ACT IV.
Scene 2. Page 107.
Aut. When daffodils begin to peer, &c.
Mr. Steevens, to give himself an opportunity of introducing a neat retort on an attack which his favourite author had sustained, has quoted a remark by Dr. Burney that Autolycus "is the true ancient minstrel, as described in the old fabliaux." With great deference to this learned and elegant writer, the observation is inaccurate. Autolycus has nothing in common with the character of a minstrel but the singing of a song or two. He is a mere rogue, assuming various shapes, and is specifically called so in the dramatis personæ; but it will not surely be contended that all rogues were minstrels, because a cruel and illiberal statute has made all minstrels rogues. It is true that Autolycus declares he had been an ape-bearer; but this was no part of the minstrel profession in Shakspeare's time, though it had been so formerly. As this circumstance however has not been noticed, or at least very slightly, by any of the writers on the subject of the ancient minstrels, it may be worth while to exhibit the following curious story from the second book of The dialogues of Saint Gregory, who lived in the sixth century. At the celebration of the feast of Saint Proculus the martyr, a nobleman named Fortunatus having prevailed on Bishop Boniface to eat with him after celebrating the service of the day, it happened that before the holy prelate had pronounced the usual benediction at table, a minstrel leading an ape and playing on a cymbal arrived. This very much discomposed the good bishop, who exclaimed, Alas! alas! the wretched man is dead; behold, I have not yet opened my lips to praise God, and he is here with his ape and playing on his instrument. He then desired the servants to carry some victuals to the unhappy man, which when he had eaten, a stone fell from the house top and killed him.
Scene 2. Page 109.
Aut. The lark that tirra-lirra chants.
The tire-lire was not, it seems, peculiar to the lark. In Skelton's Colin Cloute we have,
"... howe Cupide shaked
His darte and bente hys bowe,
For to shote a crowe,
At her tyrly tyrlowe."
And in one of the Coventry pageants there is the following old song sung by the shepherds at the birth of Christ, which is further remarkable for its use of the very uncommon word endenes, from the Saxon enꝺenehꞅꞇ, the last.
"As I out rode this endenes night,
Of three joli shepherds I sawe a syght,
And all aboute there fold a stare shone bright:
They sang terli terlow,
So mereli the sheppards there pipes can blow."
Scene 2. Page 111.
Aut. My father named me Autolycus, &c.
It is necessary on this occasion to lay before the reader Dr. Warburton's own words. "Mr. Theobald says, the allusion is unquestionably to Ovid. He is mistaken. Not only the allusion, but the whole speech is taken from Lucian, who appears to have been one of our poet's favourite authors, as may be collected from several places of his works. It is from his discourse on judicial astrology, where Autolycus talks much in the same manner, &c."
Now if any one will take the trouble of comparing what Ovid and Lucian have respectively said concerning Autolycus, he will, it is presumed, be altogether disposed to give the preference to Theobald's opinion. Dr. Warburton must have been exclusively fortunate in discovering that the whole speech is taken from Lucian; that he was one of our poet's favourite authors; and that, in the dialogue alluded to, Autolycus talks much in the same manner. He must have used some edition of Lucian's works vastly preferable to those which now remain. The reader will be pleased to consult the eleventh book of Ovid's Metamorphoses, in the translation (if he have it) by Golding.
Scene 2. Page 113.
Clown. ... three-man songmen all.
"They have also Cornish three-mens songs, cunningly contrived for the ditty, and pleasantly for the note." Carew's Survey of Cornwall, fo. 72.
Scene 2. Page 113.
Clown. ... but one Puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes.
An allusion to a practice, common at this time among the Puritans, of burlesquing the plein chant of the Papists, by adapting vulgar and ludicrous music to psalms and pious compositions.
Scene 3. Page 123.
Per. For you there's rosemary, and rue;
Grace and remembrance be to you both.
The following lines are from a song entitled, A nosegaie alwaies sweet for lovers to send for tokens of love at newyere's tide, or for fairings, as they in their minds shall be disposed to write, printed in Robinson's Handefull of pleasant delites, 1584, 16mo:—
"Rosemarie is for remembrance,
Betweene us daie and night,
Wishing that I might alwaies have
You present in my sight."
This plant, as being thought to strengthen the memory, was therefore given to friends, as in the present instance. See Parkinson's Flower garden, p. 426. Thus Ophelia says to her brother, "There's rosemary; that's for remembrance, pray you, love, remember." The reason for calling rue herb of grace is best explained in the notes on a subsequent speech of Ophelia. See vol. xv. p. 276.
Scene 3. Page 124.
Per. ... and streak'd gilliflowers,
Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind
Our rustick garden's barren; and I care not
To get slips of them.
Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?
Per. For I have heard it said,
There is an art which in their piedness, shares
With great creating nature.
The solution of the riddle in these lines that has embarrassed Mr. Steevens is probably this: the gilly-flower or carnation is streaked, as every one knows, with white and red. In this respect it is a proper emblem of a painted or immodest woman, and therefore Perdita declines to meddle with it. She connects the gardener's art of varying the colours of the above flowers with the art of painting the face, a fashion very prevalent in Shakspeare's time. This conclusion is justified by what she says in her next speech but one.
Scene 3. Page 126.
Per. The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun
And with him rises weeping.
