PARALLEL PASSAGES
One of the most elegant of literary recreations is that of tracing poetical or prose imitations and similitudes; and there are few men of letters who have not been in the habit of making parallel passages, or tracing imitation in the thousand shapes it assumes.—D’Israeli.
She fair, divinely fair, fit love for gods.
Milton, “Paradise Lost.”
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.
Tennyson, “Dream of Fair Women.”
Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her ‘prentice han’ she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.
Burns, “Green Grow,” etc.
This thought was anticipated in “Cupid’s Whirligig,” a play by Edward Sharpham, first printed in 1607: “Man was made when Nature was but an apprentice, but woman when she was a skilful mistress of her art.”
“But, oh! eternity’s too short
To utter all Thy praise.”
So wrote Addison, in the well-known hymn. Young writes in the “Christian Triumph,”—
“Eternity, too short to speak Thy praise!
Or fathom Thy profound of love to man!”
These writers were contemporaries. Did the same thought occur to each independently, or did one borrow from the other?
In Dr. Johnson’s epitaph on Goldsmith, in Westminster Abbey, occurs the expression, “Nihil tetigit quod non ornavit.”
The Archbishop of Canterbury, in drawing a comparison between the eloquence of Cicero and that of Demosthenes, says, “He adorns everything he touches.”
Authority melts from me.
“Antony and Cleopatra,” iii, 2.
Authority forgets a dying king.
Tennyson, “Mort d’Arthur.”
Woe to thee O land when thy king is a child.
Ecclesiastes, x, 16.
Woe to the land that’s governed by a child.
“Richard III.,” ii, 3.
Falstaff, in the Second Part of “King Henry IV.,” act i, scene 2, says, “I am not only wit in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.”
If Plato may be believed, Socrates made use of a similar expression about two thousand years before Shakespeare was born. Speaking to Protagoras, Socrates says, “For who is there but you? who not only claim to be a good man, for many are this, and yet have not the power of making others good. Whereas you are not only good yourself, but also the cause of goodness in others.”—Jowett’s Translation.
Time flies, my pretty one! These precious hours are very sweet to thee; make the most of them. Now, even now, as thou twinest that brown curl on that finger—see! it grows gray!
Frederick Locker, “My Confidences.”
I will not argue the matter; time wastes too fast. Every letter I trace tells me with what rapidity Life follows my pen; the days and hours of it, more precious—my dear Jenny—than the rubies about thy neck, are flying over our heads like light clouds of a windy day, never to return more; everything presses on—whilst thou art twisting that lock,—see! it grows gray!
Sterne, “Tristram Shandy.”
Sir, for a quart d’ecu[[5]] he will sell the fee simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it, and cut the entail from all remainders.
“All’s Well that Ends Well,” iv., 3.
[5]. The fourth part of the smaller French crown, about sixteen cents.
Who, if some blockhead should be willing
To lend him on his soul a shilling,
A well-made bargain would esteem it,
And have more sense than to redeem it.
Churchill, “The Ghost.”
Many witty authors compare the present time to an isthmus or narrow neck of land, that rises in the midst of an ocean, immeasurably diffused on either side of it.
—Spectator, 590.
Lo, on a narrow neck of land,
’Twixt two unbounded seas I stand
Secure, insensible. Wesley.
This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas,
The past, the future, two eternities.
Moore, “Lalla Rookh.”
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
Longfellow, “Elizabeth.”
Like driftwood spars which meet and pass
Upon the boundless ocean-plain,
So on the sea of life, alas!
Man nears man, meets, and leaves again.
Matthew Arnold, “Terrace at Berne.”
O, my friend!
We twain have met like ships upon the sea,
Who hold an hour’s converse, so short, so sweet;
One little hour! and then away they speed
On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam,
To meet no more. Alexander Smith.
The Rev. John Beecher, who may be remembered in connection with a criticism upon one of Lord Byron’s poems, was the author of this passage: “As ships meet at sea a moment together, when words of greeting must be spoken, and then away again in the darkness; so men meet and part in this world.”
The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,
Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.
Pope, “Criticism.”
And climb the Mount of Blessing, whence, if thou
Look higher, then perchance thou mayest—beyond
A hundred ever-rising mountain lines,
And past the range of Night and Shadow,—see
The high heaven dawn of more than mortal day.
Tennyson, “Tiresias.”
Cowley, in his “Davideis,” says of the Messiah:
Round the whole earth his dreaded name shall sound,
And reach to worlds that must not yet be found.
