When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly,
And pray the gods to give thee happy days:
My charity shall go along with thee,
Though my embraces must be far from thee.
And pray the gods to give thee happy days:
My charity shall go along with thee,
Though my embraces must be far from thee.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v03 - Bag to Ber
Beaumont and Fletcher, in their eagerness to please, took
no thought of the after-effects of their plays; morality did not enter
into their scheme of life. Yet they were not immoral, but merely
unmoral. They lacked the high seriousness that gives its permanent
value to Shakespeare's tragic work. They wrote not to embody the
everlasting truths of life, as he did; not because they were oppressed
with the weight of a new message striving for utterance; not because
they were aflame with the passion for the unattainable, as Marlowe;
not to lash with the stings of bitter mockery the follies and vices of
their fellow-men, as Ben Jonson; not primarily to make us shudder
at the terrible tragedies enacted by corrupted hearts, and the need-
less unending sufferings of persecuted virtue, as Webster; nor yet to
## p. 1679 (#477) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1679
give us a faithful picture of the different phases of life in Jacobean
London, as Dekker, Heywood, Middleton, and others. They wrote for
the very joy of writing, to give vent to their over-bubbling fancy and
their tender feeling.
They are lyrical and descriptive poets of the first order, with a
wonderful ease and grace of expression. The songs scattered through-
out their plays are second only to Shakespeare's. The volume and
variety of their work is astonishing. They left more than fifty-two
printed plays, and all of these show an extraordinary power of
invention; the most diverse passions, characters, and situations enter
into the work, their stories stimulate our curiosity, and their charac-
ters appeal to our sympathies.
our sympathies. Especially in half-farcical, half-
pathetic comedy they have no superior; their wit and spirit here
find freest play. Despite much coarseness, their work is full of
delicate sensibility, and suffused with a romantic grace of form and a
tenderness of expression that endears them to our hearts, and makes
them more lovable than any of their brother dramatists, with the
possible exception of genial Dekker. The spirit of chivalry breathes
through their work, and the gentleman and scholar is always pres-
ent. For in contradiction to most of their fellow-workers, they were
not on the stage; they never took part in its more practical affairs
either as actors or managers; they derived the technical knowledge
necessary to a successful playwright from their intimacy with stage
folk.
As poets, aside from their dramatic work, they occupy a secondary
place. Beaumont especially has left, beyond one or two exquisite
lyrics, little that is noteworthy, except some commendatory verses
addressed to Jonson. On the other hand, Fletcher's Faithful Shep-
herdess,' with Jonson's (Sad Shepherdand Milton's Comus, form
that delightful trilogy of the first pastoral poems in the English
language.
The popularity of Beaumont and Fletcher in the seventeenth cen-
tury, as compared to that of Shakespeare, has been over-emphasized;
for between 1623 and 1685 they have only two folio editions, those of
1647 and 1679, as against four of Shakespeare. Their position among
the Elizabethans is unique. They did not found a school either in
comedy or tragedy. Massinger, who had more in common with them
than any other of the leading dramatists, cannot be called their dis-
ciple; for though he worked in the same field, he is more sober and
severe, more careful in the construction of his plots, more of a
satirist and stern judge of society. With the succeeding playwrights
the decadence of the Elizabethan drama began.
## p. 1680 (#478) ###########################################
1680
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS
BY FLETCHER
(Clorin, a shepherdess, watching by the grave of her lover, is found by a
Satyr. ]
LORIN
C
Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace
The truest man that ever fed his flocks
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly.
Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay
My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes,
To thy still loved ashes: thus I free
Myself from all ensuing heats and fires
Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games,
That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off.
Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance.
No more the company of fresh fair maids
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful:
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes
Under some shady dell, when the cool wind
Plays on the leaves: all be far away,
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side
How often have I sat, crowned with fresh flowers
For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,
And hanging script of finest cordevan!
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee,
And all are dead but thy dear memory;
That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring,
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing.
And here will I, in honor of thy love,
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys
That former times made precious to mine eyes,
Only remembering what my youth did gain
In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs.
That will I practice, and as freely give
All my endeavors, as I gained them free.
Of all green wounds I know the remedies
In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes,
Or charmed with powerful words of wicked art,
Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat
Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears,
Thickened with misty film of dulling rheum:
## p. 1681 (#479) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1681
These I can cure, such secret virtue lies
In herbs applied by a virgin's hand.
My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,
Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks
The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit
Pulled from the fair head of the straight-grown pine.
On these I'll feed with free content and rest,
When night shall blind the world, by thy side blessed
[A Satyr enters. ]
Satyr --Through yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods have I run,
Whose bottom never kissed the sun.
Since the lusty spring began,
All to please my master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
To get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains this coming night
His paramour the Syrinx bright:
But behold a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods, for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live: therefore on this mold
Lowly do 1 bend my knee
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and — but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells —
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better, nor more true.
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good;
Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus: nuts more brown
01-106
## p. 1682 (#480) ###########################################
1682
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them;
Deign, O fairest fair, to take them.
For these, black-eyed Driope
Hath oftentimes commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb.
See how well the lusty time
Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.
Here be berries for a queen;
Some be red, some be green;
These are of that luscious meat
The great god Pan himself doth eat:
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain, or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade.
I must go, I must run,
Swifter than the fiery sun.
Clorin — And all my fears go with thee.
What greatness, or what private hidden power,
Is there in me to draw submission
From this rude man and beast ? sure, I am mortal,
The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,
And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand
And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and
The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,
Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal:
Yet I have heard (my mother told it me)
And now I do believe it, if I keep
My virgin flower uncropped, pure, chaste, and fair,
No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,
Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves,
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
Draw me to wander after idle fires,
Or voices calling me in dead of night
To make me follow, and so tole me on
Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin.
Else why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,
## p. 1683 (#481) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1683
Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites
That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity,
Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell
In opposition against fate and hell.
SONG
CAN
ARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall, like a cloud,
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, light,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!
SONG
G"
op Lyæus, ever young,
Ever honored, ever sung,
Stained with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine,
Let a river run with wine.
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear!
ASPATIA'S SONG
LY
AY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow-branches bear;
Say I died true.
1
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth:
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
## p. 1684 (#482) ###########################################
1684
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
LEANDRO'S SONG
BY FLETCHER
D"
EAREST, do not you delay me,
Since thou know'st I must be gone;
Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me,
But 'tis wind that must be blown
From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odors far excel.
Oh then speak, thou fairest fair!
Kill not him that vows to serve thee;
But perfume this neighboring air,
Else dull silence, sure, will starve me:
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken,
Which being restrained, a heart is broken.
TRUE BEAUTY
M
AY I find a woman fair,
And her mind as clear as air:
If her beauty go alone,
'Tis to me as if 'twere none.
May I find a woman rich,
And not of too high a pitch:
If that pride should cause disdain,
Tell me, lover, where's thy gain?
May I find a woman wise,
And her falsehood not disguise :
Hath she wit as she hath will,
Double armed she is to ill.
May I find a woman kind,
And not wavering like the wind :
How should I call that love mine,
When 'tis his, and his, and thine ?
May I find a woman true,
There is beauty's fairest hue,
There is beauty, love, and wit:
Happy he can compass it!
## p. 1685 (#483) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1685
ODE TO MELANCHOLY
BY FLETCHER
HY
ENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON,
UPON HIS FOX'
BY BEAUMONT
I
f it might stand with justice to allow
The swift conversion of all follies, now
Such is my mercy, that I could admit
All sorts should equally approve the wit
Of this thy even work, whose growing fame
Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name;
And did not manners and my love command
Me to forbear to make those understand
Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom
Long since firmly resolved, shall never come
To know more than they do,-- I would have shown
To all the world the art which thou alone
Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place,
And other rites, delivered with the grace
## p. 1686 (#484) ###########################################
1686
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Of comic style, which only is far more
Than any English stage hath known before.
But since our subtle gallants think it good
To like of naught that may be understood,
Lest they should be disproved, or have, at best,
Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest
But what's obscene, or barks, let us desire
They may continue, simply to admire
Fine clothes and strange words, and may live, in age
To see themselves ill brought upon the stage,
And like it; whilst thy bold and knowing Muse
Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose.
