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are probably others in which the passage would be found entire; but we have not pursued the inquiry in a carping spirit. The instances quoted fell under our notice without seeking; in various other editions of the present century, we have certainly observed the asserted imperfection.

"Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ?”

Act IV., Scene 5. One of the best passages in the older play is that which corresponds to the scene above quoted from; it is therefore subjoined:

"Fer. Fair, lovely maiden, young and affable,
More clear of hue and far more beautiful
Than precious sardonyx, or purple rocks
Of amethysts, or glittering hyacinth;

More amiable far than is the plain

Where glittering Cepherus, in silver bowers,
Gazeth upon the giant Andromede:
Sweet Kate, entertain this lovely woman.

Kate. Fair, lovely lady, bright and crystalline,
Beauteous and stately as the eye-trained bird;
As glorious as the morning washed with dew,
Within whose eyes she takes her dawning beams,
And golden summer sleeps upon thy cheeks:
Wrap up thy radiations in some cloud,
Lest that thy beauty make this stately town
Inhabitable, like the burning zone,

With sweet reflections of thy lovely face."

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"Then enter two, bearing of SLIE in his own apparel again, and leave him where they found him, and then go out: then enters the Tapster.

Tap. Now that the darksome night is overpast, And dawning day appears in crystal sky,

Now must I haste abroad: but soft, who's this?

What, Slie? O wondrous! hath he lain here all night?

I'll wake him: I think he's starved by this,
But that his belly was so stuffed with ale.
What now, Slie, awake, for shame.

Slie. Sim, give's some more wine. What, all players gone? Am not I a lord?

Tap. A lord, with a murrain: come, art thou drunken still? Slie. Who's this? Tapster! O Lord, sirrah, I have had the bravest dream to night that ever thou heard' st in all thy life. Tap. Yea, marry; but you had best get you home, For your wife will curse you for dreaming here to-night.

Slie. Will she? I know now how to tame a shrew. I dreamt upon it all this night till now, and thou hast waked me out of the best dream that ever I had in my life. But I'll to my wife, and tame her too, if she anger me.

Tap. Nay, tarry, Slie, for I'll go home with thee, And hear the rest that thou hast dreamt to-night."

Sly's adventure bears a strong resemblance to that of "The Sleeper Awakened," in "THE ARABIAN NIGHTS;" but its immediate origin is probably to be found in the following story from Goulart's “AD MIRABLE AND MEMORABLE HISTORIES:"

Philip, called the Good, Duke of Burgundy, in the memory of our ancestors, being at Bruxelles with his court, and walking one night after supper through the streets, accompanied with some of his favorites, he found lying upon the stones a certain artisan that was very drunk, and that slept soundly. It pleased the Prince, in this artisan, to make trial of the vanity of our life, whereof he had before discoursed with his familiar friends. He, therefore, caused this sleeper to be taken up, and carried into his palace. He commands him to be laid in one of the richest beds; a rich night-cap to be given him; his foul shirt to be taken off, and to have another put on him of fine holland. When as this drunkard had digested his wine and began to awake, behold there comes about his bed pages and grooms of the Duke's chamber, who draw the curtains, and make many courtesies, and, being bareheaded, ask him if it please him to rise, and what apparel it would please him to put on that day. They bring him rich appar el. This new Monsieur, amazed at such courtesy, and doubting whether he dreamed or waked, suffered himself to be dressed, and led out of the chamber. There came noblemen, which saluted him with all honor, and conduct him to the mass, where, with great ceremony, they give him the book of the Gospel, and Pixe to kiss, as they did usually to the Duke. From the mass they bring him back unto the palace; he washes his hands and sits down at the table well furnished.

After dinner, the great chamberlain commands cards to be brought, with a great sum of money. This Duke in imagination plays with the chief of the court. Then they carry him to walk in the garden, and to hunt the hare, and to hawk. They bring him back unto the palace, where he sups in state. Candles being lighted, the musicians begin to play; and, the tables taken away, the gentlemen and gentlewomen fell to dancing. Then they played a pleasant comedy; after which followed a banquet, whercat they had presently store of ipocras and precious wine, with all sorts of confitures, to this Prince of the new impression; so as he was drunk, and fell soundly asleep.Thereupon the Duke commanded that he should be disrobed of all his rich attire. He was put into his old rags, and carried into the same place where he had been found the night before; where he spent that night.