And Pope, in his “Essay on Criticism,” referring to the Grecian and Roman poets, says:
Nations unborn your mighty name shall sound,
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found.
In the ballad of Lochinvar, in “Marmion,” are the following lines:
She looked down to blush,
And she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips,
And a tear in her eye.
In Samuel Lover’s song, “Rory O’More,” we also find this:
Now Rory be aisy,
Sweet Kathleen would cry;
Reproof on her lip,
But a smile in her eye.
In the Greek “Anthology” is an epigram by an unknown writer, which is thus translated:
Two evils, poverty and love,
My anxious bosom tear;
The one my heart would little move,
But love I cannot bear.
Burns reproduces this thought in a song sent to his friend Thomson:
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
But poortith a’ I could forgie,
An ‘twerna for my Jeanie.
Douce, in his “Illustrations of Shakespeare,” quotes from Marlowe’s translation of Ovid’s “Art of Love:”
For Jove himself sits in the azure skies
And laughs below at lovers’ perjuries,
and says that from these lines of the “Ars Amatoria” Shakespeare took
At lovers’ perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs.—“Romeo and Juliet.”
Christopher Marlowe died in 1593, and the earliest quarto edition of Romeo and Juliet appeared in 1597.
Happy the man who his whole time doth bound
Within the enclosure of his little ground.
Cowley, “Claudian.”
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground. Pope, “Solitude.”
Eve, in “Paradise Lost,” addressing Adam, says:
With thee conversing I forget all time
All seasons and their change,
Wesley echoes this couplet, hymn 214, in addressing Christ:
With thee conversing we forget
All time, all toil, all care.
Cowley, in a paraphrase of one of Horace’s Epodes, says:
Nor does the roughest season of the sky
Or sullen Jove all sports to him deny.
He runs the mazes of the nimble hare;
His well-mouthed dogs’ glad concert rends the air.
These lines appear in Pope’s “Windsor Forest” thus modified:
Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky,
The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny;
To plains with well-breathed beagles we repair,
And trace the mazes of the circling hare.
In Thomson’s “Seasons” we find in Winter the expression, “contiguous shade,” and in Summer the line,
A boundless deep immensity of shade.
Cowper, in “The Task,” has a line which he evidently owes to Thomson,
Some boundless contiguity of shade.
Churchill says in “The Farewell”:
Be England what she will,
With all her faults she is my country still.
Cowper, who admired Churchill’s poetry as strongly as he detested his principles, says in “The Task”:
England, with all thy faults I love thee still.
But several years before Churchill wrote “The Farewell,” the profligate Bolingbroke concluded a letter to Dean Swift as follows: “Dear Swift, with all thy faults I love thee entirely; make an effort and love me with all mine.”
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies!
How silently and with how wan a face!
Sir Philip Sidney.
With what a silent and dejected pace
Dost thou, wan Moon, upon thy way advance—
Henry Kirk White, “Angelina.”
There is a well-known anecdote of Marshal Blücher, who, on his progress through London, is recorded to have expressed his wonder and cupidity at the wealth of the metropolis in some such words as “Was für Plunder.” In Malcolm’s “Sketches of Persia” is the following:
Seeing my [Afghan] friend quite delighted with the contemplation of this rich scene [Calcutta], I asked him, with some exultation, what he thought of it. “A wonderful place to plunder,” was his reply.
One to destroy is murder by law,
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;
To murder thousands takes a specious name,
War’s glorious art, and gives immortal fame.
Young, “Love of Fame.”
One murder makes a villain,
Millions a hero; kings are privileged
To kill; and numbers sanctify the crime.
Bishop Porteus, “Essay on Death.”
Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not,
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought.
Byron, “Childe Harold.”
’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought.
Wordsworth, “Sonnets.”
The purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature.
“Hamlet,” iii, 2.
True, said the knight, the ornaments of comedy ought not to be rich and real, but feigned and artificial, like the drama itself, which I would have thee respect, Sancho, and receive into favor, together with those who represent and compose it; for they are all instruments of great benefit to the commonwealth, holding, as it were, a looking-glass always before us, in which we see naturally delineated all the actions of life.
Cervantes, “Don Quixote.”
Pitiful enough were it, for all these wild utterances, to call our Diogenes wicked. Unprofitable servants as we all are, perhaps at no era of his life was he more decisively the Servant of Goodness, the Servant of God, than even now when doubting God’s existence.