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER
BY BEAUMONT
M
ORTALITY, behold, and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits, soiled with dust,
They preach, “In greatness is no trust. ”
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royal'st seed,
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried,
« Though gods they were, as men they died: »
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
## p. 1687 (#485) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1687
FROM PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING)
ARETHUSA'S DECLARATION
ADY
L
Here is my Lord Philaster.
Arethusa -
Oh, 'tis well.
Withdraw yourself.
[Exit Lady.
Philaster -
Madam, your messenger
Made me believe you wished to speak with me.
Arethusa — 'Tis true, Philaster, but the words are such
I have to say, and do so ill beseem
The mouth of woman, that I wish them said,
And yet am loath to speak them. Have you known
That I have aught detracted from your worth?
Have I in person wronged you? or have set
My baser instruments to throw disgrace
Upon your virtues ?
Philaster - Never, madam, you.
Arethusa — Why then should you, in such a public place,
Injure a princess, and a scandal lay
Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great,
Calling a great part of my dowry in question ?
Philaster – Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be
Foolish: but, for your fair and virtuous self,
I could afford myself to have no right
To any thing you wished.
Arethusa --
Philaster, know,
I must enjoy these kingdoms.
Philaster -
Madam, both ?
Arethusa -Both, or I die; by fate, I die, Philaster,
If I not calmly may enjoy them both.
Philaster -- I would do much to save that noble life,
Yet would be loath to have posterity
Find in our stories, that Philaster gave
His right unto a sceptre and a crown
To save a lady's longing.
Arethusa —
Nay, then, hear:
I inust and will have them, and more
Philaster
What more?
Arethusa Or lose that little life the gods prepared
To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.
Philaster Madam, what more ?
Arethusa -
Turn, then, away thy face.
## p. 1688 (#486) ###########################################
1688
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Philaster – No.
Arethusa - Do.
Philaster - I can endure it. Turn away my face!
I never yet saw enemy that looked
So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
As great a basilisk as he; or spake
So horribly, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his;
Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds ? a lady's voice,
Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life:
Why, I will give it you; for 'tis to me
A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask
Of so poor use, that I shall make no price:
If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear.
Arethusa Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks.
Philaster - I do.
Arethusa — Then know, I must have them and thee.
Philaster — And me?
Arethusa - Thy love; without which, all the land
Discovered yet will serve me for no use
But to be buried in.
Philaster -
Is't possible?
Arethusa — With it, it were too little to bestow
On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me dead,
(Which, know, it may,) I have unript my breast.
Philaster — Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts
To lay a train for this contemned life,
Which you may have for asking: to suspect
Were base, where I deserve no ill.
Love you!
By all my hopes I do, above my life!
But how this passion should proceed from you
So violently, would amaze a man
That would be jealous.
Arethusa Another soul into my body shot
Could not have filled me with more strength and spirit
Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time
In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods,
The gods, that make me so; and sure, our love
Will be the nobler and the better blest,
In that the secret justice of the gods
Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and kiss :
Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us,
And we should part without it.
## p. 1689 (#487) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1689
Philaster
'Twill be ill
I should abide here long.
Arethusa -
'Tis true: and worse
You should come often. How shall we devise
To hold intelligence, that our true loves,
On any new occasion, may agree
What path is best to tread ?
Philaster
I have a boy,
Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent,
Yet not seen in the court. Hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain's side,
Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself
Of many several flowers bred in the vale,
Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness
Delighted me; but ever when he turned
His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep,
As if he meant to make 'em grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story.
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did show
What every flower, as country-people hold,
Did signify, and how all, ordered thus,
Expressed his grief; and, to my thoughts, did read
The prettiest lecture of his country-art
That could be wished: so that methought I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertained
Him, who was glad to follow: and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy
That ever master kept. Him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.
## p. 1690 (#488) ###########################################
1690
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
THE STORY OF BELLARIO
P"
HILASTER — But, Bellario
(For I must call thee still so), tell me why
Thou didst conceal thy sex. It was a fault,
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
Of truth outweighed it: all these jealousies
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered
What now we know.
Bellario
My father oft would speak
Your worth and virtue; and as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so praised. But yet all this
Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost
As soon as found; till, sitting in my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought (but it was you), enter our gates:
My blood few out and back again, as fast
As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in
Like breath; then was I called away in haste
To entertain you.
Never was a man
Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised
So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever; I did hear you talk,
Far above singing. After you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched
What stirred it so: alas, I found it love!
Yet far from lust; for, could I but have lived
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed myself
In habit of a boy; and, for I knew
My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you; and, understanding well
That when I made discovery of my sex
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,
Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seemed, that I might ever
Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount,
Where first you took me up.
## p. 1691 (#489) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1691
King -
Search out a match
Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt,
And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself
Wilt well deserve him.
Bellario -Never, sir, will I
Marry; it is a thing within my vow:
But if I may have leave to serve the princess,
To see the virtues of her lord and her,
I shall have hope to live.
Arethusa
I, Philaster,
Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady
Drest like a page to serve you; nor will I
Suspect her living here. - Come, live with me;
Live free as I do. She that loves my lord,
Cursed be the wife that hates her!
FROM "THE MAID'S TRAGEDY )
CONFESSION OF EVADNE TO AMINTOR
VADNE
E
Would I could say so [farewell] to my black dis-
grace!
Oh, where have I been all this time? how friended,
That I should lose myself thus desperately,
And none for pity show me how I wandered ?
There is not in the compass of the light
A more unhappy creature : sure, I am monstrous;
For I have done those follies, those mad mischiefs,
Would dare a woman. Oh, my loaden soul,
Be not so cruel to me; choke not up
The way to my repentance!
[Enter Amintor. ]
O my lord!
Amintor How now?
Evadne --
My much-abused lord ! [Kneels.
Amintor
This cannot be!
Evadne — I do not kneel to live; I dare not hope it;
The wrongs I did are greater. Look upon . me,
Though I appear with all my faults.
Amintor -
This is a new way to beget more sorrows:
Heaven knows I have too many. Do not mock me:
Stand up.
## p. 1692 (#490) ###########################################
1692
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Though I am tame, and bred up with my wrongs,
Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap,
Like a hand-wolf, into my natural wildness,
And do an outrage: prithee, do not mock me.
Evadne. - My whole life is so leprous, it infects
All my repentance. I would buy your pardon,
Though at the highest set, even with my life:
That slight contrition, that's no sacrifice
For what I have committed.
Amintor –
Sure, I dazzle:
There cannot be a faith in that foul woman,
That knows no God more mighty than her inischiefs.
Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults,
To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe
There's any seed of virtue in that woman
Left to shoot up that dares go on in sin
Known, and so known as thine is ? O Evadne!
Would there were any safety in thy sex,
That I might put a thousand sorrows off,
And credit thy repentance! but I must not:
Thou hast brought me to that dull calamity,
To that strange misbelief of all the world
And all things that are in it, that I fear
I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave,
Only remembering that I grieve.
Evadne -
My lord,
Give me your griefs: you are an innocent,
A soul as white as Heaven; let not my sins
Perish your noble youth. I do not fall here
To shadow by dissembling with my tears,
(As all say women can,) or to make less
What my hot will hath done, which Heaven and you
Know to be tougher than the hand of time
Can cut from man's remembrances; no, I do not;
I do appear the same, the same Evadne,
Drest in the shames I lived in, the same monster.
But these are names of honor to what I am:
I do present myself the foulest creature,
Most poisonous, dangerous, and despised of men,
Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus. I am hell,
Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me,
The beams of your forgiveness; I am soul-sick,
And wither with the fear of one condemned,
Till I have got your pardon.
## p. 1693 (#491) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1693
Amintor -
Rise, Evadne.
Those heavenly powers that put this good into thee
Grant a continuance of it! I forgive thee:
Make thyself worthy of it; and take heed,
Take heed, Evadne, this be serious.
Mock not the powers above, that can and dare
Give thee a great example of their justice
To all ensuing ages, if thou playest
With thy repentance, the best sacrifice.
Evadne — I have done nothing good to win belief,
My life hath been so faithless. All the creatures
Made for Heaven's honors have their ends, and good ones,
All but the cozening crocodiles, false women:
They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores,
Men pray against; and when they die, like tales
Ill told and unbelieved, they pass away,
And go to dust forgotten. But, my lord,
Those short days I shall number to my rest
(As many must not see me) shall, though too late,
Though in my evening, yet perceive a will,
Since I can do no good, because a woman,
Reach constantly at something that is near it;
I will redeem one minute of my age,
Or, like another Niobe, I'll weep,
Till I am water.
