Will never part from me, when with a braide
A deepe fet sigh he gave, and therewithal,
Clasping his handes, to heaven he cast his sight,
And straight pale death pressing within his face,
The flying ghost his mortall corpes forsook.

After this relation of the manner of the young prince's frightful death, Marcella, who appears - though by this sole indication to have loved the dead prince, falls into a beautiful lament, which makes me think of Othello's farewell to the instruments of war:

O queen of adamant, O marble brest,
If not the favour of his comely face,
If not his princely chere and countenance,
His valiant active armes, his manly brest,
If not his faire and seemely personage,
His noble limmes in such proportion cast
As would have wrapt a sillie woman's thought;
If this mought not have moved thy bloodie hart.
Should nature yet consent to slay her sonne?
Ah, noble prince, how oft have I behelde.
Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling stede,
Shining in armour bright before the tilt,
And with thy mistresse sleve tied on thy helme,
Charge thy staffe, to please thy ladies eye,
That bowed the head-peece of thy frendly foe!
How oft in armes on horse to bend the mace,
How oft in armes on foot to breake the sworde,
Which never now these eyes may see againe !

.

And in the fifth act we find all the direful facts come to pass which were briefly rehearsed in the argument. The people, enraged at the cruelties which go on in the court, rise and slay the King and the Queen; whereupon the four dukes proceed to slay the rebellious people. Then the

dukes fall to war for the succession; everywhere there is battle, bloodshed, and sudden death, till, as Mandud says, we

beholde the wide and hugie fieldes

With bloud and bodies spread of rebelles slayne;
The lofty trees clothed with corpses dead,

That strangled with the cord do hang thereon.

And finally, in the last lines of the play, Eubulus closes a

wild scream of lamentation with these words:

But now, O happie man, whome spedie death
Deprives of life, ne is enforced to see

These hugie mischiefes and these miseries,

These civil warres, these murders, and these wronges.

Of justice yet must God in fine restore

This noble crowne unto the law full heire :
For right will alwayes live, and rise at length,
But wrong can never take deepe roote to last.

CHAPTER XIX

THE DOCTORS OF SHAKSPERE'S TIME

N endeavouring to reconstruct these times of our Master Shakspere- the spacious times of great Elizabeth, as Tennyson calls them-I have been struck with the circumstance that what we may call the modern doctor and modern medicine really begin in this wonderful period,- this last half of the sixteenth century,- just as so many other modern matters first show themselves emerging out of the universally excited activities of that time. And thus I find that in any proper picture of Shakspere's time the physicians must form a prominent and striking figure, as indeed they do in any picture of any time. We all know how the ever-busy doctor, the never-refusing doctor, has interwoven himself, in these modern times, into the whole texture of our lives. We begin to call for him- I was going to say-even before we are born; we continue calling for him all through our lives when we are in bodily trouble, often when we are in mental trouble- at midday or at midnight; when he has given us the prescription, we always keep him a little while longer to talk to us, or

rather to let us talk to him about our majestic selves that most interesting of topics which somehow scarcely any of our acquaintances seem to appreciate except our doctor; and finally, after having treated him all our lives as a being entirely superior to the ordinary claims of humanity regarding dinners and sleep and rest, we at last call for him again when we are going to die, and then leave our executors or administrators to higgle with him about his bill after we are gone. So that practically, you observe, the doctor is more than interwoven with our whole life, for he is busied about us one way or another from before our birth until after our death.

Thus, as I was saying, since the modern doctor stands in the very foreground of modern society, and since the modern doctor, the follower of Vesalius and Harvey,as distinguished from the ancient doctor, begins just about Shakspere's time, I felt a much more than merely antiquarian interest in collecting such references to him as I could find in Shakspere and his contemporary poets, together with such facts about the medicines and practice peculiar to his class as might be of interest to a general audience.

We have already studied somewhat the music of Shakspere's time, a theme which connects itself very charmingly with the physic of Shakspere's time through the fact that music was regarded as physic in Shakspere's time as a true remedial agent, like cassia and aloes and colocynth, and other drugs. And there is even a further congruence between the two lectures in the fact that now, without more ado, I can begin my treatment of the present subject by introducing to you, in a lovely scene from one of Shakspere's own plays, a doctor actually engaged in employing music as a medicine to restore a very sweet patient.

At the moment when we are to come upon him, Cerimon has just had opened the chest containing the body of the unfortunate Thaisa, and the piteous scroll from Pericles asking that whoever finds her should bury her as befits a queen. The first sight of the supposed dead body at once awakes all the physician in Cerimon. He breaks out, quick, sharp, decided:

Sec. Gent.

Cerimon.

This chanc'd to-night.

Most likely, sir.

Nay, certainly to-night;

For look how fresh she looks! They were too rough.

. . . Make fire within:

Fetch hither all the boxes in my closet.

Death may usurp on nature many hours,

And yet the fire of life kindle again

(Exit a SERVANT.)

The o'erpressed spirits. I heard of an Egyptian
That had nine hours lien dead,

Who was by good appliances recovered.

Reënter SERVANT, with boxes, napkins, and fire.

Well said, well said; the fire and the cloths.
The rough and woful music that we have,

Cause it to sound, beseech you.

The vial once more: how thou stirr'st, thou block!
The music there! I pray you, give her air.

Gentlemen,

This queen will live

nature awakes; a warmth

Breathes out of her: she hath not been entranc'd

Above five hours: see how she 'gins to blow

Into life's flower again!

It is very delightful to think that this superb portraiture of the ideal doctor which Shakspere has given us in the figure of Cerimon- a portraiture which ought to be in gold letters and framed and hung up in every