of the draught on his play. he is bent on winning the wager--perhaps with further intent.] [footnote 13: laertes has little interest in the match, but much in his own play.] [page 268] [sidenote: 266] _qu_. he's fat, and scant of breath.[1] heere's a napkin, rub thy browes, [sidenote: heere _hamlet_ take my napkin] the queene carowses to thy fortune, _hamlet_. _ham_. good madam.[2] _king_. _gertrude_, do not drinke. _qu_. i will my lord; i pray you pardon me.[3] [sidenote: 222]_king_. it is the poyson'd cup, it is too late.[4] _ham_. i dare not drinke yet madam, by and by.[5] _qu_. come, let me wipe thy face.[6] _laer_. my lord, ile hit him now. _king_. i do not thinke't. _laer_. and yet 'tis almost 'gainst my conscience.[7] [sidenote: it is | against] _ham_. come for the third. _laertes_, you but dally, [sidenote: you doe but] i pray you passe with your best violence, i am affear'd you make a wanton of me.[8] [sidenote: i am sure you] _laer_. say you so? come on. _play._ _osr_. nothing neither way. [sidenote: _ostr._] _laer_. haue at you now.[9] _in scuffling they change rapiers._[10] _king_. part them, they are incens'd.[11] _ham_. nay come, againe.[12] _osr_. looke to the queene there hoa. [sidenote: _ostr._ | there howe.] _hor_. they bleed on both sides. how is't my [sidenote: is it] lord? _osr_. how is't _laertes_? [sidenote: _ostr._] _laer_. why as a woodcocke[13] to mine sprindge, _osricke_, [sidenote: mine owne sprindge _ostrick_,] i am iustly kill'd with mine owne treacherie.[14] _ham_. how does the queene? _king_. she sounds[15] to see them bleede. _qu_. no, no, the drinke, the drinke[16] [footnote 1: she is anxious about him. it may be that this speech, and that of the king before (266), were fitted to the person of the actor who first represented hamlet.] [footnote 2: --a simple acknowledgment of her politeness: he can no more be familiarly loving with his mother.] [footnote 3: she drinks, and offers the cup to hamlet.] [footnote 4: he is too much afraid of exposing his villainy to be prompt enough to prevent her.] [footnote 5: this is not meant by the poet to show suspicion: he does not mean hamlet to die so.] [footnote 6: the actor should not allow her: she approaches hamlet; he recoils a little.] [footnote 7: he has compunctions, but it needs failure to make them potent.] [footnote 8: 'treat me as an effeminate creature.'] [footnote 9: he makes a sudden attack, without warning of the fourth bout.] [footnote 10: _not in q._ the 1st q. directs:--_they catch one anothers rapiers, find both are wounded_, &c. the thing, as i understand it, goes thus: with the words 'have at you now!' laertes stabs hamlet; hamlet, apprised thus of his treachery, lays hold of his rapier, wrenches it from him, and stabs him with it in return.] [footnote 11: 'they have lost their temper.'] [footnote 12: --said with indignation and scorn, but without suspicion of the worst.] [footnote 13: --the proverbially foolish bird. the speech must be spoken with breaks. its construction is broken.] [footnote 14: his conscience starts up, awake and strong, at the approach of death. as the show of the world withdraws, the realities assert themselves. he repents, and makes confession of his sin, seeing it now in its true nature, and calling it by its own name. it is a compensation of the weakness of some that they cannot be strong in wickedness. the king did not so repent, and with his strength was the more to blame.] [footnote 15: _swounds, swoons_.] [footnote 16: she is true to her son. the maternal outlasts the adulterous.] [page 270] oh my deere _hamlet_, the drinke, the drinke, i am poyson'd. _ham_. oh villany! how? let the doore be lock'd. treacherie, seeke it out.[1] _laer_. it is heere _hamlet_.[2] _hamlet_,[3] thou art slaine, no medicine in the world can do thee good. in thee, there is not halfe an houre of life; [sidenote: houres life,] the treacherous instrument is in thy hand, [sidenote: in my] vnbated and envenom'd: the foule practise[4] hath turn'd it selfe on me. loe, heere i lye, neuer to rise againe: thy mothers poyson'd: i can no more, the king, the king's too blame.[5] _ham_. the point envenom'd too, then venome to thy worke.[6] _hurts the king._[7] _all_. treason, treason. _king_. o yet defend me friends, i am but hurt. _ham_. heere thou incestuous, murdrous, [sidenote: heare thou incestious damned dane,] damned dane, drinke off this potion: is thy vnion heere? [sidenote: of this | is the onixe heere?] follow my mother.