Amintor - I am now dissolved:
My frozen soul melts. May each sin thou hast,
Find a new mercy! Rise; I am at peace.
(Evadne rises. ]
Hadst thou been thus, thus excellently good,
Before that devil-king tempted thy frailty,
Sure thou hadst made a star. Give me thy hand:
From this time I will know thee; and as far
As honor gives me leave, be thy Amintor.
When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly,
And pray the gods to give thee happy days:
My charity shall go along with thee,
Though my embraces must be far from thee.
I should have killed thee, but this sweet repentance
Locks up my vengeance: for which thus I kiss thee –
[Kisses her. ]
The last kiss we must take; and would to Heaven
The holy priest that gave our hands together
Had given us equal virtues! Go, Evadne;
## p. 1694 (#492) ###########################################
1694
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
The gods thus part our bodies. Have a care
My honor falls no farther: I am well, then.
Evadne — All the dear joys here, and above hereafter,
Crown thy fair soul! Thus I take leave, my lord;
And never shall you see the foul Evadne,
Till she have tried all honored means, that may
Set her in rest and wash her stains away.
FROM BONDUCA)
THE DEATH OF THE BOY HENGO
(Scene : A field between the British and the Roman camps. ]
ARATACH How does my boy?
Hengo- I would do well; my heart's well;
I do not fear.
Caratach -
My good boy!
Hengo
I know, uncle,
We must all die: my little brother died;
I saw him die, and he died smiling; sure,
There's no great pain in't, uncle. But pray tell me,
Whither must we go when we are dead ?
Caratach aside -
Strange questions!
Why, the blessed'st place, boy! ever sweetness
And happiness dwell there.
Hengo -
Will you come to me ?
Caratach -- Yes, my sweet boy.
Hengo-
Mine aunt too, and my cousins ?
Caratach — All, my good child.
Hengo-
No Romans, uncle?
Caratach
No, boy.
Hengo— I should be loath to meet them there.
Caratach
No ill men,
That live by violence and strong oppression,
Come thither: 'tis for those the gods love, good men.
Hengo— Why, then, I care not when I go, for surely
I am persuaded they love me: I never
Blasphemed 'em, uncle, nor transgressed my parents;
I always said my prayers.
Caratach -
Thou shalt go, then;
Indeed thou shalt.
Hengo-
When they please.
Caratach --
That's my good boy!
Art thou not weary, Hengo ?
## p. 1695 (#493) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1695
Hengo -
Weary, uncle!
I have heard you say you have marched all day in armor.
Caratach — I have, boy.
Hengo-
Am not I your kinsman ?
Caratach -
Yes.
Hengo — And am not I as fully allied unto you
In those brave things as blood ?
Caratach-
Thou art too tender.
Hengo-- To go upon my legs? they were made to bear me.
I can play twenty miles a day; I see no reason
But, to preserve my country and myself,
I should march forty.
Caratach —
What wouldst thou be, living
To wear a man's strength!
Hengo-
Why, a Caratach,
A Roman-hater, a scourge sent from Heaven
To whip these proud thieves from our kingdom. Hark!
[Drum within.
[They are on a rock in the rear of a wood. ]
Caratach — Courage, my boy! I have found meat: look,
Hengo,
Look where some blessed Briton, to preserve thee,
Has hung a little food and drink: cheer up, boy;
Do not forsake me now.
Hengo—
uncle, uncle,
I feel I cannot stay long! yet I'll fetch it,
To keep your noble life. Uncle, I am heart-whole,
And would live.
Caratach Thou shalt, long, I hope.
Hengo--
But my head, uncle!
Methinks the rock goes round.
[Enter Macer and Judas, and remain at the side of the stage. ]
Macer-
Mark 'em well, Judas.
Judas – Peace, as you love your life.
Hengo-
Do not you hear
The noise of bells?
Caratach-
Of bells, boy ! 'tis thy fancy;
Alas, thy body's full of wind!
Hengo-
Methinks, sir,
They ring a strange sad knell, a preparation
## p. 1696 (#494) ###########################################
1696
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
To some near funeral of state: nay, weep not,
Mine own sweet uncle; you will kill me sooner.
Caratach – 0 my poor chicken!
Hengo-
Fie, faint-hearted uncle!
Come, tie me in your belt and let me down.
Caratach - I'll go myself, boy.
Hengo —
No, as you love me, uncle:
I will not eat it, if I do not fetch it;
The danger only I desire: pray, tie me.
[child,
Caratach -- I will, and all my care hang o'er thee! Come,
My valiant child!
Hengo — Let me down apace, uncle,
And you shall see how like a daw I'll whip it
From all their policies; for 'tis most certain
A Roman train: and you must hold me sure, too;
You'll spoil all else. When I have brought it, uncle,
We'll be as merry —
Caratach-
Go, i' the name of Heaven, boy!
(Lets Hengo down by his belt.
Hengo ---Quick, quick, uncle! I have it.
(Judas shots Hengo with an arrow. ] Oh!
Caratach-
What ail'st thou?
Hengo - Oh, my best uncle, I am slain!
Caratach (to Judas) -
And Heaven direct my hand! destruction
Go with thy coward soul!
(Kills Judas with a stone, and then draws up Hengo. Exit Macer. )
How dost thou, boy? —
O villain, pocky villain!
Hengo---
Oh, uncle, uncle,
Oh, how it pricks me! -am I preserved for this?
Extremely pricks me!
Caratach
Coward, rascal coward!
Dogs eat thy flesh!
Hengo — Oh, I bleed hard! I faint too; out upon't,
How sick I am! — The lean rogue, uncle!
Caratach -
Look, boy;
I have laid him sure enough.
Hengo -
Have you knocked his brains out?
Caratach-I warrant thee, for stirring more: cheer up.
child.
Hengo — Hold my sides hard; stop, stop; oh, wretched
fortune,
Must we part thus ? Still I grow sicker, uncle.
I see you,
## p. 1697 (#495) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1697
Carałach - Heaven look upon this noble child!
Hengo
I once hoped
I should have lived to have met these bloody Romans
At my sword's point, to have revenged my father,
To have beaten 'em, -oh, hold me hard ! — but, uncle —
Caratach — Thou shalt live still, I hope, boy. Shall I
draw it?
Hengo — You draw away my soul, then. I would live
A little longer - spare me, Heavens ! -- but only
To thank you for your tender love: good uncle,
Good noble uncle, weep not.
Caratach
O my chicken,
My dear boy, what shall I lose ?
Hengo —
Why, a child,
That must have died however; had this 'scaped me,
Fever or famine - I was born to die, sir.
Caratach -- But thus unblown, my boy?
Hengo —
I go the straighter
My journey to the gods. Sure, I shall know you
When you come, uncle.
Caratach-
Yes, boy.
Hengo --
And I hope
We shall enjoy together that great blessedness
You told me of.
Caratach - Most certain, child.
Hingo-
I grow cold;
Mine eyes are going.
Caratach
Lift 'em up.
Hengo -
Pray for me;
And, noble uncle, when my bones are ashes,
Think of your little nephew! - Mercy!
Caratach
Mercy!
You blessèd angels, take him!
Hengo -
Kiss me: so.
Farewell, farewell!
Dies.
Caratach - Farewell, the hopes of Britain !
Thou royal graft, farewell for ever! —Time and Death,
Ye have done your worst. Fortune, now see, now proudly
Pluck off thy veil and view thy triumph; look,
Look what thou hast brought this land to! -( fair flower,
How lovely yet thy ruins show, how sweetly
Even death embraces thee! the peace of Heaven,
The fellowship of all great souls, be with thee!
111-107
## p. 1698 (#496) ###########################################
1698
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
FROM "THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN)
By SHAKESPEARE AND FLETCHER
R
OSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden-pinks, of odor faint,
Daisies sinell-less yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim.
All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chattering pie,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
## p. 1699 (#497) ###########################################
1699
WILLIAM BECKFORD
(1759-1844)
(
HE translation from a defective Arabic manuscript of the
Book of the Thousand Nights and A Night, first into the
French by Galland, about 1705, and presently into various
English versions, exerted an immediate influence on French, Ger-
man, and English romance. The pseudo-Oriental or semi-Oriental tale
of home-manufacture sprang into existence right and left with the
publishers of London and Paris, and in German centres of letters.