Carlyle, “Sartor Resartus.”
I am not unmindful of the saying of an eminent Presbyterian, Dr. Norman Macleod, that many an opponent of dogma is nearer to God than many an orthodox believer; or of the words of Laertes on the dead Ophelia and the priest:
“A ministering angel shall my sister be
When thou liest howling.”
W. E. Gladstone, “Religious Thought.”
Evil is wrought by want of thought
As well as want of heart.
Hood, “Lady’s Dream.”
Time to me this truth has taught
(’Tis a treasure worth revealing),
More offend from want of thought
Than from any want of feeling.
Charles Swain.
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
Scott, “Old Mortality.”
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.
Addison, “Cato.”
The life of a man of virtue and talent, who should die in his thirtieth year, is, with regard to his own feelings, longer than that of a miserable, priest-ridden slave who dreams out a century of dulness.
Shelley, “Notes to Queen Mab.”
The most striking scene in “Ivanhoe” is where Rebecca, pursued by Front de Bœuf on the tower of the castle, threatens to throw herself from the battlement saying, that “the Jewish maiden would rather trust her soul with God than her honor to the Templar.” Sir David Dundas tells a story of a Scotch laird who, to escape a criminal indictment, disappeared in 1715. Thirty years afterwards, 1745, he returned, and was arrested and tried for his life. The prosecution relied on the evidence of an ex-bailiff of the laird, who had undertaken to identify him. After gazing at him, he told the judge that he was “verra like his maister,” but on looking at him “weel he doubted, indeed he felt sure that he was not his maister at all,” and as there were no other witnesses, the case broke down. The Presbyterian minister of the place vented his indignation on the witness in the strongest terms,—
“Where, you perjured villain, do you expect to go after death, lying to God as you have done to-day?”
“Weel, weel, meenister,” was the reply, “what you say may be a’ verra true, but you see I’d raither trust my soul with my Maker than my maister with thae fellows.”
In the altercation between Dr. Johnson and Beauclerk (April 16, 1779) as reported by Boswell, Beauclerk said:
“Mr. —— (Johnson’s friend Fitzherbert), who loved buttered muffins, but durst not eat them because they disagreed with his stomach, resolved to shoot himself; and then he ate three buttered muffins for breakfast before shooting himself, knowing that he should not be troubled with indigestion.”
In “Pickwick Papers,” chap, xiv, Sam Weller says:
“‘How many crumpets at a sittin’ do you think ‘ud kill me off at once?’ says the patient.
“‘I don’t know,’ says the doctor.
“‘Do you think half a crown’s worth ‘ud do it?’ says the patient.
“‘I think it might,’ says the doctor.
“‘Three shillins’ worth ‘ud be sure to do it, I s’pose,’ says the patient.
“‘Certainly,’ says the doctor.
“‘Wery good,’ says the patient.
“‘Good night.’
“Next mornin’ he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins’ worth o’ crumpets, toasts ’em all, eats ’em all, and blows his brains out.”
Washington Irving’s “Pride of the Village,” in his “Sketch Book,” has for its backbone the pathetic story of a blasted life and a broken heart, which, it seems likely, may have afforded to Tennyson the suggestion for his exquisite May Queen, inasmuch as Irving’s “Pride of the Village” was also “Queen of the May,” “crowned with flowers and blushing and smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight.” And then in a later scene we see her wasted and hectic. “She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun.” The Laureate’s May Queen is touched by the sweetness “of all the land about and all the flowers that blow;” and the “Pride of the Village” would “totter to the window, where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out upon the landscape.” The May Queen of the poet exults in the honeysuckle that “round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,” and she is anxious when she is gone little Effie should “train the rose-bush that she set about the parlor window,” and to Irving’s “Pride of the Village” “the soft air that stole in [through the lattice] brought with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained round the window.” The May Queen reaches forward to view her grave “just beneath the hawthorne shade” and wills that Effie shall not come to see her till it be “growing green,” and in Irving’s sketch “evergreens had been planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were bent over to keep the turf uninjured.”
Ah, Christ, that it were possible
For one short hour to see
The souls we loved that they might tell us
What and where they be.
Tennyson, “Maud.”
Oh that it were possible we might
But hold some two days’ conference with the dead!
From whom I should learn somewhat I am sure
I never shall know here.
Webster, “Duchess of Malfy.”
The dead! the much-loved dead!
Who doth not yearn to know
The secret of their dwelling place,
And to what land they go?