Being awake in the morning, he began to remember what had happened before: he knew not whether it were true indeed, or a dream that had troubled his brain. But, in the end, after many discourses, he concludes that all was but a dream that had happened unto him; and so entertained his wife, his children, and his neighbors, without any other apprehension.

introductory Remarks

THE fact is certain - Homer sometimes nods, and Shakspeare now and then indulges in his "forty winks." Yet even in slumber the milder rays of intellect illumine their revelations; and we ought to wonder that such colossal faculties so seldom need a brief repose, rather than complain that they follow the universal law of immortality, and cannot be kept incessantly on the stretch.

It is with this feeling — surely at the least excusable - that we approach the minor Shaksperian dramas; anxious to place their merits in the most favorable position, and somewhat pertinaciously inclined to explain away defects which no amount of grateful scepticism will prevent us from perceiving. If we are told, for instance, that the Dromios, in the play before us, are chargeable with sundry woful puns and coarse allusions, the apology spontaneously suggests itself, "That is true; but then, consider the license of the age; their station in society; what a number of good things are mingled with the bad; how many of the bad may have been foisted into the genuine text; but above all (for it is difficult to think of Shakspeare's characters other than as actual beings), consider what droll good-humored mortals these Dromios are; -a condition of blood that prevents them from withholding even the poorest comical fancy that may tickle the hearer for the moment, however it may damage their reputation as wits, when put upon paper." In real life, amiable fellows of the brightest faculties will sometimes utter what they perfectly well know to be atrocious absurdities, critically considered, from the mere love of fun, and a generous disregard of what more prudent wags would deem their personal pretensions. Charles Lamb appears to have been a prodigal of this description; and Shakspeare doubtless was another in his private capacity, as he was occasionally too much so (let us candidly admit it) in his public one of a dramatist.

Thus much granted, it is by no means necessary to continue a notice of the present play in a tone of apology. If we cannot call it in the highest sense, what it calls itself, a "Comedy," it is certainly the nonpareil of farces; and although probably a very early production, much of the matter, both humorous and poetic, would not have been unworthy of the writer's brighter day. The opening dialogue between Egeon and the Duke, forms an admirable introduction to the subsequent scenes of systematic confusion; it places a clue in the hand of the render that guides him joyously through the labyrinth of cross purposes that from first to last involves and baffles the active though unconscious agents in the turmoil. These perplexities tell excellently in representation. The varieties of voice, &c., that necessarily exist between the representatives of the respective twins, render the whole plot obvious to the spectator; while moderate resemblances of person, with the assistance of similar dresses, are sufficient to make him put faith in the general mystification; it not being painfully difficult to suppose that the victims of the spell may not be quite so quicksighted as ourselves.

A nice observer will detect differences of temperament in the Dromios; and still more clearly in the superior Brothers. The female characters, also, though not of the strongest cast, are sweetly discriminated. And here we cannot but do justice to the respect that Shakspeare invariably exhibits for the higher points of morality and social feeling the Brother exhibits not the slightest sympathy with the blandishments which the Wife seems anxious to lavish upon him, on the supposition that he is her husband. It is this wholesome reverence for substantial decency which, in despite of his occasional indecorums, has effectively co-operated even with his boundless genius to keep Shakspeare continually fresh and welcome in the hearts and eyes of his countrymen and country women. And it is the want of this same soul of purity which-notwithstanding their brilliant fancies, and the galvanizing efforts of laborious commentators — has condemned so many of his contemporaries and successors to hopeless and deserved obscurity.

The "COMEDY OF ERRORS" is doubtless founded on the "MENECHMI" of Plautus; it was first published in the original folio.

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Comedy of Errors.

ACT I

SCENE I. A Hall in the DUKE's Palace.

Ege. Yet this my comfort; when your words. are done,

Enter DUKE, ÆGEON, Jailers, Officers, and other My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

Attendants.

Ege. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, And, by the doom of death, end woes and all.