Hope's Anastasius, or Memoirs of a Modern Greek,' Lewis's The
Monk, the German Hauff's admirable
(Stories of the Caravan, the Inn, and the
Palace, Rückert's Tales of the Genii,' and
William Beckford's History of the Caliph
Vathek,' are among the finest performances
of the sort : productions more or less East-
ern in sentiment and in their details of
local color, but independent of direct ori-
ginals in the Persian or Arabic, so far as is
conclusively known.
William Beckford, born at London in
1759 (of a strong line which included a
governor of Jamaica), dying in 1844, is a
figure of distinction merely as an English William BECKFORD
man of his time, aside from his one claim
to literary remembrance. His father's death left him the richest
untitled citizen of England. He was not sent to a university, but
immense care was given to his education, in which Lord Chatham
personally interested himself; and he traveled widely. The result
of this, on a very receptive mind with varied natural gifts, was to
make Beckford an ideal dilettante. His tastes in literature, painting,
music in which Mozart was his tutor), sculpture, architecture, and
what not, were refined to the highest nicety. He was able to gratify
each of them as such a man can rarely have the means to do. He
built palaces and towers of splendor instead of merely a beautiful
country seat. He tried to reproduce Vathek's halls in stone and
stucco, employing relays of workmen by day and night, on two sev-
eral occasions and estates, for many months. Where other men got
together moderate collections of bibelots, Beckford amassed whole
museums. If a builder's neglect or a fire destroyed his rarities and
damaged his estates to the extent of forty or fifty thousand pounds,
## p. 1700 (#498) ###########################################
1700
WILLIAM BECKFORD
a
Beckford merely rebuilt and re-collected. These tastes and lavish
expenditures gradually set themselves in a current toward things
Eastern. His magnificent retreat at Cintra in Portugal, his vast
Fonthill Abbey and Lansdowne Hill estates in England, were only
appanages of his sumptuous state. England and Europe talked of
him and of his properties. He was a typical egotist: but an agree-
able and gracious man, esteemed by a circle of friends not called
upon to be his sycophants; and he kept in close touch with the intel-
lectual life of all Europe.
He wrote much, for an amateur, and in view of the tale which
does him most honor, he wrote with success. At twenty he invited
publicity with a satiric jeu d'esprit, Biographical Memoirs of Extraor-
dinary Painters'; and his Italy, with Sketches of Spain and Port-
ugal,' and 'Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of
Alcobaba and Baltalha,' were well received. But these books could
not be expected to survive even three generations; whereas "Vathek,'
the brilliant, the unique, the inimitable Vathek, took at once
place in literature which we may now almost dare to call perma-
nent. This story, not a long one,- indeed, no more than a novel-
ette in size, was originally written in French, and still lives in that
language; in which an edition, hardly the best, has lately been
issued under the editorship of M. Mallarmé. But its history is com-
plicated by one of the most notable acts of literary treachery and
theft on record. During the author's slow and finicky composition of
it at Lausanne, he was sending it piecemeal to his friend Robert
Henley in England for Henley to make an English version, of course
to be revised by himself. As soon as Henley had all the parts, he
published a hasty and slipshod translation, before Beckford had seen
it or was even ready to publish the French original; and not only
did so, but published it as a tale translated by himself from a gen-
uine Arabic original. This double violation of good faith of course
enraged Beckford, and practically separated the two men for the rest
of their lives; indeed, the wonder is that Beckford would ever recog-
nize Henley's existence again. The piracy was exposed and set
aside, and Beckford in self-defense issued the story himself in French
as soon as he could; indeed, he issued it in two versions with curi-
ous and interesting differences, one published at Lausanne and the
other at Paris. The Lausanne edition is preferable.
Vathek) abides to-day accredited to Beckford in both French
and English; a thing to keep his memory green as nothing else of his
work or personality will. The familiar legend that in its present
form it was composed at a single sitting, with such ardor as to entail
severe illness, and without the author's taking off his clothes,
cannot be reconciled with the known facts. But the intensely vivid
a
## p. 1701 (#499) ###########################################
WILLIAM BECKFORD
1701
movement of it certainly suggests swift production; and it could
easily be thought that any author had sketched such a story in the
heat of some undisturbed sitting, and filled, finished, and polished it
at leisure. It is an extraordinary performance; even in Henley's
unsatisfactory version it is irresistible. We know that Beckford
expected to add liberally to it by inserting sundry subordinate tales,
put into the mouths of some of the personages appearing in the last
scene. It is quite as well that he did not. Its distinctive Orientalism,
perhaps less remarkable than the unfettered imagination of its epi-
sodes, the vividness of its characters, the easy brilliancy of its literary
manner — these things, with French diction and French wit, alternate
with startling descriptive impressiveness. It is a French combination
of Cervantes and Dante, in an Oriental and bizarre narrative. It is
not always delicate, but it is never vulgar, and the sprightly pages
are as admirable as the weird ones. Its pictures, taken out of their
connection, seem irrelevant, and are certainly unlike enough; but
they are a succession of surprises and fascinations. Such are the
famous description of the chase of Vathek's court after the Giaour;
the moonlit departure of the Caliph for the Terrace of Istakhar; the
episodes of his stay under the roof of the Emir Fakreddin; the pur-
suit by Carathis on “her great camel Alboufaki,” attended by the
hideous Nerkes and the unrelenting Cafour”; Nouronihar drawn to
the magic flame in the dell at night; the warning of the good Jinn;
and the tremendous final tableau of the Hall of Eblis.
The man curious in letters regards with affection the evidences
of vitality in a brief production little more than a century old;
unique in English and French literature, and occupying to-day a high
rank among the small group of quasi-Oriental narratives that repre-
sent the direct workings of Galland on the Occidental literary tempera-
ment. To-day “Vathek) surprises and delights persons whose mental
constitution puts them in touch with it, just as potently as ever it
did. And simply as a wild story, one fancies that it will appeal
quite as effectually, no matter how many editions may be its future,
to a public perhaps unsympathetic toward its elliptical satire, its
caustic wit, its fantastic course of narrative, and its incongruous
wavering between the Aippant, the grotesque, and the terrific.
## p. 1702 (#500) ###########################################
1702
WILLIAM BECKFORD
THE INCANTATION AND THE SACRIFICE
From «The History of the Caliph Vathek)
B
Y SECRET stairs, known only to herself and her son, she [Cara-
this] first repaired to the mysterious recesses in which were
deposited the mummies that had been brought from the
catacombs of the ancient Pharaohs. Of these she ordered several
to be taken. From thence she resorted to a gallery, where, under
the guard of fifty female negroes, mute, and blind of the right
eye, were preserved the oil of the most venomous serpents, rhi-
noceros horns, and woods of a subtle and penetrating odor, pro-
cured from the interior of the Indies, together with a thousand
other horrible rarities. This collection had been formed for a
purpose like the present by Carathis herself, from a presentiment
that she might one day enjoy some intercourse with the infernal
powers, to whom she had ever been passionately attached, and to
whose taste she was no stranger.
To familiarize herself the better with the horrors in view the
Princess remained in the company of her negresses, who squinted
in the most amiable manner from the only eye they had, and
leered with exquisite delight at the skulls and skeletons which
Carathis had drawn forth from her cabinets.
Whilst she was thus occupied, the Caliph, who, instead of the
visions he expected, had acquired in these insubstantial regions a
voracious appetite, was greatly provoked at the negresses: for,
having totally forgotten their deafness, he had impatiently asked
them for food; and seeing them regardless of his demand, he
began to cuff, pinch, and push them, till Carathis arrived to ter-
minate a scene so indecent.
“Son! what means all this? ” said she, panting for breath.
“I thought I heard as I came up, the shriek of a thousand bats,
tearing from their crannies in the recesses of a cavern.