What heart but asks, with ceaseless tone,
For some sure knowledge of its own.
Mary E. Lee.
The trapper had remained nearly motionless for an hour. His eyes alone had occasionally opened and shut. Suddenly, while musing on the remarkable position in which he was placed Middleton felt the hand which he held grasp his own with incredible power, and the old man, supported on either side by his friends, rose upright to his feet. For a moment he looked around him as if to invite all in presence to listen (the lingering remnant of human frailty), and then, with a fine military elevation of the head, and with a voice that might be heard in every part of that numerous assembly, he pronounced the word “Here.”
Fenimore Cooper, “The Prairie.”
At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas Newcome’s hands outside the bed feebly beat a tune, and just as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted up his head a little and quickly said, “Adsum,” and fell back. It was the word we used at school when names were called, and lo, he, whose heart was as that of a little child, had answered to his name, and stood in the presence of the Master.
Thackeray, “The Newcomes.”
And as he looked around, she saw how Death the consoler,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
Longfellow, “Evangeline.”
In the Greek Anthology, likening Death to a healer of pain and sorrow is expressed in an epigram of Agathias:
Why fear ye Death, the parent of repose,
That puts an end to penury and pain?
His presence once, and only once, he shows,
And none have seen him e’er return again.
But maladies of every varying hue
In thick succession human life pursue.
I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country. Nathan Hale, “Last Words,” Sept., 1776.
What pity it is
That we can live but once to serve our country!
Addison, “Cato.”
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Wordsworth, “Sonnets.”
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn.
Dr. Holmes, “Nautilus.”
’Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope;
But this I feel can n’er be true;
For by the death-blow of my Hope
My Memory immortal grew.
Byron, “Written Beneath a Picture.”
They said that Love would die when Hope was gone,
And Love mourned long, and sorrowed after Hope;
At last she sought out Memory, and they trod
The same old paths where love had walked with Hope,
And Memory fed the soul of Love with tears.
Tennyson, “The Lover’s Tale.”
The following paraphrase is from the German of Lessing:
While Fell was reposing himself on the hay
A reptile concealed bit his leg as he lay;
But all venom himself, of the wound he made light,
And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.
Similar is the last stanza of Goldsmith’s “Elegy on the death of a Mad Dog” in the “Vicar of Wakefield:”
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied,
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death.
Young, “Night Thoughts.”
Virtue’s a bridge (near the Cross whereby
We pass to happiness beyond the spheres)
Whose arches are faith, hope, and charity,
And what’s the water but repentant tears?
Thomas Bancroft.
I saw fair Cloris walk alone,
When feathered rain came softly down,
And Jove descended from his tower
To court her in a silver shower.
The wanton snow flew to her breast,
Like little birds into their nest,
And overcome with whiteness there,
For grief it thawed into a tear,
Thence falling on her garment’s hem,
To deck her froze into a gem. Strode.
Those envious flakes came down in haste,
To prove her breast less fair;
Grieving to find themselves surpassed,
Dissolved into a tear. Dodsley.
There are a thousand doors to let out life;
You keep not guard of all: and I shall find,
By falling headlong from some rocky cliff,
Poison, or fire, that long rest.
Massinger, “Parliament of Love.”
At once give each inquietude the slip,
By stealing out of being when he pleased,
And by what way; whether by hemp or steel:
Death’s thousand doors stand open.
Blair, “The Grave.”
Her cheek [the Sultana Gulbeyaz] began to flush, her eyes to sparkle,
And her proud brow’s blue veins to swell and darkle;
She stood a moment as a Pythoness
Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full
Of inspiration gathered from distress.
Byron, “Don Juan.”
The Countess [Amy Robsart] stood in the midst of her apartment like a juvenile Pythoness, under the influence of the prophetic fury. The veins in her beautiful forehead started into swollen blue lines—her cheek and neck glowed like scarlet—her eyes were like those of an imprisoned eagle.
Scott, “Kenilworth.”
Of some for glory such the boundless rage
That they’re the blackest scandal of their age.
Young.
On Butler, who can think without just rage?
The glory and the scandal of the age. Oldham.
Drayton, in one of his Elegies, says:
Next these learn’d Johnson in this list I bring,
Who had drunke deepe of the Pierian spring.
And the bard of Twickenham tells us
A little learning is a dangerous thing; ·
Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring.