[8] _king dyes._[9] _laer_. he is iustly seru'd. it is a poyson temp'red by himselfe: exchange forgiuenesse with me, noble _hamlet_; mine and my fathers death come not vpon thee, nor thine on me.[10] _dyes._[11] _ham_. heauen make thee free of it,[12] i follow thee. i am dead _horatio_, wretched queene adiew. you that looke pale, and tremble at this chance, that are but mutes[13] or audience to this acte: had i but time (as this fell sergeant death is strick'd in his arrest) oh i could tell you. [sidenote: strict] [footnote 1: the thing must be ended now. the door must be locked, to keep all in that are in, and all out that are out. then he can do as he will.] [footnote 2: --laying his hand on his heart, i think.] [footnote 3: in q. _hamlet_ only once.] [footnote 4: _scheme, artifice, deceitful contrivance_; in modern slang, _dodge_.] [footnote 5: he turns on the prompter of his sin--crowning the justice of the king's capital punishment.] [footnote 6: _point_: 'too!' _1st q._ then venome to thy venome, die damn'd villaine.] [footnote 7: _not in quarto._ the true moment, now only, has at last come. hamlet has lived to do his duty with a clear conscience, and is thereupon permitted to go. the man who asks whether this be poetic justice or no, is unworthy of an answer. 'the tragedie of hamlet' is _the drama of moral perplexity_.] [footnote 8: a grim play on the word _union: 'follow my mother_'. it suggests a terrible meeting below.] [footnote 9: _not in quarto._] [footnote 10: his better nature triumphs. the moment he was wounded, knowing he must die, he began to change. defeat is a mighty aid to repentance; and processes grow rapid in the presence of death: he forgives and desires forgiveness.] [footnote 11: _not in quarto._] [footnote 12: note how heartily hamlet pardons the wrong done to himself--the only wrong of course which a man has to pardon.] [footnote 13: _supernumeraries_. note the other figures too--_audience, act_--all of the theatre.] [page 272] but let it be: _horatio_, i am dead, thou liu'st, report me and my causes right [sidenote: cause a right] to the vnsatisfied.[1] _hor_. neuer beleeue it. [sidenote: 134] i am more an antike roman then a dane: [sidenote: 135] heere's yet some liquor left.[2] _ham_. as th'art a man, giue me the cup. let go, by heauen ile haue't. [sidenote: hate,] [sidenote: 114, 251] oh good _horatio_, what a wounded name,[3] [sidenote: o god _horatio_,] (things standing thus vnknowne) shall liue behind me. [sidenote: shall i leaue behind me?] if thou did'st euer hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicitie awhile, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in paine,[1] [sidenote: _a march a farre off._] to tell my storie.[4] _march afarre off, and shout within._[5] what warlike noyse is this? _enter osricke._ _osr_. yong _fortinbras_, with conquest come from poland to th'ambassadors of england giues this warlike volly.[6] _ham_. o i dye _horatio_: the potent poyson quite ore-crowes my spirit, i cannot liue to heare the newes from england, [sidenote: 62] but i do prophesie[7] th'election lights [sidenote: 276] on _fortinbras_, he ha's my dying voyce,[8] so tell him with the occurrents more and lesse,[9] [sidenote: th'] which haue solicited.[10] the rest is silence. o, o, o, o.[11] _dyes_[12] _hora_. now cracke a noble heart: [sidenote: cracks a] goodnight sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, why do's the drumme come hither? [footnote 1: his care over his reputation with the people is princely, and casts a true light on his delay. no good man can be willing to seem bad, except the _being good_ necessitates it. a man must be willing to appear a villain if that is the consequence of being a true man, but he cannot be indifferent to that appearance. he cannot be indifferent to wearing the look of the thing he hates. hamlet, that he may be understood by the nation, makes, with noble confidence in his friendship, the large demand on horatio, to live and suffer for his sake.] [footnote 2: here first we see plainly the love of horatio for hamlet: here first is hamlet's judgment of horatio (134) justified.] [footnote 3: --for having killed his uncle:--what, then, if he had slain him at once?] [footnote 4: horatio must be represented as here giving sign of assent. _1st q._ _ham_. vpon my loue i charge thee let it goe, o fie _horatio_, and if thou shouldst die, what a scandale wouldst thou leaue behinde? what tongue should tell the story of our deaths, if not from thee?] [footnote 5: _not in q._] [footnote 6: the frame is closing round the picture. 