You but ill deserve the admirable provision I have brought you. "
"Give it me instantly! ” exclaimed the Caliph: "I am perish-
ing for hunger! ”
“As to that,” answered she, "you must have an excellent
stomach if it can digest what I have been preparing. ”
« Be quick,” replied the Caliph. But oh, heavens! what hor-
rors! What do you intend ? ”
“Come, come,” returned Carathis, “be not so squeamish, but
help me to arrange everything properly, and you shall see that
## p. 1703 (#501) ###########################################
WILLIAM BECKFORD
1703
1
1
what you reject with such symptoms of disgust will soon complete
your felicity. Let us get ready the pile for the sacrifice of to-
night, and think not of eating till that is performed.
no thought of the after-effects of their plays; morality did not enter
into their scheme of life. Yet they were not immoral, but merely
unmoral. They lacked the high seriousness that gives its permanent
value to Shakespeare's tragic work. They wrote not to embody the
everlasting truths of life, as he did; not because they were oppressed
with the weight of a new message striving for utterance; not because
they were aflame with the passion for the unattainable, as Marlowe;
not to lash with the stings of bitter mockery the follies and vices of
their fellow-men, as Ben Jonson; not primarily to make us shudder
at the terrible tragedies enacted by corrupted hearts, and the need-
less unending sufferings of persecuted virtue, as Webster; nor yet to
## p. 1679 (#477) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1679
give us a faithful picture of the different phases of life in Jacobean
London, as Dekker, Heywood, Middleton, and others. They wrote for
the very joy of writing, to give vent to their over-bubbling fancy and
their tender feeling.
They are lyrical and descriptive poets of the first order, with a
wonderful ease and grace of expression. The songs scattered through-
out their plays are second only to Shakespeare's. The volume and
variety of their work is astonishing. They left more than fifty-two
printed plays, and all of these show an extraordinary power of
invention; the most diverse passions, characters, and situations enter
into the work, their stories stimulate our curiosity, and their charac-
ters appeal to our sympathies.
our sympathies. Especially in half-farcical, half-
pathetic comedy they have no superior; their wit and spirit here
find freest play. Despite much coarseness, their work is full of
delicate sensibility, and suffused with a romantic grace of form and a
tenderness of expression that endears them to our hearts, and makes
them more lovable than any of their brother dramatists, with the
possible exception of genial Dekker. The spirit of chivalry breathes
through their work, and the gentleman and scholar is always pres-
ent. For in contradiction to most of their fellow-workers, they were
not on the stage; they never took part in its more practical affairs
either as actors or managers; they derived the technical knowledge
necessary to a successful playwright from their intimacy with stage
folk.
As poets, aside from their dramatic work, they occupy a secondary
place. Beaumont especially has left, beyond one or two exquisite
lyrics, little that is noteworthy, except some commendatory verses
addressed to Jonson. On the other hand, Fletcher's Faithful Shep-
herdess,' with Jonson's (Sad Shepherdand Milton's Comus, form
that delightful trilogy of the first pastoral poems in the English
language.
The popularity of Beaumont and Fletcher in the seventeenth cen-
tury, as compared to that of Shakespeare, has been over-emphasized;
for between 1623 and 1685 they have only two folio editions, those of
1647 and 1679, as against four of Shakespeare. Their position among
the Elizabethans is unique. They did not found a school either in
comedy or tragedy. Massinger, who had more in common with them
than any other of the leading dramatists, cannot be called their dis-
ciple; for though he worked in the same field, he is more sober and
severe, more careful in the construction of his plots, more of a
satirist and stern judge of society. With the succeeding playwrights
the decadence of the Elizabethan drama began.
## p. 1680 (#478) ###########################################
1680
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS
BY FLETCHER
(Clorin, a shepherdess, watching by the grave of her lover, is found by a
Satyr. ]
LORIN
C
Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace
The truest man that ever fed his flocks
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly.
Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay
My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes,
To thy still loved ashes: thus I free
Myself from all ensuing heats and fires
Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games,
That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off.
Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance.
No more the company of fresh fair maids
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful:
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes
Under some shady dell, when the cool wind
Plays on the leaves: all be far away,
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side
How often have I sat, crowned with fresh flowers
For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,
And hanging script of finest cordevan!
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee,
And all are dead but thy dear memory;
That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring,
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing.
And here will I, in honor of thy love,
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys
That former times made precious to mine eyes,
Only remembering what my youth did gain
In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs.
That will I practice, and as freely give
All my endeavors, as I gained them free.
Of all green wounds I know the remedies
In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes,
Or charmed with powerful words of wicked art,
Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat
Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears,
Thickened with misty film of dulling rheum:
## p. 1681 (#479) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1681
These I can cure, such secret virtue lies
In herbs applied by a virgin's hand.
My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,
Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks
The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit
Pulled from the fair head of the straight-grown pine.
On these I'll feed with free content and rest,
When night shall blind the world, by thy side blessed
[A Satyr enters. ]
Satyr --Through yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods have I run,
Whose bottom never kissed the sun.
Since the lusty spring began,
All to please my master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
To get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains this coming night
His paramour the Syrinx bright:
But behold a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods, for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live: therefore on this mold
Lowly do 1 bend my knee
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and — but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells —
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better, nor more true.
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good;
Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus: nuts more brown
01-106
## p. 1682 (#480) ###########################################
1682
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them;
Deign, O fairest fair, to take them.
For these, black-eyed Driope
Hath oftentimes commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb.
See how well the lusty time
Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.
Here be berries for a queen;
Some be red, some be green;
These are of that luscious meat
The great god Pan himself doth eat:
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain, or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade.
I must go, I must run,
Swifter than the fiery sun.
Clorin — And all my fears go with thee.
What greatness, or what private hidden power,
Is there in me to draw submission
From this rude man and beast ? sure, I am mortal,
The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,
And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand
And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and
The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,
Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal:
Yet I have heard (my mother told it me)
And now I do believe it, if I keep
My virgin flower uncropped, pure, chaste, and fair,
No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,
Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves,
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
Draw me to wander after idle fires,
Or voices calling me in dead of night
To make me follow, and so tole me on
Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin.
Else why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,
## p. 1683 (#481) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1683
Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites
That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity,
Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell
In opposition against fate and hell.
SONG
CAN
ARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall, like a cloud,
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, light,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!
SONG
G"
op Lyæus, ever young,
Ever honored, ever sung,
Stained with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine,
Let a river run with wine.
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear!
ASPATIA'S SONG
LY
AY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow-branches bear;
Say I died true.
1
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth:
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
## p. 1684 (#482) ###########################################
1684
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
LEANDRO'S SONG
BY FLETCHER
D"
EAREST, do not you delay me,
Since thou know'st I must be gone;
Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me,
But 'tis wind that must be blown
From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odors far excel.
Oh then speak, thou fairest fair!
Kill not him that vows to serve thee;
But perfume this neighboring air,
Else dull silence, sure, will starve me:
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken,
Which being restrained, a heart is broken.
TRUE BEAUTY
M
AY I find a woman fair,
And her mind as clear as air:
If her beauty go alone,
'Tis to me as if 'twere none.
May I find a woman rich,
And not of too high a pitch:
If that pride should cause disdain,
Tell me, lover, where's thy gain?
May I find a woman wise,
And her falsehood not disguise :
Hath she wit as she hath will,
Double armed she is to ill.
May I find a woman kind,
And not wavering like the wind :
How should I call that love mine,
When 'tis his, and his, and thine ?
May I find a woman true,
There is beauty's fairest hue,
There is beauty, love, and wit:
Happy he can compass it!
## p. 1685 (#483) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1685
ODE TO MELANCHOLY
BY FLETCHER
HY
ENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON,
UPON HIS FOX'
BY BEAUMONT
I
f it might stand with justice to allow
The swift conversion of all follies, now
Such is my mercy, that I could admit
All sorts should equally approve the wit
Of this thy even work, whose growing fame
Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name;
And did not manners and my love command
Me to forbear to make those understand
Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom
Long since firmly resolved, shall never come
To know more than they do,-- I would have shown
To all the world the art which thou alone
Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place,
And other rites, delivered with the grace
## p. 1686 (#484) ###########################################
1686
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Of comic style, which only is far more
Than any English stage hath known before.
But since our subtle gallants think it good
To like of naught that may be understood,
Lest they should be disproved, or have, at best,
Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest
But what's obscene, or barks, let us desire
They may continue, simply to admire
Fine clothes and strange words, and may live, in age
To see themselves ill brought upon the stage,
And like it; whilst thy bold and knowing Muse
Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose.
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER
BY BEAUMONT
M
ORTALITY, behold, and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits, soiled with dust,
They preach, “In greatness is no trust. ”
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royal'st seed,
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried,
« Though gods they were, as men they died: »
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
## p. 1687 (#485) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1687
FROM PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING)
ARETHUSA'S DECLARATION
ADY
L
Here is my Lord Philaster.
