Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempests shook down The raven rook'd her on the chimney's top, To wit,-an indigest deformed lump, Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast To signify, thou cam'st to bite the world: Glo. I'll hear no more;-Die, prophet, in thy SCENE VII.-A Room in the Palace. KING EDWARD is discovered sitting on his Throne; QUEEN ELIZABETH with the infant Prince, CLARENCE, GLOSTER, HASTINGS, and Others, near him. K. Edw. Once more we sit in England's royal Re-purchas'd with the blood of enemies. O, may such purple tears be always shed house! If any spark of life be yet remaining, Be resident in men like one another, [Exit. And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. Glo. I'll blast his harvest, if your head were For yet I am not look'd on in the world. [laid; This shoulder was ordain'd so thick, to heave; And heave it shall some weight, or break my back: Work thou the way,-and thou shalt execute. [Aside. Glo. And, that I love the tree from whence thou Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit : K. Edw. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Reignier, her father, to the King of France And now what rests, but that we spend the time INTRODUCTION TO KING RICHARD THE THIRD. THIS remarkable tragedy is properly the conclusion of the three parts of Henry the Sixth, and with it terminate Shakespeare's unbroken series of dramas on English history. The battle of Bosworth field was the last war of the Roses; and the conflicting claims of the houses of York and Lancaster were united and buried in the person of Henry the Seventh. This play, though called The Life and Death of King Richard the Third, is in reality the To rook, signified to squat down, or lodge on anything. ↑ Select. nistory only of Richard's intrigues for the throne, and of his brief reign, which lasted but for two years and two months. But Shakespeare was never particular about chronological propriety; and although this play, strictly speaking, comprises but a period of seven years-for it commences with the arrest of Clarence, which happened in the beginning of 1478, and terminates with the death of Richard at the battle of Bosworth, which was fought on the 22nd of August, 1485-yet the second scene carries us back a period of seven years more, to the funeral of the unhappy Henry the Sixth, which took place in May, 1471; so that the events of four- | name for mercy; like the devils, he believes and teen years are irregularly contained in it. Dr. Johnson, in his estimate of this tragedy, says "It is one of the most celebrated of our author's performances; yet I know not whether it has not happened to him as to others, to be praised most when praise is not most deserved. That this play has scenes noble in themselves, and very well contrived to strike in the exhibition, cannot be denied. But some parts are trifling, others shocking, and some improbable." The censure of the great philologist must, we think, be admitted, with the exception of the epithet trifling; shocking and improbable events do certainly occur in every act of this dark tragedy; but unimportant or puerile ones, never. The poet had no time to trifle; he had too much business in hand: the drama is full of events, even to crowding; each incident follows its predecessor, with startling rapidity; and the characters are so numerous, that many of them are necessarily thrown into the background. trembles. Richard is witty and satirical; exceedingly proud of his eloquence and cunning: he triumphs in his success in winning Lady Anne's consent to become his wife, and in talking over the queen-dowager to woo her daughter for him. These scenes have both been censured as unnatural; but it may be observed, that the eloquence of princes seldom fails of success. Edward's widow was a vain intriguing woman, who was determined to have her daughter a queen if possible; she was, in reality, ready enough to marry her to Richard; and when that design failed, she, with equal readiness, contracted her to Richmond. Richard's remarkable energy, and intellectual power, bear him undaunted through his career of violence; Margaret's imprecations, or his mother's curse when she takes her eternal leave of him, never for a moment appal his heart, or turn him from his purposes: his firm and resolute mind commands our respect, if not our admiration. He is a striking instance of great intellect allied to an utter want of principle or heart; he seems rather above than deficient in human affections. His mind is further embittered by his personal deformity; he laments that Nature has robbed him of the love of woman, therefore he will renounce love, and seek for happiness alone in regal power. He is terrible in the intensity of his selfishness, and possessed of a gigantic egotism, which induces him to regard even murder as an insignificant matter in comparison with the realisation of his ambition. He will not recognise affinity of blood, but exclaims"I have no brother, I am like no brother: And this word-love, which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, Richard and Margaret stand out prominently from the group-two dark and awful creations: the one a subtle fiend, covering a satanic spirit with a mask of meekness; the other an avenging being, threatening God's wrath upon the destroyers of her family and party. Her first entrance is grand and startling; she is like one resuscitated from the dead to denounce the sins of the living; and her imprecations upon the blood-stained members of the court of Edward, are fearfully awful and harrowing. In her curses and prophecies are to be found the germ of the action: she addresses herself to each one