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and Fengon were made Govenours of the Province of Ditmarsc, and Horvendile married Geruth, the daughter to Roderick, chief K of Denmark, by whom he had Hamblet: and how, after his marriage, his brother Fengon slew him trayterously, and marryed his brother's wife, and what followed.
CHAPTER II. How Hamblet counterfeited the mad man, to escape the tyrannie of his uncle, and how he was tempted by a woman (through his uncle's procurement), who thereby thought to undermine the Prince, and by that means to find out whether he counterfeited madness or not; and how Hamblet would by no means be brought to consent unto her, and what followed.
CHAPTER III. How Fengon, uncle to Hamblet, a second time to intrap him in his politick madness, caused one of his counsellors to be secretly hidden in the Queene's chamber behind the arras, to hear what speeches passed between Hamblet and the Queene, and how Hamblet killed him and escaped that danger, and what followed.
CHAPTER IV, How Fengon the third time devised to send Hamblet to the King of England with secret letters to have him put to death; and how Hamblet, when his companions slept, read the letters, and instead of them counterfeited others, willing the King of England to put the two messengers to death, and to marry his daughter to Hamblet, which was effected, and how Hamblet escaped out of England.
CHAPTER V. How Hamblet, having escaped out of England, arrived in Denmarke the same day that the Danes were celebrating his funeral, supposing him to be dead in England, and how he revenged his father's death upon his uncle and the rest of his courtiers; and what followed.
According to Saxo Grammaticus, Fengo (Shakspeare's Claudius)
made no pretence to conceal his guilt, but boasted that he had slain his brother for his ill-treatment of Gerutha, the Queen. Amlethus, after his father's death, assumed imbecility, though openly avowing to avenge his father's death. A counsellor of the King's arranged to be present behind a curtain at an interview which should take place between Amlethus and his mother, so that, should the Prince drop his feigned madness, sure proof might be obtained. Amlethus, however, suspecting, comes into the room crowing, flapping his arms, and jumping about, and thus discovering the hidden counsellor, slays him on the spot. It is but necessary to point out that the entire plot differs greatly from the play now so much known and quoted, the end being the murder of Fengo by Amlethus, who succeeds him on the throne.
More might be added, but our readers may easily from the facts above mentioned draw their own conclusions as to the value of the edition of 1603. Whatever may be thought of the various editions and various readings, Shakspeare will always be remembered, perhaps, better through this one play than through any other. And to Germany we owe, indeed, a debt of gratitude for the careful study which some of the noblest minds of that country have expended upon this play, for seeking out hidden beauties and truths, for casting aside all feelings of jealousy, and entering into their work with ardent admiration. The French people, unable to understand the master genius which directed the pen, have contented themselves with defacing by weak emendations the play itself, or, represented by Voltaire, to groan out, "Nous allons tomber dans l'outré et le gigantesque, adieu les sentiments du cœur."
LAYS OF THE SAINTLY.
BY THE LONDON HERMIT,
AUTHOR OF "SONGS OF SINGULARITY," "PEEPS AT LIFE, &c.
No. 5.-ST. GENEVIÈVE.
O, PARIS! Paris! when thy masked balls
Fill with the young and gay, the fair and frail, To revel thro' the night in dazzling halls
Where virtue certainly doth not prevail;
When thousands play-wards on the Sabbath flock,
And chuckle o'er each too-suggestive sally;
St. Geneviève was nurtur'd in Nanterre,
A sister come on earth;
And so they made a rare
They set the planets whirling
In mazy dance,
All over France,
Like girls that follow Girling;
(So Giry writes)
Jump'd thro' the clouds quite frisky,
As if the Deuce
Had broken loose,
And taken too much whisky!
To such a grand débût,
And meek, devout, and grave,
Was sweet young Geneviève.
Her war with sin;
She grew quite thin ;
Her cause to win:
Its narrow range
Would never change,
On Thursday night
A banquet slight Of stalest bread and beans the Saint partook of ;
To quench her thirst,
The very worst Of water-stuff none else could bear the look of,
When Sunday came
'Twas just the same ; She took one meal so spare and thrifty,
Tho'since the last
Three days had pass'd.
No wonder by such deeds our Saint's renown
Till Geneviève, by prayer, her sight restored.
Her parents saw they could no more afford
A beldame " came down like a wolf on the fold,"
And "toted them home," where this naughty old soul
'Twas fearful to witness her horror and fright,
For blindness at best is a terrible sight;
She took up the shoes, not to sell or to "swop "
And begg'd for the sense which her vengeance had reft.
So fared many more 'gainst the Saint who transgress'd.
Where, closely conceal'd from humanity's eye,
The maid had withdrawn to her sanctum sanctorum.
The sinner was freed from the terrible spell;
That sanctified hand scarce her forehead had cross'd
Ere came in perfection the sight she had lost.
On other occasions did blindness descend
On those who St. Geneviève chanced to offend ;
Whilst those, we suppose, who most pleased her, she blest With sharpness of vision beyond all the rest.
Success on earth, too well we know,
Evil with good its war will wage
And till the Right its foe shall quell, Make earth the Devil's acting-stage, The battlefield of heaven and hell;
So Geneviève, so good and pure,
Was even branded as impostor, And ere she made her footing sure,
What pain and anguish did it cost her! But virtue in the end must win,
However sinners may resist,
The love of every pietist;
And nuns she train'd in holy ways,
Pronounced her name with reverent praise ; Far nations saw with great content
The heavenly radiance that did fill ber, And our old friend Stylites sent
His blessing-posted at his pillar.
The virtues of St. Geneviève,
Her power and fame among the French, So made the Devil fume and rave,
He long'd her holy star to quench; He did put out her candle's light,
And when she came, the church was dark ; She touch'd the wick, which soon was bright,
Relumed as by some heavenly spark, For Geneviève possess’d the gift
Of making fire by touch alone ;
For May and Bryant were unknown,
The Devil he sat on a flask of oil,
A practical joke loved he,
So laugh'd to himself in glee,