Arethusa -
Oh, 'tis well.
Withdraw yourself.
[Exit Lady.
Philaster -
Madam, your messenger
Made me believe you wished to speak with me.
Arethusa — 'Tis true, Philaster, but the words are such
I have to say, and do so ill beseem
The mouth of woman, that I wish them said,
And yet am loath to speak them. Have you known
That I have aught detracted from your worth?
Have I in person wronged you? or have set
My baser instruments to throw disgrace
Upon your virtues ?
Philaster - Never, madam, you.
Arethusa — Why then should you, in such a public place,
Injure a princess, and a scandal lay
Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great,
Calling a great part of my dowry in question ?
Philaster – Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be
Foolish: but, for your fair and virtuous self,
I could afford myself to have no right
To any thing you wished.
Arethusa --
Philaster, know,
I must enjoy these kingdoms.
Philaster -
Madam, both ?
Arethusa -Both, or I die; by fate, I die, Philaster,
If I not calmly may enjoy them both.
Philaster -- I would do much to save that noble life,
Yet would be loath to have posterity
Find in our stories, that Philaster gave
His right unto a sceptre and a crown
To save a lady's longing.
Arethusa —
Nay, then, hear:
I inust and will have them, and more
Philaster
What more?
Arethusa Or lose that little life the gods prepared
To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.
Philaster Madam, what more ?
Arethusa -
Turn, then, away thy face.
## p. 1688 (#486) ###########################################
1688
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Philaster – No.
Arethusa - Do.
Philaster - I can endure it. Turn away my face!
I never yet saw enemy that looked
So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
As great a basilisk as he; or spake
So horribly, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his;
Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds ? a lady's voice,
Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life:
Why, I will give it you; for 'tis to me
A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask
Of so poor use, that I shall make no price:
If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear.
Arethusa Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks.
Philaster - I do.
Arethusa — Then know, I must have them and thee.
Philaster — And me?
Arethusa - Thy love; without which, all the land
Discovered yet will serve me for no use
But to be buried in.
Philaster -
Is't possible?
Arethusa — With it, it were too little to bestow
On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me dead,
(Which, know, it may,) I have unript my breast.
Philaster — Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts
To lay a train for this contemned life,
Which you may have for asking: to suspect
Were base, where I deserve no ill.
Love you!
By all my hopes I do, above my life!
But how this passion should proceed from you
So violently, would amaze a man
That would be jealous.
Arethusa Another soul into my body shot
Could not have filled me with more strength and spirit
Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time
In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods,
The gods, that make me so; and sure, our love
Will be the nobler and the better blest,
In that the secret justice of the gods
Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and kiss :
Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us,
And we should part without it.
## p. 1689 (#487) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1689
Philaster
'Twill be ill
I should abide here long.
Arethusa -
'Tis true: and worse
You should come often. How shall we devise
To hold intelligence, that our true loves,
On any new occasion, may agree
What path is best to tread ?
Philaster
I have a boy,
Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent,
Yet not seen in the court. Hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain's side,
Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself
Of many several flowers bred in the vale,
Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness
Delighted me; but ever when he turned
His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep,
As if he meant to make 'em grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story.
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did show
What every flower, as country-people hold,
Did signify, and how all, ordered thus,
Expressed his grief; and, to my thoughts, did read
The prettiest lecture of his country-art
That could be wished: so that methought I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertained
Him, who was glad to follow: and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy
That ever master kept. Him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.
## p. 1690 (#488) ###########################################
1690
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
THE STORY OF BELLARIO
P"
HILASTER — But, Bellario
(For I must call thee still so), tell me why
Thou didst conceal thy sex. It was a fault,
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
Of truth outweighed it: all these jealousies
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered
What now we know.
Bellario
My father oft would speak
Your worth and virtue; and as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so praised. But yet all this
Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost
As soon as found; till, sitting in my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought (but it was you), enter our gates:
My blood few out and back again, as fast
As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in
Like breath; then was I called away in haste
To entertain you.
Never was a man
Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised
So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever; I did hear you talk,
Far above singing. After you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched
What stirred it so: alas, I found it love!
Yet far from lust; for, could I but have lived
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed myself
In habit of a boy; and, for I knew
My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you; and, understanding well
That when I made discovery of my sex
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,
Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seemed, that I might ever
Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount,
Where first you took me up.
## p. 1691 (#489) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1691
King -
Search out a match
Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt,
And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself
Wilt well deserve him.
Bellario -Never, sir, will I
Marry; it is a thing within my vow:
But if I may have leave to serve the princess,
To see the virtues of her lord and her,
I shall have hope to live.
Arethusa
I, Philaster,
Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady
Drest like a page to serve you; nor will I
Suspect her living here. - Come, live with me;
Live free as I do. She that loves my lord,
Cursed be the wife that hates her!
FROM "THE MAID'S TRAGEDY )
CONFESSION OF EVADNE TO AMINTOR
VADNE
E
Would I could say so [farewell] to my black dis-
grace!
Oh, where have I been all this time? how friended,
That I should lose myself thus desperately,
And none for pity show me how I wandered ?
There is not in the compass of the light
A more unhappy creature : sure, I am monstrous;
For I have done those follies, those mad mischiefs,
Would dare a woman. Oh, my loaden soul,
Be not so cruel to me; choke not up
The way to my repentance!
[Enter Amintor. ]
O my lord!
Amintor How now?
Evadne --
My much-abused lord ! [Kneels.
Amintor
This cannot be!
Evadne — I do not kneel to live; I dare not hope it;
The wrongs I did are greater. Look upon . me,
Though I appear with all my faults.
Amintor -
This is a new way to beget more sorrows:
Heaven knows I have too many. Do not mock me:
Stand up.
## p. 1692 (#490) ###########################################
1692
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Though I am tame, and bred up with my wrongs,
Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap,
Like a hand-wolf, into my natural wildness,
And do an outrage: prithee, do not mock me.
Evadne. - My whole life is so leprous, it infects
All my repentance. I would buy your pardon,
Though at the highest set, even with my life:
That slight contrition, that's no sacrifice
For what I have committed.
Amintor –
Sure, I dazzle:
There cannot be a faith in that foul woman,
That knows no God more mighty than her inischiefs.
Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults,
To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe
There's any seed of virtue in that woman
Left to shoot up that dares go on in sin
Known, and so known as thine is ? O Evadne!
Would there were any safety in thy sex,
That I might put a thousand sorrows off,
And credit thy repentance! but I must not:
Thou hast brought me to that dull calamity,
To that strange misbelief of all the world
And all things that are in it, that I fear
I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave,
Only remembering that I grieve.
Evadne -
My lord,
Give me your griefs: you are an innocent,
A soul as white as Heaven; let not my sins
Perish your noble youth. I do not fall here
To shadow by dissembling with my tears,
(As all say women can,) or to make less
What my hot will hath done, which Heaven and you
Know to be tougher than the hand of time
Can cut from man's remembrances; no, I do not;
I do appear the same, the same Evadne,
Drest in the shames I lived in, the same monster.
But these are names of honor to what I am:
I do present myself the foulest creature,
Most poisonous, dangerous, and despised of men,
Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus. I am hell,
Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me,
The beams of your forgiveness; I am soul-sick,
And wither with the fear of one condemned,
Till I have got your pardon.
## p. 1693 (#491) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1693
Amintor -
Rise, Evadne.
Those heavenly powers that put this good into thee
Grant a continuance of it! I forgive thee:
Make thyself worthy of it; and take heed,
Take heed, Evadne, this be serious.
Mock not the powers above, that can and dare
Give thee a great example of their justice
To all ensuing ages, if thou playest
With thy repentance, the best sacrifice.
Evadne — I have done nothing good to win belief,
My life hath been so faithless. All the creatures
Made for Heaven's honors have their ends, and good ones,
All but the cozening crocodiles, false women:
They reign here like those plagues, those killing sores,
Men pray against; and when they die, like tales
Ill told and unbelieved, they pass away,
And go to dust forgotten. But, my lord,
Those short days I shall number to my rest
(As many must not see me) shall, though too late,
Though in my evening, yet perceive a will,
Since I can do no good, because a woman,
Reach constantly at something that is near it;
I will redeem one minute of my age,
Or, like another Niobe, I'll weep,
Till I am water.