that had been instrumental in the destruction of her family, and reveals the wrath in store for them: the queen, she prophesies, shall, like her, "die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen." She prays God that Rivers, And not in me; I AM MYSELF ALONE.” Dorset, and Hastings may be suddenly cut off by violence, as a punishment for their participa- He lives to himself, and requires no sympathy tion in the death of her son Edward. To from others; but, in the latter part of the traRichard she foretels his brief career of terror, gedy, he is oppressed by the multitude of and infers his death; and she warns Bucking- opposing circumstances. Treachery and deserham, who scorns her counsel, that he will re- tion environ him; doubt, and feverish excitemember it another day, when Richard shall ment, weaken his strong mind: he gives consplit his very heart with sorrow. Crying out, tradictory orders; and, on the eve of battle, in the bitterness of her soul, on the treachery of complains of the loss of his ordinary cheerfulness the house of York, she appeals to heaven, and and alacrity. Then, in his sleep, he is visited by vehemently exclaimsa long train of spectres: the spirits of those whom he had slain encourage his rival, and bid him despair. This vision lifts the veil which hides the future from us, and indicates the eternal doom of the tyrant. The poet thought that it was not sufficient that so great a villain should die upon the field of battle; but he shows him on the verge of the pit of eternal darkness and lamentation. "O God, that see'st it, do not suffer it; As it was won with blood, lost be it so!" The poet represents the eternal Providence as listening to, and granting this fearful prayer; and the action of the tragedy is the realisation of Margaret's prophetic maledictions. Steevens objects to this scene; and says-" Margaret, bullying the court of England in the royal palace, is a circumstance as absurd as the courtship of Gloster in a public street." It may be so, but the tragic grandeur of the incident more than outweighs its improbability. Richard is brave and haughty; a polished courtier, a crafty statesman, and a perfect hypocrite. He is fond of deceiving under the form of religion, and "seems a saint where most he plays the devil;" yet, although he tramples upon its principles in every act of his life, he does not appear to reject and disbelieve them. He has a touch of superstitious awe respecting futurity; he does not deny immortality and hell, but is satisfied to risk eternal peril for present gratification. When visited by his awful dream on the eve of battle, he calls on the sacred If we except the two young princes in the Tower, the victims of Richard's cruelty do not excite our commiseration at their fate. Clarence deserved his death for repeated treacheries: we cannot pity Hastings, for he triumphs in the unjust execution of his adversaries, when, though unknowingly, within an hour of his own doom; and we experience a satisfaction in the execution of Buckingham, who, in villany, is only second to Richard himself; while poor Queen Anne is so feeble and inconsistent a character, that she is forgotten in the long list of sufferers. The murder of Clarence is traced with a vivid pencil: his dream, previous to that event, is a fearful picture of the terrors of conscience. The poet justly represents him suffering in this manner; for his whole life had been a scene of selfishness and treachery. Indeed, the house of York cannot boast one virtuous and noble member: the curse of innocent blood seems to have rested upon it; for King Edward was the only one of that turbulent family who did not die by violence; though we may also except Cicely, the aged Duchess of York, who lived to see her husband, children, and grandchildren perish successively on the battle-field, the public scaffold, or in the secret dungeon. The dialogue between the two ruffians who murder Clarence, is very fine-one of those remarkable episodes seldom found but in the pages of Shakespeare. Savage as is their nature, they are human in comparison with the masterspirit of this tragedy; they hesitate on the threshold of murder, and talk merely to delay an act which they fear to commit. Like Hamlet, when reasoning on suicide, they almost argue themselves out of their evil resolution. The accidental mention of the word judgment breeds remorse in one of the assassins; the terrors of the great day of judgment present themselves in a misty but appalling form to his mind, and he determines that the duke shall live. But the other suggests the reward, and the villain is steel again. Shakespeare has drawn a very flattering picture of the Earl of Richmond: that nobleman was the grandfather of Queen Elizabeth; and the politic poet represents him in almost the only act of his life which does not excite our dislike or disgust. We applaud the chivalrous conqueror of the tyrant Richard; but, if we turn to the pages of history, we shall find that the country gained but little, if indeed anything, by the change. However Richard obtained the crown, he was in some respects a good king during the brief period that he possessed it, and paid more regard both to the purses and liberties of his subjects, than most of his predecessors had done. But Richmond was crafty, avaricious, and cruel; a prince of whom it was said that he possessed the power of making peace more dangerous to his neighbouring potentates than war. He anticipated most of that treacherous policy which Machiavelli afterwards formed into a system. The European sovereigns and ministers of this age left the subtle Florentine but little to invent in the art of oppression. By the accession of Richmond