Duke. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more;
I am not partial to infringe our laws :
The enmity and discord which of late
Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke
To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,
Who, wanting gilders to redeem their lives,
Have sealed his rigorous statutes with their
bloods,

Excludes all pity from our threatening looks.
For, since the mortal and intestine jars
"Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
It hath in solemn synods been decreed,
Both by the Syracusans and ourselves,
To admit no traffic to our adverse towns:
Nay, more,

If any, born at Ephesus, be seen
At any Syracusan marts and fairs;
Again, If any Syracusan born

Come to the Bay of Ephesus, he dies,

His goods confiscate to the duke's dispose;
Unless a thousand marks be levied,
To quit the penalty, and to ransom him.
Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;
Therefore, by law thou art condemned to die.

Duke. Well, Syracusan, say, in brief, the cause Why thou departedst from thy native home; And for what cause camest thou to Ephesus.

Ege. A heavier task could not have been im-
posed,

Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable :
Yet, that the world may witness that my end
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offense,
I'll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.
In Syracusa was I born; and wed
Unto a woman happy but for me,
And by me too, had not our hap been bad.
With her I lived in joy; our wealth increased,
By prosperous voyages I often made
To Epidamnum, till my factor's death,
And the great care of goods at random left,
Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse;
From whom my absence was not six months old,
Before herself (almost at fainting under
The pleasing punishment that women bear)
Had made provision for her following me,

And soon and safe arrivéd where I was.

There she had not been long but she became

A joyful mother of two goodly sons;

And, which was strange, the one so like the other
As could not be distinguished but by names.
That very hour, and in the self-same inn,
A poor mean woman was deliveréd
Of such a burden, male twins, both alike:

Those (for their parents were exceeding poor)
I bought, and brought up to attend my sons.
My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,
Made daily motions for our home return:
Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon.
We came aboard:

A league from Epidamnum had we sailed.
Before the always-wind-obeying deep
Gave any tragic instance of our harm:
But longer did we not retain much hope;
For what obscuréd light the heavens did grant
Did but convey unto our fearful minds

A doubtful warrant of immediate death;

Which being violently borne upon,
Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst,
So that, in this unjust divorce of us,
Fortune had left to both of us alike
What to delight in, what to sorrow for.
Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdenéd
With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe,
Was carried with more speed before the wind;
And in our sight they three were taken up
By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.
At length another ship had seized on us,
And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,
Gave helpful welcome to their shipwrecked guests;

Which though myself would gladly have em- And would have reft the fishers of their prey,

braced,

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Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,
Weeping before for what she saw must come,
And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,
That mourned for fashion, ignorant what to fear,
Forced me to seek delays for them and me.
And this it was, - for other means was none:
The sailors sought for safety by our boat,
And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us:
My wife, more careful for the latter-born,
Had fastened him unto a small spare mast,
Such as seafaring men provide for storms;
To him one of the other twins was bound,
Whilst I had been like heedful of the other.
The children thus disposed, my wife and I,
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fixed,
Fastened ourselves at either end the mast;
And floating straight, obedient to the stream,
Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought.
At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,
Dispersed those vapors that offended us;
And, by the benefit of his wished light,
The seas waxed calm, and we discoveréd
Two ships from far making amain to us;
Of Corinth that, of Epidarus this:
But ere they came, O, let me say no more!
Gather the sequel by that went before.

Duke. Nay, forward, old man, do not break off

SO:

For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

Ege. O, had the gods done so, I had not now
Worthily termed them merciless to us!
For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,
We were encountered by a mighty rock;

Had not their bark been very slow of sail,

And therefore homeward did they bend their

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Thus have you heard me severed from my bliss;
That by misfortunes was my life prolonged,
To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

Duke. And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest
for,

Do me the favor to dilate at full

What hath befallen of them and thee, till now.
Ege. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother; and impórtuned me
That his attendant (for his case was like,
Reft of his brother, but retained his name
Might bear him company in the quest of him:
Whom whilst I labored of a love to see,

I hazarded the loss of whom I loved.
Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece,
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus,
Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought
Or that or any place that harbors men.
But here must end the story of my life;
And happy were I in my timely death,
Could all my travels warrant me they live.
Duke. Hapless Egeon, whom the fates have
marked

To bear the extremity of dire mishap!
Now, trust me, were it not against our laws,
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,
Which princes, would they, may not disannul,
My soul should sue as advocate for thee.
But though thou art adjudgéd to the death,

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