Amintor - I am now dissolved:
My frozen soul melts. May each sin thou hast,
Find a new mercy! Rise; I am at peace.
(Evadne rises. ]
Hadst thou been thus, thus excellently good,
Before that devil-king tempted thy frailty,
Sure thou hadst made a star. Give me thy hand:
From this time I will know thee; and as far
As honor gives me leave, be thy Amintor.
When we meet next, I will salute thee fairly,
And pray the gods to give thee happy days:
My charity shall go along with thee,
Though my embraces must be far from thee.
I should have killed thee, but this sweet repentance
Locks up my vengeance: for which thus I kiss thee –
[Kisses her. ]
The last kiss we must take; and would to Heaven
The holy priest that gave our hands together
Had given us equal virtues! Go, Evadne;
## p. 1694 (#492) ###########################################
1694
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
The gods thus part our bodies. Have a care
My honor falls no farther: I am well, then.
Evadne — All the dear joys here, and above hereafter,
Crown thy fair soul! Thus I take leave, my lord;
And never shall you see the foul Evadne,
Till she have tried all honored means, that may
Set her in rest and wash her stains away.
FROM BONDUCA)
THE DEATH OF THE BOY HENGO
(Scene : A field between the British and the Roman camps. ]
ARATACH How does my boy?
Hengo- I would do well; my heart's well;
I do not fear.
Caratach -
My good boy!
Hengo
I know, uncle,
We must all die: my little brother died;
I saw him die, and he died smiling; sure,
There's no great pain in't, uncle. But pray tell me,
Whither must we go when we are dead ?
Caratach aside -
Strange questions!
Why, the blessed'st place, boy! ever sweetness
And happiness dwell there.
Hengo -
Will you come to me ?
Caratach -- Yes, my sweet boy.
Hengo-
Mine aunt too, and my cousins ?
Caratach — All, my good child.
Hengo-
No Romans, uncle?
Caratach
No, boy.
Hengo— I should be loath to meet them there.
Caratach
No ill men,
That live by violence and strong oppression,
Come thither: 'tis for those the gods love, good men.
Hengo— Why, then, I care not when I go, for surely
I am persuaded they love me: I never
Blasphemed 'em, uncle, nor transgressed my parents;
I always said my prayers.
Caratach -
Thou shalt go, then;
Indeed thou shalt.
Hengo-
When they please.
Caratach --
That's my good boy!
Art thou not weary, Hengo ?
## p. 1695 (#493) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1695
Hengo -
Weary, uncle!
I have heard you say you have marched all day in armor.
Caratach — I have, boy.
Hengo-
Am not I your kinsman ?
Caratach -
Yes.
Hengo — And am not I as fully allied unto you
In those brave things as blood ?
Caratach-
Thou art too tender.
Hengo-- To go upon my legs? they were made to bear me.
I can play twenty miles a day; I see no reason
But, to preserve my country and myself,
I should march forty.
Caratach —
What wouldst thou be, living
To wear a man's strength!
Hengo-
Why, a Caratach,
A Roman-hater, a scourge sent from Heaven
To whip these proud thieves from our kingdom. Hark!
[Drum within.
[They are on a rock in the rear of a wood. ]
Caratach — Courage, my boy! I have found meat: look,
Hengo,
Look where some blessed Briton, to preserve thee,
Has hung a little food and drink: cheer up, boy;
Do not forsake me now.
Hengo—
uncle, uncle,
I feel I cannot stay long! yet I'll fetch it,
To keep your noble life. Uncle, I am heart-whole,
And would live.
Caratach Thou shalt, long, I hope.
Hengo--
But my head, uncle!
Methinks the rock goes round.
[Enter Macer and Judas, and remain at the side of the stage. ]
Macer-
Mark 'em well, Judas.
Judas – Peace, as you love your life.
Hengo-
Do not you hear
The noise of bells?
Caratach-
Of bells, boy ! 'tis thy fancy;
Alas, thy body's full of wind!
Hengo-
Methinks, sir,
They ring a strange sad knell, a preparation
## p. 1696 (#494) ###########################################
1696
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
To some near funeral of state: nay, weep not,
Mine own sweet uncle; you will kill me sooner.
Caratach – 0 my poor chicken!
Hengo-
Fie, faint-hearted uncle!
Come, tie me in your belt and let me down.
Caratach - I'll go myself, boy.
Hengo —
No, as you love me, uncle:
I will not eat it, if I do not fetch it;
The danger only I desire: pray, tie me.
[child,
Caratach -- I will, and all my care hang o'er thee! Come,
My valiant child!
Hengo — Let me down apace, uncle,
And you shall see how like a daw I'll whip it
From all their policies; for 'tis most certain
A Roman train: and you must hold me sure, too;
You'll spoil all else. When I have brought it, uncle,
We'll be as merry —
Caratach-
Go, i' the name of Heaven, boy!
(Lets Hengo down by his belt.
Hengo ---Quick, quick, uncle! I have it.
(Judas shots Hengo with an arrow. ] Oh!
Caratach-
What ail'st thou?
Hengo - Oh, my best uncle, I am slain!
Caratach (to Judas) -
And Heaven direct my hand! destruction
Go with thy coward soul!
(Kills Judas with a stone, and then draws up Hengo. Exit Macer. )
How dost thou, boy? —
O villain, pocky villain!
Hengo---
Oh, uncle, uncle,
Oh, how it pricks me! -am I preserved for this?
Extremely pricks me!
Caratach
Coward, rascal coward!
Dogs eat thy flesh!
Hengo — Oh, I bleed hard! I faint too; out upon't,
How sick I am! — The lean rogue, uncle!
Caratach -
Look, boy;
I have laid him sure enough.
Hengo -
Have you knocked his brains out?
Caratach-I warrant thee, for stirring more: cheer up.
child.
Hengo — Hold my sides hard; stop, stop; oh, wretched
fortune,
Must we part thus ? Still I grow sicker, uncle.
I see you,
## p. 1697 (#495) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1697
Carałach - Heaven look upon this noble child!
Hengo
I once hoped
I should have lived to have met these bloody Romans
At my sword's point, to have revenged my father,
To have beaten 'em, -oh, hold me hard ! — but, uncle —
Caratach — Thou shalt live still, I hope, boy. Shall I
draw it?
Hengo — You draw away my soul, then. I would live
A little longer - spare me, Heavens ! -- but only
To thank you for your tender love: good uncle,
Good noble uncle, weep not.
Caratach
O my chicken,
My dear boy, what shall I lose ?
Hengo —
Why, a child,
That must have died however; had this 'scaped me,
Fever or famine - I was born to die, sir.
Caratach -- But thus unblown, my boy?
Hengo —
I go the straighter
My journey to the gods. Sure, I shall know you
When you come, uncle.
Caratach-
Yes, boy.
Hengo --
And I hope
We shall enjoy together that great blessedness
You told me of.
Caratach - Most certain, child.
Hingo-
I grow cold;
Mine eyes are going.
Caratach
Lift 'em up.
Hengo -
Pray for me;
And, noble uncle, when my bones are ashes,
Think of your little nephew! - Mercy!
Caratach
Mercy!
You blessèd angels, take him!
Hengo -
Kiss me: so.
Farewell, farewell!
Dies.
Caratach - Farewell, the hopes of Britain !
Thou royal graft, farewell for ever! —Time and Death,
Ye have done your worst. Fortune, now see, now proudly
Pluck off thy veil and view thy triumph; look,
Look what thou hast brought this land to! -( fair flower,
How lovely yet thy ruins show, how sweetly
Even death embraces thee! the peace of Heaven,
The fellowship of all great souls, be with thee!
111-107
## p. 1698 (#496) ###########################################
1698
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
FROM "THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN)
By SHAKESPEARE AND FLETCHER
R
OSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden-pinks, of odor faint,
Daisies sinell-less yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim.
All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chattering pie,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
## p. 1699 (#497) ###########################################
1699
WILLIAM BECKFORD
(1759-1844)
(
HE translation from a defective Arabic manuscript of the
Book of the Thousand Nights and A Night, first into the
French by Galland, about 1705, and presently into various
English versions, exerted an immediate influence on French, Ger-
man, and English romance. The pseudo-Oriental or semi-Oriental tale
of home-manufacture sprang into existence right and left with the
publishers of London and Paris, and in German centres of letters.