Then, warmly walled with books,
While my wood-fire supplied the sun’s defect,
Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams,
I take my May down from the happy shelf
Where perch the world’s rare song-birds in a row,
Waiting my choice to open with full breast,
And beg an alms of spring-time ne’er denied
Indoors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods
Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year.
Lowell.
With hands clasped before him, and forefingers pressed against his lips, he travelled slowly with his eye along the great rows of shelved volumes on the walls, as though seeking temporary company in their familiar forms and titles.
Many another lonely man, unable to enjoy that strangely soothing companionship for the solitary, which nature gives in the murmuring and music of the woods, has found in his library a forest as tranquilizing to the fevered mind, and discovered between its unfading leaves the birds that make tenderest music for the soul.
Orpheus C. Kerr.
Among the epigrams of Leonidas of Tarentum, in the Greek Anthology, is one which becomes especially interesting if we take into account the writer’s history, and bear in mind that he had experimental knowledge of exile, from having been carried away captive by Pyrrhus. Its subject is “Home, sweet home.”
Cling to thy home! if there the meanest shed
Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head,
And some poor pot with vegetables stored
Be all that heaven allots thee for a board,
Unsavory bread, and herbs that scatter’d grow
Wild on the river bank or mountain brow,—
Yet e’en this cheerless mansion shall provide
More heart’s repose than all the world beside.
No one can help comparing this with Goldsmith’s “Traveller”:
Thus every good his native wilds impart
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And e’en those hills that round his mansion rise,
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms, etc.,
and with the even more familiar lines of the same poem, commencing with
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone.
The attention of Prof. Blackie and other literary and patriotic Scotchmen has been called to the following communication addressed by Mr. J. A. Neale to Notes and Queries: A somewhat extensive study of English literature has revealed to me many instances of imitation and plagiarism; but I have never met with a more remarkable example than this afforded by the following epitaph, published in an old edition of “Camden’s Remains,” and a poem by Burns entitled “The Joyful Widower.” I give the epitaph and the poem in full.
One, to show the good opinion he had of his wife’s soul departed, who in her lifetime was a notorious shrew, writes upon her this epitaph:
We lived near one-and-twenty year
As man and wife together:
I could not stay her longer here,
She’s gone, I know not whither.
But did I know, I do protest
(I speak it not to flatter)
Of all the women in the world,
I swear I’d ne’er come at her.
Her body is bestowed well,
This handsome grave doth hide her;
And sure her soul is not in hell,
The devil could ne’er abide her.
But I suppose she’d soar’d aloft,
For in the late great thunder
Methought I heard her very voice,
Rending the clouds asunder.
THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.
I married with a scolding wife
The fourteenth of November;
She made me weary of my life,
By one unruly member.
Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended:
But, to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended.
We liv’d full one-and-twenty years
As man and wife together:
At length from me her course she steer’d,
And gone I know not whither:
Would I could guess, I do profess,
I speak and do not flatter,
Of all the women in the world,
I never could come at her.
Her body is bestowed well,
A handsome grave does hide her,
But sure her soul is not in hell,
The de’il would ne’er abide her;
I rather think she is aloft,
And imitating thunder;
For why—methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.
Shakespeare’s Repetitions
Lightning.
Lysander. Brief the lightning in the collied night,
Which ere a man hath power to say “Behold!”
The jaws of darkness do devour it up.
“Midsummer Night’s Dream,” i, 1.
Juliet. It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden:
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say—“It lightens!”
“Romeo and Juliet,” ii, 2.
Children.
Capulet. Wife, we scarce thought us bless’d,
That God had sent us but this only child;
But now I see this one is one too much.
“Romeo and Juliet,” iii, 5.
Leonato. Griev’d I, I had but one?
Chid I for that at nature’s frugal frame?
Oh! one too much by thee.
“Much Ado About Nothing,” iv, 1.
Calumny.
Duke. No might nor greatness in mortality
Can censure scape; back-wounding calumny
The whitest virtue strikes.
“Measure for Measure,” iii, 2.
Hamlet. Be thou chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.
“Hamlet,” iii, 4.
Boabdils.
Bassanio. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
The beards of Hercules, and frowning Mars:
Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk!
“Merchant of Venice,” iii, 2.
Rosalind. We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside,
As many other mannish cowards have,
That do outface it with their semblances.
“As You Like It,” i, 2.
Compulsion.
Macbeth. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,
But, bear-like, I must fight the course.
“Macbeth,” v, 5.
Gloster. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.
“Lear,” iii, 7.
Effect of Ill News.
