The Shakspearian reader : a collection of the most approved plays of Shakspeare : carefully revised, with introductory and explanatory notes, and a memoir of the author : prepared expressly for the use of classes, and the family reading circle

Front matter

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Preface

At a period when the fame of Shakspeare is " striding the world like a colossus," and editions of his works are multiplied with a profusion that testifies the desire awakened in all classes of society to read and study his imperishable compositions, — there needs, perhaps, but little apology for the following selections of his works, prepared expressly to render them unexceptionable for the use of Schools, and acceptable for Family reading. Apart from the fact, that Shakspeare is the " well-spring " from which may be traced the origin of the purest poetry in our language, — a long course of professional experience has satisfied me that a necessity exists for the addition of a work like the present, to our stock of Educational Literature. His writings are peculiarly adapted for the purposes of elocutionary exercise, when the system of instruction pursued by the Teacher is based upon the true principle of the art, viz. — careful analysis of the structure and meaning of language, rather than a servile adherence to the arbitrary and mechanical rules of Elocution.

To impress upon the mind of the pupil that words are the exposition of thought, and that in reading, or speaking, every shade of tjiought and feeling has its appropriate shade of modulated tone, ought to be the especial aim of every Teacher; and an author like Shakspeare, whose every line embodies a volume of meaning, should surely form one of our Elocutionary Text Books. I have invariably found that the attention of youthful pupils is more readily

Vlll PREFACE.

awakened by the force and beauty of his language, than by that of all other writers. Interest is uniformly excited in the student by the infinite variety of character that our great poet introduces into his creations, whilst the perceptive faculties of the reader become quickened and roused into action by the wonderful power he exhibits in " making his persons act and speak by the influence of those general passions and principles by which all minds are agitated." The study of Elocution, under impressions so favorable, becomes an exercise truly intellectual, and the objectionable, but still necessary mechanism of the art, is reduced to its proper subordinate and auxiliary position.

That his ejitire works could not be introduced into schools is' evident ; nor do the " Selections," '• Beauties," and occasional "Extracts," found in our Class Readers, precisely meet the wants of a pupil. These are at best the " bricks," — unsatisfactory specimens of the imperishable structure that the genius of our poet has reared, for the admiration of every age and every clime.

" The real power of Shakspeare is not shown only by particular passages, but much also by the progress of his fables and the tenor of his dialogue." Unconnected extracts will always fail to interest and impress the young to the same extent as a coherent story and an animated scene.

Acting upon these convictions, I have endeavored to extract the essence, as it were, of sixteen of Shakspeare's most approved Dramas — preserving in each the main story entire, by the aid of brief explanatory notes connecting the selections. The strictly poetical passages have been generally retained in preference to the comic portions, my limits compelling me to a choice between the two. Conceding the necessity of this almost imperative choice, I believe that the selections are those, to which the lovers of Shakspeare most frequently and most satisfactorily recur.

Of the liberties I have been compelled to take with my author,

PREFACE. IX

I scarcely know how to speak with becoming propriety. I profess to share the common veneration entertained for the pure unmutilated text of Shakspeare ; and can estimate at what it is worth that ultra fastidiousness, which denounces the great " Poet of Nature " for having made his characters speak agreeably to the spirit of Ms own age. Still, in preparing a selection of his works for the express purpose contemplated in my design, I have not hesitated to exercise a severe revision of his language, beyond that adopted in any similar undertaking — " Bowdler's Family Shakspeare " not even excepted ; — and simply, because I practically know the impossibility of introducing Shakspeare as a Class Book, or as a satisfactory Reading Book for FamiUes, without this precautionary revision.

To render the selections better adapted for expressive reading, I have also ventured to disencumber several passages of unnecessary circumlocution, consulting standard authorities to aid me in this portion of my labors.

I may be held amenable at the bar of criticism, for what may be deemed by many a profanation of Shakspeare.

In extenuation of my temerity, I may be permitted to say, that although the undertaking of such a work as the present, has been urged upon me by convictions, practically enforced, of its necessity, I have long been restrained from making the attempt from conscientious scruples as to its propriety. But to—

" Do a, great right,"

I have done

"A little wrong V

Shakspeare, in the original, is effectually excluded from our Schools ; and modern refinement is fast banishing him from the Home Reading Circle. To bring his profound moral and intellectual teachings to bear upon the early mental training of the young, and to extend his genial influences around the Domestic Hearth,

X PREFACE.

seemed to me justifiable attempts ; expedient to be made at all hazards.

I have therefore prepared these selections with such a carefully expurgated Text, that the Book may be introduced into our Schools with perfect confidence, by the most fastidious Teacher ; and with equal propriety it can be used for reading aloud in the most refined and pure-minded Family, or Social Circle.