"So upon occasions past, David found it true that he should not have bene heretofore at any time, and therefore professeth, that, for the time to come, he would be no marigold-servant of God, to open with the sun, and shut with the dewe."—Prime's Consolations of David applied to Queene Elizabeth: in a sermon preached in Oxford the 17 of November, 1588, 12mo. Lord Howard, in his Defensative against the poyson of supposed prophecies, 1583, 4to, says that "the marie-golde dooth close and open with the sunne, &c."
Scene 3. Page 131.
Per. ... I'll swear for 'em.
Dr. Johnson would transfer this speech to the king, and Mr. Ritson would read "swear for one," or at least have some alteration; but in reality no change is necessary. Florizel had just said, "so turtles pair that never mean to part," on which Perdita very naturally observes, "I'll swear for 'em." This is no more than a common phrase of acquiescence, as we likewise say, "I'll warrant you."
Scene 3. Page 137.
Aut. ... poking-sticks of steel.
To Mr. Steevens's curious note on these implements for stiffening the ruffs formerly worn by persons of both sexes, it may be worth adding that this fashion being carried to a great extremity, became the subject of many satirical prints. One of the oldest was engraved in 1580, by Matthias Quad, and represents the Devil's ruff-shop, he being called the kragen-setzer or ruff-setter. A young gallant has brought his mistress to have her ruff set. The Devil is engaged in this operation whilst an assistant is heating fresh poking-sticks in a brasier. Another print of this sort by Galle, is copied from a design by Martin de Vos, and entitled Diaboli partus superbia. It has this inscription relating to the poking-sticks: "Avec ces fers chauds qu'on vous icy appreste, En enfer puny seras, O layde beste." Other prints represent several monkeys habited in ruffs, and busily employed in poking and starching them, &c.
Scene 3. Page 138.
Clown. Clamour your tongues, and not a word more.
The word is difficult, and, it is feared, likely to afford nothing but conjecture.
Dr. Warburton asserts that the phrase is from ringing; that to clamour bells is to repeat the stroke quicker than before, previously to ceasing them. On the contrary, Dr. Grey maintains that to clamour bells is a continued ringing, and Mr. Malone, with great probability, suspects that what Warburton has said is gratis dictum. Dr. Johnson says that "to clam a bell is to cover the clapper with felt, which drowns the blow, and hinders the sound;" and Mr. Nicholls, that a good clam is a peal of all the bells at once. According to the treatise on ringing in The school of recreation, 1684, 12mo, "clamming is when each concord strikes together, which being done true, the 8 will strike but as four bells, and make a melodious harmony." The accounts of bell-clamming are therefore so discordant that it seems but fair to give up entirely this sense of the word.
The clown evidently wishes to keep the damsels' tongues from wagging. Now to clam, clem, or cleam are provincial words, signifying to glue together or fasten with glue, and, metonymically, to starve by contraction. Thus,
"... my entrails
Are clam'd with keeping a continual fast."
Massinger's Roman actor.
And we still use clammy, for sticking together. All the Northern languages have an equivalent term. The Germans have klemmen, to tie, and in the old Icelandic we find klæmman in the same sense. Ihre, Lexicon Suio-Goth. In Saxon clam, ligamen, clæmɩnᵹ, a stiffening. Somner Gloss. Littelton has to clamm, or hunger-starve, and Rider to clamme, to stop. The latter is indeed more to the present purpose than any or all of the others: because by supposing, what is extremely probable, an error of the press, all will be set right. On the other hand, clamour is the reverse of what is required. Thus in Macbeth, Act II. Scene 3, we have, "The obscure bird clamour'd the live-long night," and we are not to suppose that Shakspeare could have used the same word in senses so extremely opposite.
Scene 3. Page 148.
Re-enter servant, with twelve rusticks habited like satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.
In the old collection of songs set by Thomas Ravenscroft and others, already quoted in p. [11], there is one called The satyres daunce. It is for four voices, and as follows:—
"Round a round, a rounda, keepe your ring
To the glorious sunne we sing;
Hoe, hoe!
He that weares the flaming rayes,
And the imperiall crowne of bayes,
Him, with him, with shoutes and songs we praise.
Hoe, hoe!
That in his bountee would vouchsafe to grace
The humble sylvanes and their shaggy race."
Scene 3. Page 154.
Shep. Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me
Where no priest shovels in dust.
i. e. I must be buried as a common malefactor, out of the pale of consecrated ground, and without the usual rites of the dead; a whimsical anachronism, when it is considered that the old shepherd was a Pagan, a worshipper of Jupiter and Apollo. But Shakspeare seldom cares about blending the manners of distant ages.
Dr. Farmer has remarked that the priest's office above mentioned might be remembered in Shakspeare's time, which is very probable: the mention of it here is one of the numerous instances of his intimate acquaintance with the ceremonies of the Romish church. Before the introduction of the new form of burial service by Edward the Sixth, it was the custom for the priest to throw earth on the body in the form of a cross, and then to sprinkle it with holy water; but this was not done in pronouncing the words earth to earth, according to a learned commentator: that part of the ceremony was postponed till after a psalm had been sung, the body being previously covered up. An antiphone next followed; and then the priest said these words: "I commend thy soul to God the father omnipotent: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," &c.