Constance. Fellow, begone; I cannot brook thy sight;
Thy news hath made thee a most ugly man.
“King John,” iii, 1.
Cleopatra. Though it be honest, it is never good
To bring bad news. Go, get thee hence;
Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me
Thou wouldst appear most ugly.
“Antony and Cleopatra,” ii, 6.
Resignation.
York. Things past redress are now with me past care.
“Richard II.,” ii, 3.
Lady Macbeth. Things without remedy,
Should be without regard. “Macbeth,” iii, 2.
Allusion to an Old Proverb.
Gonzago. I have great comfort from this fellow; methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him. If he be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable.
“Tempest,” i, 1.
Proteus. Go, go, begone, to save your ship from wreck,
Which cannot perish having thee on board,
Being destin’d to a drier death on shore.
“Two Gentlemen of Verona,” i, 1.
Prayer.
Angelo. When I would pray and think, I think and pray
To several subjects; heaven hath my empty words,
While my invention, hearing not my tongue,
Anchors on Isabel. “Measure for Measure,” ii, 4.
Claudius. My words fly up, my thoughts remain below;
Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go.
“Hamlet,” iii, 4.
Early Hours.
Sir Toby Belch. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes.
“Twelfth Night,” ii.
Capulet. Light to my chamber, ho!
‘For me, it is so very late, that we
May call it early by and by.
“Romeo and Juliet,” iii, 4.
Fortitude.
Leonato. ’Tis all men’s office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow;
But no man’s virtue, nor sufficiency,
To be so moral, when he shall endure
The like himself.
“Much Ado about Nothing,” v, 1.
Benedick. Every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Ibid., iii, 2.
Posthumous Fame.
Benedick. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in memory than the bell rings and the widow weeps.
“Much Ado about Nothing,” v, 3.
Hamlet. There’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year, but, by’r lady, he must build churches then, or else he shall suffer not thinking on.
“Hamlet,” iii, 2.
Mercy.
Isabel. Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe,
Become them with one half so good a grace
As mercy does. “Measure for Measure,” ii, 2.
Portia. The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath—It becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
“Merchant of Venice,” i, 1.
Madness.
Duke. By mine honesty,
If she be mad (as I believe no other),
Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense,
That e’er I heard in madness.
“Measure for Measure,” v, 1.
Edgar. O, matter and impertinency mix’d!
Reason is madness! “Lear,” iv, 6.
Polonius. Though this be madness, yet there’s method in it.
“Hamlet,” ii, 2.
The King’s Name.
King Richard. Is not the king’s name forty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name.
“Richard II.,” iii, 2.
King Richard. Besides, the king’s name is a tower of strength, which they upon the adverse faction want.
“Richard III.,” v, 3.
Object of Imitation.
Ophelia. O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown,
The courtier’s, scholar’s, soldier’s, eye, tongue, sword,
The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
Th’ observed of all observers. “Hamlet,” iii, 1.
Lady Percy.——He was indeed the glass
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.
——In speech, in gait.
In diet, in affections of delight,
He was the mark and glass, copy and book,
That fashion’d others. “2d Henry IV.”, ii, 3.
Woman.
Gloster. Was ever woman in this humor woo’d?
Was ever woman in this humor won?
“Richard III.,” i, 2.
Suffolk. She’s beautiful, and therefore to be woo’d,
She is a woman, therefore may be won.
“1st Henry VI.”, v, 3.
Demetrius. She is a woman, therefore may be woo’d,
She is a woman, therefore may be won.
“Titus Andronicus,” ii, 1.
“Bad Epitaph and Ill Report.”
Anthony. The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is often interred with their bones.
“Julius Cæsar,” iii, 2.
Griffith. Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues
We write in water. “Henry VIII.,” iv, 2.
Remembrance of Past Feats.
Othello.——I have seen the day,
That, with this little arm, and this good sword
I’ve made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop. “Othello,” v, 2.
Lear. I have seen the day, with my good biting faulchion,
I would have made them skip. “Lear,” v, 2.
Perverted Reason.
Hamlet. Frost itself as actively doth burn,
And reason panders will. “Hamlet,” iii, 4.
——O, strange excuse!
When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse.
“Venus and Adonis.”
Deceit.
Duchess of York. Oh, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes,
And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice.
“Richard III,” ii, 2.
Juliet. Was ever book, containing such vile matter,
So fairly bound? Oh, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace.
“Romeo and Juliet,” iii, 2.