In justice to myself, I may be permitted to add, that I have avoided, as far as it was practicable with the nature of my design, the substitution of any language of my own for the pure text of Shakspeare. I have been compelled occasionally to resort to the use of synonymes, but these have been adopted but sparingly. When difficulties beset me in the original, I have preferred, in most cases, excision to alteration. I may possibly have

" Cut beyond the wound,

To make the cure complete ; ' '

but there is high medical authority for believing that this is the most successful treatment in desperate cases.

With this explanatory, and I may add, deprecatory preface, I submit the result of my humble, but very toilsome labors, to the test of public opinion.

New- York, February 22, 1849.

Contents

Page

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, 1

The Merchant of Venice, 235

Act I

SCENE I.— Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle. Francisco on Ms post. Enter to him Bernardo.

Ber. Who's there ?

Fran. Nay, answer me : stand, and unfold

Yourself.

Ber. Long live the Idng !

Fra7i. Bernardo ?

Ber. He.

Fran. You come most carefully upon your hour.

Ber. 'Tis now struck twelve ; get thee to bed, Francisco.

Fran. For this relief, much thanks : 'tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.

Ber. Have you had quiet guard ?

Fran. Not a mouse stirring.

Ber. Well, good night.

IC you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

Fran. I think I hear them — Stand, ho ! Who is there ?

Hor. Friends to this ground.

Mar. And liegemen to the Dane.

Fran. Give you good night.

Mar. O, farewell, honest soldier :

Who hath reliev'd vou ?

Fran. Bernardo hatli my place.

Give you good night. [Exit Francisco.

Ma7\ Holla, Bernardo !

Ber. Say.

What, is Horatio there ?

Ho7'. A piece of him.

Ber. Welcome, Horatio ; welcome, good Marcellus.

Hor. What, has this thing appear'd again to-night ?

Ber. I have seen nothing.

Mar. Horatio says, 'tis but our fantasy ; And will not let belief take hold of him, Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us : Therefore I have entreated him, along With us to watch the minutes of this night ; That, if again this apparition come, He may approve our eyes, and speak to it.

Hor. Tush ! tush ! 'twill not appear.

Ber. Sit down awhile ;

And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we two nights have seen.

Hor. Well, sit wo down,

And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

Ber. Last night of all.

When yon same star, that's westward from the pole, Had made his course to illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus, and myself. The bell then beating one, —

Mar. Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again !

Enter Ghost.

Ber. In the same figure, like the king that's dead.

Mar. Thou art a scholar, speak to it, Horatio.

Ber. Looks it not like the king ? mark it, Horatio.

Hor. Most like : it harrows me with fear, and wonder.

Ber. It would be spoke to.

Mar. Speak to it, Horatio.

Hor. What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march ? by heaven I charge thee, speak.

Mar. It is offended.

Ber. See ! it stalks away.

Hor. Stay ; speak : speak ,1 charge thee, speak. [Exit Ghost.

Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer.

Ber. How now, Horatio ? you tremble, and look pale : Is not this something more than fantasy ? What think you of it ?

Hor. I might not this believe,

Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.

Mar. Is it not like the liing ?

Hor. As thou art to thyself : Such was the very armour he had on, When he the ambitious Norw^ay combated ; So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle, He smote the sledded Polack on the ice. 'Tis strange.

Mar. Thus, twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

Hor. In what particular thought to work, I know not x But, in the gross and scope of mine opinion. This bodes some strange eruption to our state. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Junius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets. As, stars with trains of fire shed dews of blood, Disaster's dimm'd the sun ; and the moist star. Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands, Was sick almost to dooms-day with eclipse. And even the like precurse of fierce events, — As harbingers preceding still the fates, '^

And prologue to the omen coming on, — Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our chmates and countrymen. —

Re-enter Ghost.

But, soft ; behold ! lo, where it comes again ! I'll cross it, though it blast me. — Stay, illusion ! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice.

Speak 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 privy to thy country's fate, Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O, speak !

Or, if thou hast uphoarded in thy Hfe Extorted treasure from the depths of earth. For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death : Speak of it : — stay, and speak. [Exit Ghost.

Mar. 'Tis gone !

We do it wrong, being so majestical, To oflfer it the show of violence.

Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew.

Hor. And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,

HAMLET. O

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day ; and, at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air.

The extravagant and erring spirit liies To his confine : and of the truth herein This present object made probation.

Mar. It faded on the cro\ving of the cock. Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated. This bird of dawning singeth all night long : And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, No feiry takes, nor witch hath power to harm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.