Hope's Anastasius, or Memoirs of a Modern Greek,' Lewis's The
Monk, the German Hauff's admirable
(Stories of the Caravan, the Inn, and the
Palace, Rückert's Tales of the Genii,' and
William Beckford's History of the Caliph
Vathek,' are among the finest performances
of the sort : productions more or less East-
ern in sentiment and in their details of
local color, but independent of direct ori-
ginals in the Persian or Arabic, so far as is
conclusively known.
William Beckford, born at London in
1759 (of a strong line which included a
governor of Jamaica), dying in 1844, is a
figure of distinction merely as an English William BECKFORD
man of his time, aside from his one claim
to literary remembrance. His father's death left him the richest
untitled citizen of England. He was not sent to a university, but
immense care was given to his education, in which Lord Chatham
personally interested himself; and he traveled widely. The result
of this, on a very receptive mind with varied natural gifts, was to
make Beckford an ideal dilettante. His tastes in literature, painting,
music in which Mozart was his tutor), sculpture, architecture, and
what not, were refined to the highest nicety. He was able to gratify
each of them as such a man can rarely have the means to do. He
built palaces and towers of splendor instead of merely a beautiful
country seat. He tried to reproduce Vathek's halls in stone and
stucco, employing relays of workmen by day and night, on two sev-
eral occasions and estates, for many months. Where other men got
together moderate collections of bibelots, Beckford amassed whole
museums. If a builder's neglect or a fire destroyed his rarities and
damaged his estates to the extent of forty or fifty thousand pounds,
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WILLIAM BECKFORD
a
Beckford merely rebuilt and re-collected. These tastes and lavish
expenditures gradually set themselves in a current toward things
Eastern. His magnificent retreat at Cintra in Portugal, his vast
Fonthill Abbey and Lansdowne Hill estates in England, were only
appanages of his sumptuous state. England and Europe talked of
him and of his properties. He was a typical egotist: but an agree-
able and gracious man, esteemed by a circle of friends not called
upon to be his sycophants; and he kept in close touch with the intel-
lectual life of all Europe.
He wrote much, for an amateur, and in view of the tale which
does him most honor, he wrote with success. At twenty he invited
publicity with a satiric jeu d'esprit, Biographical Memoirs of Extraor-
dinary Painters'; and his Italy, with Sketches of Spain and Port-
ugal,' and 'Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of
Alcobaba and Baltalha,' were well received. But these books could
not be expected to survive even three generations; whereas "Vathek,'
the brilliant, the unique, the inimitable Vathek, took at once
place in literature which we may now almost dare to call perma-
nent. This story, not a long one,- indeed, no more than a novel-
ette in size, was originally written in French, and still lives in that
language; in which an edition, hardly the best, has lately been
issued under the editorship of M. Mallarmé. But its history is com-
plicated by one of the most notable acts of literary treachery and
theft on record. During the author's slow and finicky composition of
it at Lausanne, he was sending it piecemeal to his friend Robert
Henley in England for Henley to make an English version, of course
to be revised by himself. As soon as Henley had all the parts, he
published a hasty and slipshod translation, before Beckford had seen
it or was even ready to publish the French original; and not only
did so, but published it as a tale translated by himself from a gen-
uine Arabic original. This double violation of good faith of course
enraged Beckford, and practically separated the two men for the rest
of their lives; indeed, the wonder is that Beckford would ever recog-
nize Henley's existence again. The piracy was exposed and set
aside, and Beckford in self-defense issued the story himself in French
as soon as he could; indeed, he issued it in two versions with curi-
ous and interesting differences, one published at Lausanne and the
other at Paris. The Lausanne edition is preferable.
Vathek) abides to-day accredited to Beckford in both French
and English; a thing to keep his memory green as nothing else of his
work or personality will. The familiar legend that in its present
form it was composed at a single sitting, with such ardor as to entail
severe illness, and without the author's taking off his clothes,
cannot be reconciled with the known facts. But the intensely vivid
a
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WILLIAM BECKFORD
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movement of it certainly suggests swift production; and it could
easily be thought that any author had sketched such a story in the
heat of some undisturbed sitting, and filled, finished, and polished it
at leisure. It is an extraordinary performance; even in Henley's
unsatisfactory version it is irresistible. We know that Beckford
expected to add liberally to it by inserting sundry subordinate tales,
put into the mouths of some of the personages appearing in the last
scene. It is quite as well that he did not. Its distinctive Orientalism,
perhaps less remarkable than the unfettered imagination of its epi-
sodes, the vividness of its characters, the easy brilliancy of its literary
manner — these things, with French diction and French wit, alternate
with startling descriptive impressiveness. It is a French combination
of Cervantes and Dante, in an Oriental and bizarre narrative. It is
not always delicate, but it is never vulgar, and the sprightly pages
are as admirable as the weird ones. Its pictures, taken out of their
connection, seem irrelevant, and are certainly unlike enough; but
they are a succession of surprises and fascinations. Such are the
famous description of the chase of Vathek's court after the Giaour;
the moonlit departure of the Caliph for the Terrace of Istakhar; the
episodes of his stay under the roof of the Emir Fakreddin; the pur-
suit by Carathis on “her great camel Alboufaki,” attended by the
hideous Nerkes and the unrelenting Cafour”; Nouronihar drawn to
the magic flame in the dell at night; the warning of the good Jinn;
and the tremendous final tableau of the Hall of Eblis.
The man curious in letters regards with affection the evidences
of vitality in a brief production little more than a century old;
unique in English and French literature, and occupying to-day a high
rank among the small group of quasi-Oriental narratives that repre-
sent the direct workings of Galland on the Occidental literary tempera-
ment. To-day “Vathek) surprises and delights persons whose mental
constitution puts them in touch with it, just as potently as ever it
did. And simply as a wild story, one fancies that it will appeal
quite as effectually, no matter how many editions may be its future,
to a public perhaps unsympathetic toward its elliptical satire, its
caustic wit, its fantastic course of narrative, and its incongruous
wavering between the Aippant, the grotesque, and the terrific.
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WILLIAM BECKFORD
THE INCANTATION AND THE SACRIFICE
From «The History of the Caliph Vathek)
B
Y SECRET stairs, known only to herself and her son, she [Cara-
this] first repaired to the mysterious recesses in which were
deposited the mummies that had been brought from the
catacombs of the ancient Pharaohs. Of these she ordered several
to be taken. From thence she resorted to a gallery, where, under
the guard of fifty female negroes, mute, and blind of the right
eye, were preserved the oil of the most venomous serpents, rhi-
noceros horns, and woods of a subtle and penetrating odor, pro-
cured from the interior of the Indies, together with a thousand
other horrible rarities. This collection had been formed for a
purpose like the present by Carathis herself, from a presentiment
that she might one day enjoy some intercourse with the infernal
powers, to whom she had ever been passionately attached, and to
whose taste she was no stranger.
To familiarize herself the better with the horrors in view the
Princess remained in the company of her negresses, who squinted
in the most amiable manner from the only eye they had, and
leered with exquisite delight at the skulls and skeletons which
Carathis had drawn forth from her cabinets.
Whilst she was thus occupied, the Caliph, who, instead of the
visions he expected, had acquired in these insubstantial regions a
voracious appetite, was greatly provoked at the negresses: for,
having totally forgotten their deafness, he had impatiently asked
them for food; and seeing them regardless of his demand, he
began to cuff, pinch, and push them, till Carathis arrived to ter-
minate a scene so indecent.
“Son! what means all this? ” said she, panting for breath.
“I thought I heard as I came up, the shriek of a thousand bats,
tearing from their crannies in the recesses of a cavern.
You but ill deserve the admirable provision I have brought you. "
"Give it me instantly! ” exclaimed the Caliph: "I am perish-
ing for hunger! ”
“As to that,” answered she, "you must have an excellent
stomach if it can digest what I have been preparing. ”
« Be quick,” replied the Caliph. But oh, heavens! what hor-
rors! What do you intend ? ”
“Come, come,” returned Carathis, “be not so squeamish, but
help me to arrange everything properly, and you shall see that
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WILLIAM BECKFORD
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1
1
what you reject with such symptoms of disgust will soon complete
your felicity. Let us get ready the pile for the sacrifice of to-
night, and think not of eating till that is performed.