Thereby Hangs a Tale.
In “Othello,” act iii, scene 1:
Clown.—O, thereby hangs a tail.
First Musician.—Whereby hangs a tale, sir?
In “Merry Wives of Windsor,” act i, scene 4, Mrs. Quickly remarks:
Well, thereby hangs a tale; good faith, it is such another Nan.
In “As You Like It,” act ii, scene 7, in the middle of Jaques’s first speech:
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe.
And then, from hour to hour, we ripe and rot.
And thereby hangs a tale.
And in the “Taming of the Shrew,” act iv, scene 1:
Grumio. First, know, my horse is tired; my master and mistress have fallen out.
Curtis. How?
Grumio. Out of their saddles into the dirt. And thereby hangs a tale.
DUO CHE INSIEME VANNO.—Dante.
In that collection of pleasant stories entitled “Count Lucanor,” whose composition enlivened the chivalric leisure of the Prince Don Juan Manuel, perhaps the pleasantest and certainly the quaintest, is that which tells how Don Alvar Fañez won his wife and how implicitly she obeyed him. The most noticeable feature in it, however, is the curious resemblance it bears to a scene in “The Taming of the Shrew,” as the reader will see from the following passages:
“Alvar Fañez was a very good man, and was much honored. He colonized the village of Ysca, where he resided, together with Count Pero Anzurez, who had with him three daughters.
One day Don Alvar Fañez paid an unexpected visit to the Count, who, nevertheless, expressed himself much gratified, and, after they had dined together, desired to be informed the cause of his unexpected visit. Don Alvar Fañez replied that he came to demand one of his daughters in marriage, and requested permission to see the three ladies, that he might speak to each of them separately, when he would select the one he should desire in marriage. Now the Count, feeling that God would bless that proposition, agreed to it.
Thereupon Don Alvar presents his case to the eldest daughter, premising that he is old, enfeebled by wounds, and with a bad habit of getting drunk and kicking up an awful row, which, however, he very sincerely regrets when he gets sober. The young lady, not greatly dazzled by this alluring prospect, refers him to her pa, to whom in the meantime she imparts with much fervor her resolution rather to die than marry the good Don. The same result occurs with the second daughter; when Vascuñana, the youngest of course, “thanking God very much that Don Alvar Fañez desired to marry her,” accepts him. Then Don Alvar in turn “thanks God very much that he had found a woman with such an understanding,” and after this mutual thanksgiving they get married and live happily, Vascuñana, as a good wife should, thoroughly believing in her husband, and letting him have his own way always. In this state of affairs, it happened one day when Don Alvar Fañez was at home, there came to visit him a nephew of his who was attached to the king’s household. After he had been in the house some days, he said to Don Alvar Fañez, “You are a good and accomplished man, but there is one fault I find with you.” His uncle desired to know what it was. To which the nephew replied, “It may be but a small fault, but it is this, you study your wife too much, and make her too great a mistress of you and your affairs.”
“As to that,” Don Alvar Fañez replied, “I will give you an answer in a few days.”
After this, Don Alvar Fañez made a journey on horseback to a distant part of the country, taking with him his nephew, where he remained some time, and then sent for his wife, Vascuñana, to meet him on the road as he returned. When they had journeyed some time without conversing, Don Alvar Fañez being in advance, they chanced to meet a large drove of cows, when Don Alvar said to his nephew, “See what famous mares we have in this country.”
The nephew, on hearing this, was surprised, and thought he said it in jest, and asked him how he could say so when they were but cows. At this his uncle feigned to be quite astonished, saying, “You are mistaken or have lost your wits, for they certainly are mares.” The nephew, seeing his uncle persist in what he had said, and that, too, with so much energy, became alarmed, and thought his uncle had lost his understanding. The dispute, however, continued in this manner until they met Doña Vascuñana, who was now seen on the road approaching them. No sooner did Don Alvar Fañez perceive his wife than he said to his nephew, “Here is my wife, Vascuñana, who will be able to settle our dispute.”
The nephew was glad of this opportunity, and no sooner did she meet them than he said, “Aunt, my uncle and I have a dispute. He says that those cows are mares; I say that they are cows. And we have so long contended this point, that he considers me as mad, while I think he is but little better. So we beg you will settle our dispute.”