Hor. So have I heard, and do in part believe it. But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad. Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill : Break we our watch up ; and, by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen to-night Unto young Hamlet : for, upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him : Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it. As needful in our loves, fitting our duty ?

Mar. Let's do't, I pray ; and I this morning know Where we shall find him most convenient. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. — The same. A Room of State in tlie same

Enter the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Lords, and Attendants.

King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be green ; and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe ; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature, That we with wisest sorrow think on him.

Together with remembrance of ourselves.

Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen. The imperial jointress of this warlike state, Have we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy, — Taken to wife : nor have we herein barr'd Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along : — For all, our thanks. And now, Laertes, what's the news with you ? You told us of some suit ? What is't, Laertes ?

Laertes. My dread lord.

Your leave and favor to return to France ;

From whence though willingly I came to Denmark,

To show my duty in your coronation ;

Yet now, I must confess, that duty done,

My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France,

And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.

King. Have you your father's leave ? What says Polonius ?

Pol. He hath, my lord, — I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes ; time be thine, And thy best graces : spend it at thy will. — But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,

Ham. A little more than kin, and less than kind. \_Aside.

King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you ?

Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much i' the sun.

Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not, for ever, with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust : Thou know'st, 'tis common ; all that live, must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.

Queen. If it be.

Why seems it so particular with thee ?

Ham. Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath.

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye.

Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, That can denote me truly : These, indeed, seem. For they are actions that a man might play : But I have that within, which passeth show ; These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.

King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father : But, you must know, your father lost a fatiier ; That father lost, lost his ; and the survivor bound. In filial obligation, for some term To do obsequious sorrow : But to persever In obstinate condolement, is a course Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unm.anly grief: It shows a will most incorrect to heaven ; A heart unfortified, or mind impatient : An understanding simple and unschool'd : For what, we know, must be ; and is as common As any of the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we, in our peevish opposition. Take it to heart ? Fye ! 'tis a fault to heaven.

We pray you, throw to earth This unpre vailing woe ; and think of us As of a father : for let the world take note, You are the most immediate to our throne ; Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet; I pray thee stay with us ; go not to Wittenberg.

Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply ; Be as ourself in Denmark. — Madam, come ; This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart : in grace whereof, No jocund health, that Denmark drinks to-day, But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell ; Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

[Exeunt King, Queen, Lords, <^c., Polonius, and Laertes.

Ham. O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew !

Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter !

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world '.

Fye on't ! O fye ! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed ; things rank, and gross in nature, Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! But two months dead ! — nay, not so much, not two ; So excellent a king ; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr : so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! Must I remember ? Ancl yet, within a month, — Let me not think on't ; — Frailty, thy name is woman ! — A little month ; or ere those shoes were old. With which she foUow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears ; — why she, even she, — O heaven ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason. Would have mourn'd longer, — married with my uncle, My father's brother ; but no more like my father, Than I to Hercules : It is not, nor it cannot come to, good ; But break, my heart ; for I must hold my tongue !

Enter Horatio, I>rrnardo, and Marcellus.

Hor. Hail to your lordship !

Ham. I am glad to see you well :

Horatio, — or I do forget myself.

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. Harrt. Sir, my good friend ; I'll change that name with you.

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio ? — Marcellus ?

Mar. My good lord.

Ham. I am very glad to see you ; good even, sir, — • But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg ?

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.

Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so ; Nor shall you do mine ear that \dolence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself : I know, you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore ?

We'll teach you to drink deep, ere you depart.

Hpr. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.

Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student ; I think, it was to see my mother's wedding.

Hor. Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard upon.

Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! the funeral bak'd meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 'Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio .' — My father, — Methinks, I see my father.

Hor. Where,

My lord ?

Ha7n. In my mind's eye, Horatio.

Hat: I saw him once, he was a goodly king.

Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

Ham. Saw ! who ?

Hor. My lord, the king your father.

Ham. The king my father !

Hor. Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear ; till I may deliver, Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you.

Ham. For heaven's love, let me hear.

Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, In the dead waist and middle of the night. Been thus encounter'd. A figure hke your father, Armed at point, exactly, cap-^-pe, Appears before them, and, with solemn march. Goes slow and stately by them : thrice he walk'd, By their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon's length ; whilst they, distill'd Almost to jelly with the act of fear.

Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did ;

HAMLET.

And I with them, the third night kept the watch : Where, as they had deUver^d, both in time. Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes : I knew your father ; These hands are not more hke.

Ham. But where was this ?

Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd.

Ham. Did you not speak to it ?

Hor. My lord, I did :

But answer made it none : yet once, methought. It lifted up its head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak : But, even then, the morning cock crew loud ; And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish'd from our sight.