9.] [footnote 7: shakspere more than once or twice makes the dying prophesy.] [footnote 8: his last thought is for his country; his last effort at utterance goes to prevent a disputed succession.] [footnote 9: 'greater and less'--as in the psalm, 'the lord preserves all, more and less, that bear to him a loving heart.'] [footnote 10: led to the necessity.] [footnote 11: _these interjections are not in the quarto._] [footnote 12: _not in q._ all shakspere's tragedies suggest that no action ever ends, only goes off the stage of the world on to another.] [page 274] [sidenote: 190] _enter fortinbras and english ambassador, with_ [sidenote: _enter fortenbrasse, with the embassadors._] _drumme, colours, and attendants._ _fortin_. where is this sight? _hor_. what is it ye would see; [sidenote: you] if ought of woe, or wonder, cease your search.[1] _for_. his quarry[2] cries on hauocke.[3] oh proud death, [sidenote: this quarry] what feast is toward[4] in thine eternall cell. that thou so many princes, at a shoote, [sidenote: shot] so bloodily hast strooke.[5] _amb_. the sight is dismall, and our affaires from england come too late, the eares are senselesse that should giue vs hearing,[6] to tell him his command'ment is fulfill'd, that _rosincrance_ and _guildensterne_ are dead: where should we haue our thankes?[7] _hor_. not from his mouth,[8] had it[9] th'abilitie of life to thanke you: he neuer gaue command'ment for their death. [sidenote: 6] but since so iumpe[10] vpon this bloodie question,[11] you from the polake warres, and you from england are heere arriued. giue order[12] that these bodies high on a stage be placed to the view, and let me speake to th'yet vnknowing world, [sidenote: , to yet] how these things came about. so shall you heare of carnall, bloudie, and vnnaturall acts,[13] of accidentall judgements,[14] casuall slaughters[15] of death's put on by cunning[16] and forc'd cause,[17] [sidenote: deaths | and for no cause] and in this vpshot, purposes mistooke,[18] falne on the inuentors heads. all this can i [sidenote: th'] truly deliuer. _for_. let vs hast to heare it, and call the noblest to the audience. for me, with sorrow, i embrace my fortune, i haue some rites of memory[19] in this kingdome, [sidenote: rights of[19]] [footnote 1: --for here it is.] [footnote 2: the heap of game after a hunt.] [footnote 3: 'havoc's victims cry out against him.'] [footnote 4: in preparation.] [footnote 5: all the real actors in the tragedy, except horatio, are dead.] [footnote 6: this line may be taken as a parenthesis; then--'come too late' joins itself with 'to tell him.' or we may connect 'hearing' with 'to tell him':--'the ears that should give us hearing in order that we might tell him' etc.] [footnote 7: they thus inquire after the successor of claudius.] [footnote 8: --the mouth of claudius.] [footnote 9: --even if it had.] [footnote 10: 'so exactly,' or 'immediately'--perhaps _opportunely--fittingly_.] [footnote 11: dispute, strife.] [footnote 12: --addressed to fortinbras, i should say. the state is disrupt, the household in disorder; there is no head; horatio turns therefore to fortinbras, who, besides having a claim to the crown, and being favoured by hamlet, alone has power at the moment--for his army is with him.] [footnote 13: --those of claudius.] [footnote 14: 'just judgments brought about by accident'--as in the case of all slain except the king, whose judgment was not accidental, and hamlet, whose death was not a judgment.] [footnote 15: --those of the queen, polonius, and ophelia.] [footnote 16: 'put on,' _indued_, 'brought on themselves'--those of rosincrance, guildensterne, and laertes.] [footnote 17: --those of the king and polonius.] [footnote 18: 'and in this result'--_pointing to the bodies_--'purposes which have mistaken their way, and fallen on the inventors' heads.' _i am mistaken_ or _mistook_, means _i have mistaken_; 'purposes mistooke'--_purposes in themselves mistaken_:--that of laertes, which came back on himself; and that of the king in the matter of the poison, which, by falling on the queen, also came back on the