to the throne, however, the nation derived one benefit-the claims of the white and red roses were united, and the war which had so long desolated the country, and arrested the advancing steps of civilisation, was terminated. Shakespeare gave additional exaltation to the Earl of Richmond, by making him slay Richard with his own hand. This was not the case: Richard's eagle eye having caught sight of his adversary, surrounded by a staff of officers, he thought to end the battle by a single blow, and therefore spurred furiously towards him, killing two gentlemen of distinction who opposed his impetuous charge, but immediately afterwards was himself surrounded and slain. The few adherents who remained faithful to Richard seemed to have shared his fate. Norfolk and Ratcliffe were found dead upon the field, and Catesby was executed by Richmond immediately after the battle. Considering the interests involved in this action, it was not conducted on a very extensive scale; both armies did not amount to more than eighteen thousand men, and of these scarcely three thousand perished. The fate of a great kingdom was, perhaps, never before decided by so small a power. This tragedy was first entered at Stationers' Hall, October 20, 1597, and is supposed by Mr. Malone to have been written in the same year. LIFE AND DEATH OF King Richard the Third, Persons Represented. LORD STANLEY. LORD LOVEL. CHRISTOPHER URSWICK,a Priest. Another Priest. LADY ANNE, Widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, Son to King Henry VI.; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloster. A Young Daughter of Clarence. Lords, and other Attendants, two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c. SCENE.-England, Glo. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And now,-instead of mounting barbed + steeds, To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; comes. Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY. Because my name is-George. Glo. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours; [test, He should, for that, commit your godfathers :- Clar. By heaven, I think there is no man secure But the queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore. Glo. Humbly complaining to her deity Are mighty gossips in this monarchy. Brak. I beseech your graces both to pardon me ; His majesty hath straitly given in charge, Glo. Even so? an please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of any thing we say : A bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue; How say you, sir? can you deny all this? Brak. With this, my lord, myself have nought to do. [withal, And I beseech your grace to pardon me; and, Forbear your conference with the noble duke. Clar. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey. [obey. Glo. We are the queen's abjects, and must Brother, farewell: I will unto the king; And whatsoever you will employ me in,Were it to call King Edward's widow-sister,I will perform it to enfranchise you. Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood, Touches me deeper than you can imagine. Clar. I know it pleaseth neither of us well. Glo. Well, your imprisonment shall not be I will deliver you, or else lie for you: [long: Meantime, have patience. Clar. I must perforce; farewell. [Exeunt CLAR., BRAK., and Guard. Glo. Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return, Simple, plain Clarence!-I do love thee so, Enter HASTINGS. Hast. Good time of day unto my gracious lord! Glo. As much unto my good lord chamberlain ! Well are you welcome to this open air. How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment? Hast. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must: But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks That were the cause of my imprisonment. Glo. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too; For they that were your enemies are his, While kites and buzzards prey at liberty. I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence, For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter: What though I kill'd her husband and her father? The readiest way to make the wench amends, When they are gone, then must I count my gains. [Exit. SCENE II.-Another Street. Enter the Corpse of King Henry the Sixth, borne in an open Coffin, Gentlemen bearing Halberds, to guard it; and LADY ANNE as Mourner. Anne. Set down, set down your honourable oad, If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,-- Lo, in these windows, that let forth thy life, May fright the hopeful mother at the view; * With becoming reverence for the dead. 1 Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin [mand: pass. Glo. Unmanner'd dog! stand thou when I comAdvance thy halberd higher than my breast, Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot, And spura upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. [The Bearers set down the Coffin. Anne. What, do you tremble? are you all afraid? Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal, For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, Either, Heaven, with lightning strike the mur- Glo. Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. Anne. Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man; No beast so fierce, but knows some touch of pity. Glo. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. Anne. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth! Glo. More wonderful when angels are so angry. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, Anne. Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a man, No excuse current, but to hang thyself. Glo. By such despair I should accuse myself. Anne. And, by despairing, shalt thou stand excus'd; |