Now, when Doña Vascuñana heard this, although they appeared to her to be cows, yet, as her husband had said to the contrary, and she knew that no one was better able than he to distinguish one from the other, and that he never erred, she, trusting entirely to his judgment, declared they were, beyond all doubt, mares, and not cows. “It grieves me much, nephew,” continued Vascuñana, “to hear you contest the point; and God knows, it is a great pity you have not better judgment, with all the advantages you have had in living in the king’s household, where you have been so long, than not to be able to distinguish mares from cows.” She then began to show how, both in their color and form, and in many other points, they were mares and not cows; and that what Don Alvar said was true. And so strongly did she affirm this that not only her nephew, but those who were with them, began to think they were themselves mistaken, until Don Alvar explains the reason and the nephew quaintly declares “himself much pleased” and acknowledges “that Don Alvar was not too considerate or loving.”
After this, Don Alvar Fañez and his nephew proceeded. They had not, however, journeyed long before they saw coming towards them a large drove of mares.
“Now, these,” said Don Alvar Fañez, “are cows, but those we have seen, which you call cows, were not so.”
When the nephew heard this, he exclaimed, “Uncle, for God’s sake! if what you say be true, the devil has brought me to this country; for certainly, if these are cows, then I have lost my senses, for in all parts of the world these are mares and not cows.” But Don Alvar persisted that he was right in saying they were cows and not mares. And thus they argued until Vascuñana came up to them, when they related to her all that had passed between them.
Now, although she thought her nephew right, yet, for the same reason as before, she said so much in support of her husband, and that, too, with such apparent truth and inward conviction, that the nephew and those with the mares began to think that their sight and judgment erred and that what Don Alvar had said was true; and so the debate ended.
Again Don Alvar and his nephew proceeded on their road homeward, and had proceeded at a considerable distance when they arrived at a river, on the banks of which were a number of mills. While their horses were drinking, Don Alvar remarked that river ran in the direction from which it flowed, and that the mills received their water from a contrary point. When the nephew heard this he thought to a certainty he himself had lost his senses, for, as he appeared to be wrong with respect to the mares and cows, so might he be in error here also, and the river might really run toward and not from its source. Nevertheless, he contended the point. When Vascuñana, on her arrival, found them again warmly disputing, she begged to know the cause. They then informed her; when, although, as before, it appeared to her that the nephew was right, yet she could not be persuaded that her husband was wrong, and so again supported his opinion; and this time with so many good arguments, that the nephew and those present felt that they must have been in error. And it remains a proverb to this day that, “If the husband affirms that the river runs up to its source, the good wife ought to believe it and say that it is true.”
Now, when the nephew heard all this, supposing that Don Alvar Fañez must be right, he began to feel very unhappy and to suspect that he was losing his senses, etc., etc.
Compare with this story “The Taming of the Shrew,” act iv., scene 5, A Public Road.
Enter Petruchio, Katharine, and Hortensio.
Pet. Come on, o’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s.
Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!
Kath. The moon! the sun; it is not moonlight now.
Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so bright.
Kath. I know it is the sun that shines so bright.
Pet. No, by my mother’s son, and that’s myself,
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,
Or ere I journey to your father’s house:...
Hor. Say as he says or we shall never go.
Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please;
And if you please to call it a rush candle,
Henceforth, I vow it shall be so to me.
Pet. I say, it is the moon.
Kath. I know it is the moon.
Pet. Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.
Kath. Then God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun.
But sun it is not, when you say it is not;
And the moon changes even as your mind.
What you will have it named, even that it is;
And so it shall be so, for Katharine.
Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress
Pet. (to Vincentio). Good morrow, gentle mistress; where away?
Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?...
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee;
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake.
Hor. ‘A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him.
Kath. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh, and sweet,
Whither away; or where is thy abode?
Happy the parents of so fair a child;
Happier the man, whom favorable stars
Allot thee for his lovely bedfellow!
Pet. Why, how now, Kate? I hope thou art not mad:
This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d;
and not a maiden as thou say’st he is.
Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,
That have been so bedazzled by the sun,
That everything I look on seemeth green;
Now, I perceive, thou art a reverend father....
The resemblance between the English dramatist and the Spanish story-teller is certainly odd, the more so because there is hardly any possibility that either was indebted to the other. Shakespeare’s play was first printed in 1664, and founded on an older play at that, “The Taming of ‘a’ Shrew,” while El “Conde Lucanor,” written in the fourteenth century, was not published till near the close of the sixteenth, in the folio of Seville, 1575. Both writers seem to have drawn their materials from a common stock. Indeed, the story in one form or other was probably in vogue through all the languages of Europe.