Ham. 'Tis very strange.

Hor. As I do live, my honor'd lord, 'tis true ; And we did think it writ down in our duty, To let you know of it.

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night ?

All. We do, my lord.

Ham. Arm'd,say you ?

All. Arm'd, my lord.

Ham. From top to toe ?

All. My lord, from head to foot.

Ham. Then saw you not

His face.

Hor. O, yes, my lord ; he wore his beaver up.

Ham. What, look'd he frowningly ?

Hor. A countenance more

In sorrow than in anger.

Ham. Pale, or red ?

Hor. Nay, very pale.

Ham. And fix'd his eyes upon you ?

Hor. Most constantly.

Ham. I would, I had been there.

Hor. It would have much amaz'd you.

Ham. Very like.

Very like : Stay'd it long ?

Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

Ham. His beard was grizzl'd ? no ?

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his Hfe, A sable silver'd.

Ham. I will watch to-night ;

Perchance, 'twill walk again.

Hor. I warrant, it will.

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it. though hell itself should gape,

2*

And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still ; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tongue ; I v^rill requite your loves : So, fare you well : Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you.

All. Our duty to your honor.

Ham. Your loves, as mine to you : Farewell.

[Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo. My father's spirit in arms ! all is not well ; I doubt some foul play : 'would, the night were come ! Till then sit still, my soul : Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelms them, to men's eyes.

[Exit.

SCENE III.— A Room in Polonius' House. Enter Laertes and Ophelia

Laer. My necessaries are embark'd ; farewell : And, sister, as the winds give benefit, Pray let me hear from you.

Oph. Do you doubt that ?

Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor, Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood ; For he himself is subject to his birth : He may not, as unvalued persons do.

Carve for himself:

Then weigh what loss your honor may sustain, If with too credent ear you list his songs. Fear it, Opheha, fear it, my dear sister ; And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire ; The chariest maid is prodigal enough.

If she unmask her beauty to the moon.

Oph. I shall the effect of this good lesson keep, As watchman to my heart : But, good my brother, Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven ; Whilst, like a puff 'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede. ♦

Laer. O fear me not.

I stay too long ; — But here my father comes.

Enter Polonius.

Pol. Yet here, Laertes ! aboard, aboard, for shame ; The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,

And you are staid for : There, my blessing with you !

[Laying his hand on Laertes' head.

And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.

Be thou famihar, but by no means vulgar.

The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel ; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel : but, being in, Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice : Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy.

But not express'd in fancy : rich, not gaudy : For the apparel oft proclaims the man ; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are most select and generous, chief in that. Neither a borrower, nor a lender be : For loan oft loses both itself and friend : And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all, — To thine ownself be true ; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Farewell ; my blessing season this in thee !

Lae7\ Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

Pol The time invites you ; go, your servants tend.

Laer. Farewell, Ophelia : and remember well What I have said to you.

Oph. 'Tis in my memory lock'd,

And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

Laer. Farewell.

SCENE IV.— The Platform. Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus

Ham. The air bites shrewdly ; it is very cold.

Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.

Ham. What hour now ?

Hor. I think, it lacks of twelve.

Mar. No, it is struck.

Hor. Indeed ? I heard it not ; then it draws near the season, Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

[A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off, within. What does this mean, my lord ?

Ham. The king doth wake to-night, and takes his rouse, And, as he drains his draug-hts of Rhenish down.

The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.

Hor. Is it a custom ?

Ham. Ay, marry, is't : But-to my mind, — though I am native here, And to the manner born, — it is a custom More honor'd in the breach, than the observance.

Enter Ghost,

Hor. Look, my lord, it comes !

Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! — Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell. Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee ; I'll call thee Hamlet, Bang, father, royal Dane : O, answer me : Let me not burst in ignorance ! but tell. Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements ! why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urn'd, Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws, To cast thee up again ! What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel, Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous ; and we fools of nature, So horribly to shake our disposition.

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ? Say why is this ? wherefore ? what should we do ?

Hor. It beckons you to go away with it , As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.

Mar. Look, with what courteous action

It waves you to a more removed ground : But do not go with it.

Hor. No, by no means.

Ham. It will not speak ; then I will follow it.

Hor. Do not, my lord.

Ham. Why, what should be the fear ?

I do not set my life at a pin's fee ; And, for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself ?

It waves me forth again ; — I'll follow it.

Hor. What, if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff.

That beetles o'er his base into the sea ? And there assume some other horrible form, And draw you into madness ?

Ham. It waves me still :—

Go on, I'll follow thee.

Mar. You shall not go, my lord.

Ham. Hold off your hands.

Hor. Be rui'd, you shall not go.