inventor.] [footnote 19: the _quarto_ is correct here, i think: '_rights of the past_'--'claims of descent.' or 'rights of memory' might mean--'_rights yet remembered_.' fortinbras is not one to miss a chance: even in this shadowy 'person,' character is recognizably maintained.] [page 276] which are to claime,[1] my vantage doth [sidenote: which now to clame] inuite me, _hor_. of that i shall haue alwayes[2] cause to speake, [sidenote: haue also cause[3]] and from his mouth [sidenote: 272] whose voyce will draw on more:[3] [sidenote: drawe no more,] but let this same be presently perform'd, euen whiles mens mindes are wilde, [sidenote: while] lest more mischance on plots, and errors happen.[4] _for_. let foure captaines beare _hamlet_ like a soldier to the stage, for he was likely, had he beene put on[5] to haue prou'd most royally:[6] [sidenote: royall;] and for his passage,[7] the souldiours musicke, and the rites of warre[8] [sidenote: right of] speake[9] lowdly for him. take vp the body; such a sight as this [sidenote: bodies,] becomes the field, but heere shewes much amis. go, bid the souldiers shoote.[10] _exeunt marching: after the which, a peale_ [sidenote: _exeunt._] _of ordenance are shot off._ finis. [footnote 1: 'which must now be claimed'--except the _quarto_ be right here also.] [footnote 2: the _quarto_ surely is right here.] [footnote 3: --hamlet's mouth. the message he entrusted to horatio for fortinbras, giving his voice, or vote, for him, was sure to 'draw on more' voices.] [footnote 4: 'lest more mischance happen in like manner, through plots and mistakes.'] [footnote 5: 'had he been put forward'--_had occasion sent him out_.] [footnote 6: 'to have proved a most royal soldier:'--a soldier gives here his testimony to hamlet's likelihood in the soldier's calling. note the kind of regard in which the poet would show him held.] [footnote 7: --the passage of his spirit to its place.] [footnote 8: --military mourning or funeral rites.] [footnote 9: _imperative mood_: 'let the soldier's music and the rites of war speak loudly for him.' 'go, bid the souldiers shoote,' with which the drama closes, is a more definite initiatory order to the same effect.] [footnote 10: the end is a half-line after a riming couplet--as if there were more to come--as there must be after every tragedy. mere poetic justice will not satisfy shakspere in a tragedy, for tragedy is _life_; in a comedy it may do well enough, for that deals but with life-surfaces--and who then more careful of it! but in tragedy something far higher ought to be aimed at. the end of this drama is reached when hamlet, having attained the possibility of doing so, performs his work _in righteousness_. the common critical mind would have him left the fatherless, motherless, loverless, almost friendless king of a justifiably distrusting nation--with an eternal grief for his father weighing him down to the abyss; with his mother's sin blackening for him all womankind, and blasting the face of both heaven and earth; and with the knowledge in his heart that he had sent the woman he loved, with her father and her brother, out of the world--maniac, spy, and traitor. instead of according him such 'poetic justice,' the poet gives hamlet the only true success of doing his duty to the end--for it was as much his duty not to act before, as it was his duty to act at last--then sends him after his ophelia--into a world where true heart will find true way of setting right what is wrong, and of atoning for every ill, wittingly or unwittingly done or occasioned in this. it seems to me most admirable that hamlet, being so great, is yet outwardly so like other people: the poet never obtrudes his greatness. and just because he is modest, confessing weakness and perplexity, small people take him for yet smaller than themselves who never confess anything, and seldom feel anything amiss with them. such will adduce even hamlet's disparagement of himself to ophelia when overwhelmed with a sense of human worthlessness (126), as proof that he was no hero! they call it weakness that he would not, foolishly and selfishly, make good his succession against the king, regardless of the law of election, and careless of the weal of the kingdom for which he shows himself so anxious even in the throes of death! to my mind he is the grandest hero in fiction--absolutely human--so troubled, yet so true!] 